Oops

So, the week before last, I posted the wrong post.

The issue is that I often work offline in a Word document, then cut-and-paste into Blogger and delete the document. But since I'm in the habit of deleting after I finish, if for some reason I don't finish, I often don't delete. Two weeks ago I accidentally typed the beginning of the Mabon post into an abandoned draft of the Lammas post. Later, when I went back to finish, I found what looked like a finished post already, and I was in a hurry, so I went ahead and posted it without reading it through.

I skipped posting entirely last week because I kept hoping to come up with some way to avoid posting this apology, but I never did think of anything. So here I am.

Sorry.

Here is the missing Mabon post.

-D.

Happy Mabon!

I don’t feel very celebratory at the moment, but of course that’s no reason not to wish everyone a happy holiday. And maybe it’s appropriate that Mabon feel like a mixed bag, since it is the equinox. No, nothing bad has happened, I’m just feeling glum.

It is Fall, now, though I have to admit it doesn’t yet look like it. The forest is still green, the air is still warm—even hot, some days, though not nearly as hot as a month or two ago. But under the green is a yellow cast, a hint of change, and the birds are heading south—some are staging to migrate, others have already left. As with spring, which is present from the first hint of growth, Fall is present from the first hint of preparation for the cold. I didn’t used to understand this. I see things more deeply now, I suppose.

Every year (except one) that I've been here, the question at Mabon has always been whether to do the Gratitude Circle or the Thankyou Doll build, these being two of the many optional activities of the day that happen to occur at the same time, at least most years. The reason, I've always guessed, is that Kit co-leads the Gratitude Circle and Charlie co-leads the Thankyou Doll build, and Charlie and Kit have a mutual allergy. Something has to be scheduled in conflict, since there are too many events to have them all sequentially, and since Charlie wouldn't attend Kit's event anyway, and Kit wouldn't attend Charlie's scheduling them opposite each other is at least less frustrating for them than if either had to give up attending something they really wanted.

And frankly, I think Kit probably likes the idea of forcing students to pick between her and Charlie.

This year, I chose the Thankyou Doll build. Partly I wanted to hand out with Charlie, and partly it's that I really don't know a lot of the novices anymore, and it seemed like it might be weird to stand in the Gratitude Circle with a bunch of near strangers. Of course, you could argue that's exactly why I should have gone....Maybe it's something Allen said to me a while back, I'm amphibious--I'm mid-way, emotionally and mentally, between being a student and being a master, and while I no longer feel comfortable treating the novices like peers, I don't really know how else to treat them, yet. I feel like a fraud when I act too much like a master, and I don't know what the intermediate thing really is. So I don't talk to a lot of them at all, outside of class. I don't want to stand in the Gratitude Circle with them.

The Thankyou Doll--it's been a while since I explained this. The Doll is made out of produce from our campus farm, and sometimes a few wild plants make an appearance, too. Once assembled, the Doll is taken to the center of the farm and woken up in a simple ceremony; everyone stands around saying wake up! wake up! and such, and then the youngest person present leans down to listen and hear the Doll whisper that it is awake. When it does, the young person says so. I've always wondered what, if anything, these young people hear, but I've never asked any of them.

Then the Doll is taken on a tour of the farm, and all the places where its parts grew are pointed out to it. The Doll later attends the Paleolithic Dinner that night, and everyone in attendance gives the Doll a small something from their own plate. The Doll, and its plate of offerings, sits in state in the Great Hall for some weeks until Charlie and whoever else wants to return it to the center of the farm and bury it with proper ceremony.

It's a fun activity, and a good choice for children, so most of the sprouts usually attend.

This year was no different. We had my nephews and niece and all the sprouts younger than them, including Sean--he's still too young to wander around by himself, but Steve Bees wanted to hang out with Charlie, too.

Sarah brought a huge box full of ingredients and a box of toothpicks and spread everything out on an old sheet on the ground. We built the Doll out of potatoes and turnips and carrots and other items and sat it on a silver tray, all of us working together, sharing ideas, and solving design problems--like what to do when the Doll kept falling over, or how to make facial features that wouldn't fall off or look creepy.

And when we woke the Doll, Sean did the honors. He listened for a long time, and then when his dad asked him "Can you hear the Doll say it's awake?" he nodded. He's at the age where he can talk, but not in front of strangers.

After the tour, when everyone was dispersing, Charlie took me aside and casually asked me what sort of event I might like to run on Mabon.

