Just a Twig, But ...

Sometimes it's hard to remember that we're more than us. I mean, you're more than you. I'm more than me. If you were raised in a small town, you may have left at the first opportunity and you may have stayed away. But it's in you. It's with you every day. Many of your thoughts were shaped in the social gatherings you attended, the schools, and the extra-curricular activities in that town.

Your family may have been a part of that community for years. If not, certainly the families of your friends were. Despite the eager diaspora of young people in pursuit of adventure and success in a setting that doesn't look just like yesterday to them, a small town is a place of roots.

Do you ever feel disconnected? Small?

Maybe something like this: moderately flourishing, a few blemishes, some opportunities for future growth, but all in all not certain you are big enough to thrive.

Take heart. I found this pin oak stem on the ground earlier this evening. It's so easy to look at it and think, "You're not that much." But there's more to the story. That's so often true.
Everything comes from someplace. This twig was separated from a branch. The branch was part of a tree. The tree had been there a while.

There by the barn stand Dale and Jack. They are talking about the age of the tree in the foreground. It's conjecture, because neither of them is willing to cut down the tree to see who's right. They don't have the tools, they don't have the energy, and they would have to find another shady spot to stand in afterward, so the answer to the question remains a point of pleasant conversation--something too often overlooked, if you ask me. Since you didn't,  let's get back to our topic.

I show you this view of the tree for a sense of scale. Irrefutably, it began life looking much more like the first picture we looked at. Somehow it thrived. If you lived around it, you'd probably say it's old. It's slow. You can't see its growth. It's happening, but it's not something you remark on until you leave and return. Then you notice that the height is the same, but branches have gotten thicker. Heavier. the canopy has spread. And as Dale pointed out, there is a lot of wonderful shade.

Old. Slow. No growth. People talk about more than trees that way.

The trunk of the tree we've been considering is thick. The man you see in the picture below is not what you would call a tree hugger, but he appreciates them. In this case, he's extending his span to get an idea just how big around this tree is. Full disclosure: this man is my father, so you can damn skippity bet that he is the Sir in circumference.

 

We put the best minds available to work on this one. That included Mom and Dad's dog, Millie. We decided it's pretty big. Probably at least 25 feet around. Possibly 30 feet or more. Let's step back a bit and appreciate the size.

 

Just a few more steps. Who am I kidding? Let's keep walking until we're in the neighbor's yard and most of this tree fits in the frame of the picture. 

Wow. Now remember when I suggested that we are more than us? Two men stand at the base of a tree. One tree. They are dwarfed by its immensity. One man sees a piece of pointed greenery on the ground. There is absolutely no question that it came from the tree. If we had the means on the spot, we could scientifically prove it. You and I are no different.

If people just knew what to look for, they would see our community in us. Whether we've remained where we were born, returned to it, or continue to carry a bit of it with us, we are dwarfed by its scale. In those moments when we have trouble believing in ourselves, we have so many generations of people who preceded us to look to. Each did something to create a life for themselves and their families. It may not have been monumental, but it was significant. Each act of each person is threaded into the history of a place we have called home. We are part of that same stock by blood or by association.

It's not all good. What is? Even the finest tree has knots, scars, and branches that don't look just right. But step back and look at the whole. It has a beauty.

At the local museum, we're assembling stories to display on a new piece of equipment. Our storytellers are combing through objects in our collection, photographs from our archives, and family histories that people have submitted. I sometimes wish everybody could do that. The stories you learn as you're building the story you're telling are fascinating. When I left town, I had no idea of the richness of the history in my mirrors.

So, I'd like you to do one of two things.

1. Find the biggest tree you can. Get near it and look up through its branches. Sit underneath it and listen to the sounds around you. Take a picture of it and post it online.

2. Find something you especially like about your hometown. It can be people. It can be a place. It can be something just outside the town. Take a picture of whatever that special thing is and post it online. Learn about its history until you find at least three things you didn't know.

Whether you chose #1 or #2, encourage, challenge, or browbeat (depending on your area of particular giftedness) somebody to do the same thing.

The more we know of our own stories--which includes our communities--the stronger our tree will be.

 

Spring Dance

In pursuit of local culture, my wife and I attended the Spring Recital  of a local dance studio. You see, our next-door neighbor, Emma, is a budding dancer. She and quite a few of her student friends performed a variety of dance pieces. It was quite a thing to experience. Imagine you’d been there with us.

The pink double-sided program lists over thirty dance pieces. As the show begins we learn they are set to several different musical genres.

The soundtrack is not the only thing we hear. Dance slippers swish along the floor. Feet pound the stage as dancers conclude their jumps. Several pieces include percussive tap dancing routines, proof that tap is alive and well.

