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Rituals

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There are rituals that we all seem to abide by often without knowing it.  These rituals seem so inconspicuous when we are alone but when guests come, or when they are otherwise interrupted, they show themselves in unusual ways.  If we work away from the home we tend to enjoy the workplace just a little more; or when we work at home we notice the rituals and how they are being poked at, if just a little.

This is nothing against the guests in our houses; they are welcome and enjoyed.  But the little rituals in our lives are, well, just a little put out.  If you have pets, especially a dog, you probably notice this.  However, when our own rituals must be put on hold, the dog’s perspective doesn’t seem that strange.  We, like our pets, live by rituals.

The ritual itself doesn’t really matter, it is not the ritual act that counts.  Rather it is the act of having a ritual that seems important.  We do things in a certain way, at a certain time.  Personally,  I notice this when my early morning coffee ritual is changed (read “interrupted”).  Coffee itself is a ritual, not just the need and desire for caffeine.  Coffee in the morning and a beer (or two) at night are explicit rituals, but what about those small, inane rituals that our lives are filled up with?

We do not notice the small moments in our lives when we are in the middle of living them.  It is only when we are reminded of them that they matter.  Perhaps rituals are not unlike our past: they are made and then remembered?  Perhaps Hume and other philosophers are right when they state that we are nothing but a collection of memories?  This may be the case, but if so then the memories themselves are rituals incognito.

Merry Christmas!

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Merry Christmas everyone!  It has been the time for Christmas spirit as well as that time of year when we all try just a little harder to be a little nicer.  Just as so many other things in our lives, it is a good reminder that in order to change the world we must first begin with the belief that we can, and then act upon it.  It is not much different than the Christmas season itself.

You may not believe in Santa Claus, but to act as if you do doesn’t hurt.  Santa Claus embodies the potential that we have as individuals.  The hard part of potential is that it takes time, more than a season of cheer has to spare.  But it is well worth it.  But that is perhaps the worth of believing in Santa: we can better ourselves for reasons other than selfish ones.

Perhaps Christmas reminds us that our dreams do not have to be forgotten; that our goals do not have to go unsung.  Christmas reminds us that failure is an option, but never for long.  The Christmas spirit is that spirit that we all have in those unfortunately few moments when we forget ourselves and the typical cash and consumerism motivations that we often do not realize define us.

While some of us cannot be with family, we can maintain our Christmas spirit by remembering that family is not always blood relatives and that friends are friends even if they are far away.  And so, I raise a glass of my favorite Islay to those I cannot be with tonight, and wish those as well as everyone else little bit of happiness in their lives, as much as there is room for!

The Daily Dream

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It’s interesting watching dreams move in and on, change and morph into new and strange, sometimes traditional and familiar themes.  At the end of the day, working to make a dream a reality is like most other jobs: it requires long hours, tough work, compromise, eating crow and learning; always learning.

The snow is on the ground now, and days are spent in the wood shop making cabinets and built-ins, making onion and potato boxes, and planning out woodsheds and chicken coops for the coming spring.  With each of these things the drawings and dimensions, the measurements and plans change almost with each passing day.  But the days pass, and pass quickly.

Every morning, however, starts the same: make coffee, fire up the wood stove in the shop, and take the dog for a walk.  I guess some things never change.

Six months into my dream, reality is taking hold and does so every morning when I get out of bed and feel sore, wanting more sleep but not being able to sleep because of the day’s work that rolls around in my head.  I watched, and worked, with my father-in-law dairy farmer for some years and told him this the other day.  He just laughed, but it sounded like “I told you so…”

And so tomorrow morning I’ll get up, make coffee, fire up the wood stove and go for a walk in the snow with the dog, and when we get back, I’ll get on with the work of making my dream a reality.

 

Workshop Universe Pt. II (Edited)

Lagoon Nebula (Messier 8)

On the far wall along the total length of the workshop universe is the divine workbench itself. It is the mighty holder of all that there is. Only the bravest of people dare run their hand across its fanciful but invisible top. It is no longer flat although it is not round; it exists without shape. It bears witness to countless oil-spills, tool-cleaning chemicals, gasoline, diesel, spit, blood, dirt, grease, beer, melted rubber, metal, iron, cloth and other unmentionables; emanating from it is a smell unknown to mankind. From the bowels of its load the smell entices and edifies, it sickens and cleanses the body; it is both a religious experience and a nightmarish vision from the asshole of hell itself; Medusa with the voice of the Sirens; Satan with the voice of angels. It is a small mountain range of blackened history where tools die and are reborn in a cyclical act of evolution by the natural selection of the creator himself. Its herculean strength is the only thing that be accounted for its still standing under the weight of so much for so long. It is made of wood but from some magical forest of strength endowed trees.