Of course, Charlie never actually says anything casual. He always has a reason for speaking, because if he doesn't have a good reason, he'd rather listen to birds or wind, or possibly someone reciting poetry. I knew what he was up to--either spurring me to take another step towards thinking like a master, or checking to see whether I had taken the step on my own already. Most of the masters, and some allies, either lead or co-lead something on this day, after all. But not all of them do.

"None," I replied, without hesitation. I'd thought about it already.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Because Mabon isn't missing anything. I could take over an existing event if someone had to, and I'd put my own stamp on it whether I meant to or not, but I don't need to start anything new because nothing new needs to be started. It's complete."

And Charlie grunted and appreciative acknowledgment. He didn't need to say anything else. Neither did I. I learned that by watching him.

Mastery Year 3: Part 6: Mabon

Mabon—the Autumnal Equinox—isn’t for a few more days, but I like to post before the holiday, rather than after, to build anticipation. -D.

Happy Mabon!

I don’t feel very celebratory at the moment, but of course that’s no reason not to wish everyone a happy holiday. And maybe it’s appropriate that Mabon feel like a mixed bag, since it is the equinox. No, nothing bad has happened, I’m just feeling glum.

It is Fall, now, though I have to admit it doesn’t yet look like it. The forest is still green, the air is still warm—even hot, some days, though not nearly as hot as a month or two ago. But under the green is a yellow cast, a hint of change, and the birds are heading south—some are staging to migrate, others have already left. As with spring, which is present from the first hint of growth, Fall is present from the first hint of preparation for the cold. I didn’t used to understand this. I see things more deeply now, I suppose.

The performance art element of our holiday celebration is back, it always has a competitive talent-show aspect to it, and last year, besides the food (there is always some sort of comparative tasting event, plus a fantastic buffet showcasing the campus farm’s produce), the show was all about athletics. This year it’s reverted to art again. I suppose art suits us better, though art can include athletics, and Karen and some of her students did perform several sequences of martial arts forms.

There was also a pie-baking contest—twenty-some pies competed, each one presented along with a small tub of extra filling, for people who wanted to take a little taste of all of them for comparison.

The pies raised an old question—how are things like this contest organized? I hadn’t known there would be a pie contest, there was no announcement, no call for contestants, so how did the actual contestants know to enter? There are always parts of this place I just don’t see, even as there are aspects I do see that hardly anyone else does. I’ve been noticing that for years, and in years past the realization made me feel, first, pleasantly mystified (as when someone does a magic trick I can't figure out) and later awkward, foolish, and excluded. But this year I felt none of those things. I simply asked Sadie, the cook, how the pie-making contest had been organized and how the competitors had known about it.

"They knew about it because they organized it," she explained. "A group of them came to me a week ago and asked if they could use the kitchen and our supplies to make a buncha pies for the feast today. I said yes, and wrote it into the schedules. The staff saw my notes, and half of them wanted in." She shrugged.

I stared at her.

"Is that how it always works?" I asked. "I'm not missing announcements, there just aren't any for these kinds of things, because they're organized by groups of participants from the beginning?"

"Not always, sometimes you are just oblivious," Sadie told me and grinned.

"I'd almost rather be oblivious--the other is so prosaic," I admitted.

"Some magics are," she told me. "And then there's pie. Pie is delicious even if you do know the recipe."

"I suppose." Actually, I agree with her about the pie, I was just lost in thought. I was looking around the event tent at all the people milling around and eating and talking, and I was thinking about how they all knew things I didn't, and how I'd vainly thought I could crack the code if I asked the right person, but now it seemed there was no code to crack. The people who seemed more involved that I got that way, not because they were tapped and I wasn't, and not because they answered some call that I didn't hear, but simply because they took the initiative and I hadn't. I felt left out all over again, and left out by my own fault.

"I think you're closer to solving your problem than you think you are," Sadie told me.

"Huh? What?"

"Your problem. You want to know how this place works, right?" Of course, I had asked her that very question when I interviewed her over the summer. The fact that I've been interviewing people, actively researching how to school works is common knowledge.

"Yes," I said, cautiously.

"So there's a missing piece--these pies, the other contests, things that happen and you can't figure out how, right? So there's a question you're not asking. You already have the answer, you just have to ask the right question."

"Um," I tried to think. "You're gonna have to give me a hint."

"Alright. You know how the pies got made, but have you wondered why there was space on the table for them?"

And all at once I saw why that was, indeed, a puzzle, and in seeing that I solved the puzzle.

