Top Three Tunes: High School

Another post from the Daily Pages today. Remember that this was originally written in script and transcribed to text. My rule is not to edit this.

I'm at Jack and Darcey's new place in Boulder. And it is early, 5 AM. There was a wonderful meal last night with Darcey and Jack with a surprise guest of Carol. I'd woken earlier reflecting on our discussion. I decided I'd never really clearly, or rather never as clearly drawn the line between my seething anger in 1975-6 and my parents actions as I had last night. It was eloquent and everyone got it.
I've forgiven them their actions. That was part of what I did in Ireland a few years ago at Dymphna's Well. So that is all I think, in summary of a subject I've beat to death in these pages. Waking at 1 AM I thought further reflection in these pages wouldn't be useful.
However I do think part of my reflections on music is worth writing on. Three pieces of music that define something for you. High school it has to be Stairway to Heaven number one. It was and remains the slow dance everyone had to have a partner for. I listen to it today and think back to those sock-hops. I listen to the words and think about reading the Lord of the Rings for the very first time.
It rises to transport me there and continues to be among the best loved pieces of music of my generation.

I wore the record behind this cover out and it remains among the tunes I love, listen to and consider (hyperlink to tune).

Me and Bobby Maggie comes in second. It, and the next tune, represent my relationship with my first girl friend. I changed the words when I sang it in high school to reflect her name, which was also Bobbie, making a gender bender of it. For me it was a song of longing and loss.

Number three was Wake Up Maggie. This tune was the flip side of the relationship: how I felt used in that relationship.

These three songs, to me, represent what it was like to be that vulnerable 18-year-old graduating from high school, my parents elsewhere, no present, and facing graduation without a girl friend.
So, gentle reader, what tunes do you associate with being in high school? What tunes describe your life now and why?

NADA: It means nothing

My writing tools laid out in the NADA Cloister library.

I write daily pages. That's my pad in the photo above. Today I'll share one of my daily pages, for August 8, 2018. Because my script may be difficult, I'll transcribe it.

All things come to an end and so it is with NADA. I leave tomorrow making this my last full day here. I was surprised by eight bucks in velvet (or perhaps I surprised them). They appeared from the area of the clothesline below the deck I'd used last night for sky watching. They appeared on the rise between Lindbergh and More, then trotted west, disappearing over a ridge beyond the hermitage. Seven. I counted them, all bucks in velvet.
Finally, an eighth appeared. He was the largest. He was unhurried. I stood still for a moment as I know they are unable to discern you when you are still. I considered waiting there, but accepted the beauty I'd been given and went on my way.
In the space where soon I'll hang clothes their tracks, and in particular his tracks, were clear.

The prints of the largest buck in the desert sand.

Father Eric arrived at the Cloister soon after I did. We resolved to visit an ancient juniper right then. Our walk was in the direction the deer had traversed and I could see scat, in great abundance, on the ground.
Eric had watered a huge tree nestled out of sight near Lindbergh. It was green and gray and huge, perhaps six or even eight feet in diameter. From its trunk it had spread out with branches and roots in all directions. Erosion had removed much of the space under the trunk. It was here that the now holy water from St. Dymphna's, St. Bridget's and other wells had found a home in this desert, nourishing this ancient and sacred juniper.

Two trees in the space between Lindbergh and the boundary with the National Wildlife Refuge. The larger tree on the right received the water I'd brought from the Irish Holy Wells as gifts.

I reflected on our Sunday morning breakfast discussion of the "illusion of permanence". Eric agreed this spot was as good as any for a healing blessing and that too was resolved there.
Healing and creativity co-exist here, sort of working in opposition and in harmony. It is a sacred spot at any rate for me. I've been able to tap both those powers, unaware of the healing present but open to creation. This place is for sale. It will transition. For better or worse it will change. It will stay in my heart as I search for another place that creates healing and creativity.

My clothes dry against the vastness of the desert, looking south, across the Great Sand Dunes and toward the sacred White Mountain. How insignificant we are in comparison to nature.

Nine years later

There are a few changes evident in this blog. First, I've eliminated the posting and the rights of Powderhorn.

I'm going to take the idea of family, this blog was originally about family after all, and broaden it a bit. You'll find over the next month some posts from the alternative FaceBook page and other thoughts, finally collected in one place on the web.