 

”I built it new, when I turned the place into my workshop.” Says the creator. He continues with a gleam in his eye as he tells me about the table drill in the middle of the bench. ”I bought that drill with a case of beer and then helped drink the beer…” The drill is a single piece anchored in place upon the bench by magical forces or sheer stubbornness, bounding out of the wilderness of sprawling parts, tools, pieces with its pulleys and belts opened for air. A chunk of blackened Swiss cheese like wood ornaments its drill plank. Everything hangs in anticipation of joining the cohorts of junk that lies on the imaginary floor. Gravity never gives up; everything eventually falls. The corners of the bench are long since rounded by use and the shelves seem to float above the bench itself, covered in grease and stacked, rounded with no-named pieces and parts. Above the middle of the workbench is a small window, most of the panes miraculously intact although light is frightened away from the prospect of shining though the smutty glass into the black hole of the workshop. It runs, screaming insanely, while all that is rests peacefully.

 

From the bowels of this place have come amazing feats of mechanical mystery. It is well known that from the chaotic chords of the blackened workbench are home to the answers to inexplicable and innumerous breakdowns, cracks in well-worn machinery, broken parts and a multitude of other problems that the farmer-creator faces. Inventions are not an unknown oddity to such a place as this. ”We bought the Buch 302 (A tractor) in about 1960 and right after I finished building the bench, I needed a backloader for the Buch, so I built one. It had a hydraulic lift and everything. That was the first project that I had after building the bench.” Nothing is off-limits and everything can be fixed if not permanently then at least temporarily; temporary being the permanent state of the workshop universe. Wheel-alignment, parts replacement, parts made, reparation of tools, invention of tools.

Homeward Bound

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When I received my first package of bees I was intent on giving them a good home, replete with ample room and plentiful food.  I worked hard several week prior to their arrival to set up the hive “just right”, and plant flowers that would bloom at different times during the summer.  Of course, the bees were not aware of my preparation work nor were they aware that the newly situated place they had found themselves in was home.  But they had one, and their home made me happy.

 

The idea of home is not as simple as a place, however.  Rather, home is (perhaps) a feeling of comfort, a point when you can let your guard down, and “stay awhile” as it were. Fast food is out of place, advertisement is unwelcome and the smell of cooking is prevalent; home is welcoming and not too fancy.  Home is intimate and it affords a feeling of intimacy when we are there.  Home is quiet and warmth, love and friendship.  Home is comforting.

 

Home is the past: the memories that we cherish and the love of our parents when we were small.  Home is the smell of cooking, welcoming intimacy, quiet, warmth, love and friendship and it can be found anywhere.  Most creatures want a home, but most creatures (such as bees) do not belong to a specific place or even time; having a home is similar: it is not specifically defined.

 

Being raised by loving parents, making friends, finding someone that you love and that loves you back, having experiences, adventures, learning, losing, loving, laughing.  All of these things and so much more make up our homes.  A home is often a process of building memories.  In fact, memories may be the only building blocks of a home, much more than the brick and mortar, the wood and nails that we often find solace in.

 

A home cannot be bought and sold but it is not free.  We must create our homes and live in them as best we can.  We must accept the homes we have built and know that we can build a new one if need be.  Having a home is remembering why we are who we are, and planning who we want to be.  Home is comfort in the knowledge that we are self-sufficient, that we made choices and took responsibility for them.  Home is that quality of happiness that is rare and often fleeting; it is that feeling that we do not belong, but not because we are outcasts, but only because that is the nature of the human house.

 

Everyone and everything needs a home.  It is the ultimate goal.  We all belong to the human household, but not all of us have built a home.  Somehow, my bees have reminded me of this, and the chickens that I will soon get; the vegetable garden and the fruit trees.  The memories of long past times, and the achievements and failures that linger, and the wishful dreams of times to come; this is in essence what makes a house a home.  I wish you luck in building your own.