"Why was there room? Why is there ever room for all of these ostensibly unscheduled events? How does it all get coordinated?" Because I know in other organizations, too, there are small groups of people having ideas, but those ideas don't become projects central to the functioning of the whole without some kind of process. In any other school, the pie contest would have had to be proposed to and approved by the event director, who would then insist that a general call for submissions go out...here, there was no director and no approval. Things just happen, bubbling up as they will. And it all fits into a coherent pattern. The school works.

"The school works because each of you" I meant the masters "can see a different aspect of the whole, just like I can see some aspects and, I don't know, Eddie, can see other aspects. And you ask each other questions."

"Bingo," said Sadie. "That's what Friday night dinners are for. We get together and share what we know and think and want, and we keep each other on the same page that way. More or less. If there's a conflict, we can deal with it."

"I still feel really dumb," I admitted. "I could have been making all kinds of stuff happen around here, but I just assumed I needed an invitation or something."

"What would you have made happen?"

"I don't know."

"Well, there you go. You have other skills, and you have been using them."

"Speaking of which, don't you have to go to the Mansion, now?" I'd noticed, out of the corner of my eye, as Allen slipped away. Kit and Greg and both Joes had already vanished. Charlie was gathering his things. I knew the masters did something secret in the Mansion on Mabon and that students weren't even supposed to know that the secret existed, let alone what it was. I tipped my hand to Sadie on impulse, just to prove--to her? to myself?--that I wasn't the idiot I felt like. Her eyes widened.

"You're right. I'd better get a move on," she said. But if she farewelled me and got up, other eyes might notice and follow her. I knew that.

"I'm going to get myself some pie," I told her. "You can wander away while I go--eyes will follow me because I'll move first."

"You've been hanging out with Allen," she accused. I shrugged.

"You want some pie?" I said, standing up.

"No, thank you."

I nodded in acknowledgement and walked over to the tables, tripping over a chair as I went, though I didn't fall over or anything dramatic like that. A few people glanced at me. Sadie was gone by the time I turned around, pie in hand.

I wandered around with my pie (which was very good) and ended up settling near Hawk and Eddie. I'd mentioned Eddie earlier because he'd been involved with the Beltane celebrations for several years, without my ever finding out how he'd gotten involved. He must simply have volunteered. His being thus on my mind was part of the reason I moved towards him. The other reason was that Hawk had her hawk with her. She has to bring the animal out among people periodically, or she won't stay completely tame.

I approached and the others acknowledged me, but they were deep in their own conversation and the hawk seemed nervous about my being too close, so I sat some feet away and ate my pie.

"I wish Elmo was here," Eddie was saying. "I was never able to do this with him. He was never as far along as I thought he was." Elmo was the dog Eddie was training, until the animal made a serious attempt to kill him and Joy had to intervene with a gun. Eddie held out his hands and looked at the more accessible of his many scars.

"Do you think you would do anything differently?" asked Hawk, "If you had to do it over again?"

But Eddie just shrugged.

"I would probably get less involved emotionally," he said, after a bit. "But I doubt that would lead to a better outcome. It's just what I would do."

"You've lost a certain innocence," Hawk said.

"Yes. I shouldn't have. It's not like I didn't know some dogs are dangerous."

"But it hadn't happened to you."

"No."

"Before I came out," said Hawk, "there were people I thought loved me unconditionally. Had my back, you know? And they didn't. Now I wonder who else doesn't. Who else will leave me if they find out I'm not the person they thought I was."

"Aren't you?" I suppose Eddie was wondering if Hawk had still more closets to climb out of.

"How they hell should I know? I don't know what other people think. It's having no control that bothers me."

"Thinking I should have control bothers me," said Eddie. I knew Elmo was impossible. I thought I could train him anyway. Isn't that how the story goes?"

And they both shook their heads sadly.

"I don't think either of us are as good at loving as we used to be," said Hawk. "Sometimes I'm trying to teach my bird here to trust and I feel like a total hypocrite. She's sitting here calmly and I bate at every little thing. I have armor, not feathers, anymore." To bate, for a falconer, means to panic and bolt. When a hawk on a short leash does it, the bird ends up hanging upside-down from the leash and flapping helplessly. Panic accomplishes nothing, not even escape. Hawk has explained all this to me.

"Do you suppose we'll ever get better again?" asked Eddie. "Or is this....hardening permanent?"

"I don't know," replied Hawk. "I think if we can forget to protect ourselves, it's possible."

"Tall order," said Eddie.

"I don't know," suggested Hawk, "you were supposed to tame an impossible animal for work in therapy. Ever think you're the animal?"