Dancers flash and sparkle as spangles and sequins bounce light around the room. The costumes range from frilly ballet tutus to sheer flowing dresses and bright hip-hop regalia ­--- with several styles in between.

Part of the excitement is the anticipation. Unlike most stage shows, the backstage is lit between pieces. For us, that means we sit in a darkened room illuminated by a thin band of light between the curtain and the stage floor. You look carefully at that light and see feet. Often lots of small feet. The instructors are making sure all the dancers are on their marks and poised for the curtain to open.

You can’t help but appreciate the wide range of talent on display. The youngest group is the largest and arguably the cutest --- showing up is success. They quickly win our hearts and our grace. If they happen to do things in unison, we are impressed. If they are not all dancing it is likely because they are looking for loved ones in the audience.

The next acts include budding troupers—those who are moving beyond cuteness to more cohesive routines, and groups of successively older dancers. As the program unfolds we see a natural progression from initial exposure to the arts to embracing dance. The group sizes dwindle. Those who stay with dance are developing proficiency, grace and confidence. It shows in their natural smiles while they dance.

There is opportunity here. Emma’s father told me that several of the dancers in the more advanced routines were dancing beyond their age group. While two dancers can perform a captivating routine, six or more make more intricate choreography possible.

The program is enjoyable. Clearly, a lot of work has gone into costumes, choreography, and practice. Then we get a glimpse behind the scenes. In the wings, you notice an advanced dancer in a green dress.

When the onstage dancers reach a part in their routine where they are lost or even uncertain, their eyes snap to this dancing mentor, who calmly does the movements just offstage, modeling for them, reassuring them, and encouraging them to relax.

You notice this again and again. Misstep, fumble, glance to the side, recover. With experience, lapses in timing shorten. Confidence grows. Dancers self-correct and carry on, accepting the flaws and focusing on the performance as a whole. 

So often I go someplace with few expectations and encounter something that gives me hope, evokes my admiration, or stirs me. The day of the recital that something was somebody who didn’t expect to be seen. But she was there for the younger dancers.

Who is in the wings encouraging you? When things don’t go according to plan, who are you watching? Who do you feel best models success?

Thanks to Steps in Style Dance Studio for an afternoon of entertainment, for your work in our community, and for a glimpse behind the curtain that gave us even more to think about.

Brought to you by "Ceviche"

You can be educated and still be limited. This is particularly true if you are self-educated. Much of my learning is based on personal reading. I hear things in my head when I read, but I’m no better than my imagination.

My imagination is pretty darn good. It’s really my supposition of pronunciation that’s at fault. That and autocorrect.

 You know about autocorrect, right? It’s the programmed thoughtfulness of machines to anticipate our needs when we’re typing. It’s a piece of artificial intelligence. Autocorrect suggests words so we can communicate faster. It corrects our spelling, to help us save face. In the right hands, it’s a tool for good. Mine are not the right hands.

 Just today, I received a text from my wife telling me we were having Tostada Giveche for dinner. I’m not incredibly well versed in fine dining. That’s to say that I accept my ignorance. I have blank spots in my knowledge. Giveche looked good to me. Here’s what I didn’t know.

 Giveche does not exist. Google it.

Before you even look at the possibilities, Google asks, “Did you mean: Givenchy”? Nope. No I didn’t.

“Next up, GIVE – ChE” followed by “I give Che Whyte a big hug”, an animated YouTube offering. We’re still no closer to an answer.

So, not only does Giveche not exist, it’s not pronounced “Giv – esh’”. To my chagrin.

 As soon as I saw my wife’s post, my inner child reacted. You should meet my inner child. He’s a smart-aleck, a punster, and endearingly annoying. He’s also spoiled. Far too often, he gets to operate with little or no supervision. Giveche was a golden opportunity.

 He –-- I was standing nearby, but this was all him --– responded to my wife that he’d intended to take her out to dinner, but “… let’s Tostada Giveche it. Too many people don’t Giveche it.”

Not long afterward, I showed the exchange to my co-worker and she said, “Oh. Ceviche.” Well, shoot. Bubble burst. Not only had autocorrect helped misspell it, it didn’t even sound the same.

 “Se – Vee’ – Che” Runny yellow yolk was dripping from my face. I’m supposed to be “the word guy” and I completely botched this one. My bumbling wordplay was ruined. Folks who knew their fish were scratching their heads wondering what I was going on about. Frankly, I’m with them. This is what happens when you let your inner kid run amok and you fail to do your research.

 And you know what? I guaran-darn-tee you it’s going to happen again. I’m kind of looking forward to it.

Ceviche, y’all!