Mastery Year 3: Fifth Interlude

Hi, all, Daniel of 2019, here.

Sorry my posting schedule has gone all to hell. The reasons are complex and I'm not going to get into them right now.

I'm also, frankly, struggling with the organization of the whole piece. I mean, I know what happened, but telling a story is never as simple as just saying what happened. In this case, the problem is that my final few months as a student were a weird combination of not much happening and too much happening to write about.

I, personally, continued talking to people, teaching workshops and courses, and generally learning about how the school worked. I achieved no sudden, dramatic breakthroughs. I didn't need any. I was just cleaning up loose ends in my education, and the result was a gradual but thorough deepening in my understanding and confidence, a kind of shift from perceiving the school as something that held me to seeing it as something I could hold. Important to me personally, but it doesn't make a good story.

Steve showed more and more evidence of having internalized being outside as a source of peace and strength, and he developed a better sense of what would come next in his process--work that he would do directly under Greg's supervision, not mine. He gradually graduated from me, which is an important thing for a student to do, but it doesn't make a good story, either.

Ebony was doing a lot of difficult emotional work--the cultural clash she had run into in Absence had been particularly intense and had beaten her up pretty badly, and so she was working on ways to be herself out in the "real world" without letting it get her down. Unfortunately, I spoke with her very rarely that year, and so had only a general and intermittent idea of her progress.

Eddie, having suffered the quite deliberately painful test of being set up to lose one of his dogs, was putting himself back together with the help of the masters, and was starting to see his way to working again, sadder but wiser, as they say. Maybe that would make a good story, but I can't tell it well, because Eddie preferred not to talk to me about his work for those months. He seemed to use me as an opportunity for an emotional break, and he spent our time together mostly telling me about which women he hoped to go to bed with next and why. Eddie never kissed and told, but he had no qualms whatever about discussing anticipation.

Raven G. and I spoke often and developed a friendship we'd never had before, mostly organized around trying to figure out what certain things Charlie said or did meant. He was her teacher, too, and we studied him like a shared religious text--not, you understand, that he was an object of veneration. He was a finger pointing at the moon.

See what I mean? How do I put all this in a meaningful story in blog format? I've been hoping something occurs to me, it usually does, but this time it hasn't.

In other news, we of the present-tense are getting ready to celebrate Mabon in a week and a half and also coordinating our participation in the Climate Strike on the 20th. Maybe I'll see you there.

Mastery Year 3: Part 5: Post 6: Labor Day

You know, I've never done a post on Labor Day before. I mean, about Labor Day, I'm aware it isn't Labor Day now.

Of course, there is a good reason; we seldom do much of anything about it. We've never had the day off, for example, though some of the masters usually take the day and leave their classes with substitutes. Joy, for example, does, so she can spend the day with her daughter. A few students who live nearby take the day to visit family, though I never have. There have been years when the Sprouts came on campus for the day, though this year they did not.

And of course usually Greg does one of his history talks. I've never attended it--until this year.

I went because Steve had been seriously considering leading it--he's already teaching History of American Labor Movement, along with all his other history classes, and Greg has been toying with the idea of turning over some of his talks to Steve, too. As Greg explained a while back (though he was actually talking about something else at the time), he wants to get things in order for his eventual full retirement because "it would be amusingly ironic if the campus Buddhist forgot he was going to die eventually."

But be that as it may, Greg decided to keep the talk for himself this year, and after hearing Steve talk about whether he could do the talk and how he could do the talk and whether he even wanted to do the talk, and so on, for the better part of a week, my curiosity was snagged--I had to see this famous talk.

It was interesting, though not surprisingly so in any way. I learned a few new things, but it wasn't mind-blowing for me. I guess you get used to well-delivered history lectures, after a while. We had it outside, on the Central Field, because the weather was nice, not so hot as it was last week--it doesn't look like Fall, yet, but Fall is coming. There weren't even a lot of mosquitoes as it's been pretty dry, lately.

But afterwards, as everyone was getting their things and heading off to do other things, one of the yearlings spoke up, more to herself than to anyone else, but we all heard her:

"Well, at least we did something for Labor Day."

"What more would you rather we have done?" asked Greg.

She turned to him, blushing a little, I think--I guess she was embarrassed that she'd said it aloud? Her words could have been interpreted as critical of Greg and the other masters. After a minute, she got her words together.

"Well, it's Labor Day," she said. "We're supposed to have the day off. To celebrate the American worker."

"And how much did you learn about the labor movement on your days off?" Greg asked.

So I guess we do something for the holiday after all.