Heroes and Gods, part 3

This is the final installation of my Heroes and Gods story. I hope it has inspired you to write for our April D-Quad edition! At least, I hope it has inspired you…Let me know…

Songs and words started to shape me in my rambunctious early teenagehood, and I still have some of those gods. Playing my first musical instrument began with organ lessons at age seven, but it wasn’t until my guitar strumming preteens that musicians started imprinting on me. The singer Melanie, inspired me to pick up the guitar. she was a hippie skirt wearing, vegetarian, guitar playing woman, who also inspired me to become a vegetarian, until my father made me eat roast beef at our Sunday dinner about a week later. I admired her intensely at first but she was a short-lived goddess, after the awful roller skating song she released, I moved on. She fell from grace.
I strummed along with my still much-revered goddess, Joni Mitchell, who sang poetry with jazzy, strangely rhythmic music. I played and sang along with the beautiful yet political harmonies of my gods Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. I kept playing my guitar, writing my youthful angst driven songs along the lines of their song, “ Four Dead In Ohio.” I was living in Ohio, in junior high, at the time of the Kent State shootings, about 1970, and their boldness of words and politics through that song and others showed me rebellion and strength, how to stand tall.
There was my girlhood crush on Cat Stevens, a wild-haired musician whose smile made me swoon and his songs made me weepy. His words were poetic and poignant to me in my growing womanhood:
“I was once like you are now, and I know that it’s not easy to be calm when you’ve found something going on, but take your time, think a lot, think of everything you’ve got for you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not”. (Father and Son)
I played his albums over and over again, never deciding on a favorite. My god could do no wrong, although I recall being crushed when I heard rumors of his homosexuality.  I got over that and I can still play his songs when I pull out my guitar. I play his CDs now and I still weep.
I have a vivid picture of sitting in my downstairs bedroom, listening to Ziggy Stardust, by David Bowie, another hero. He was the brilliant, androgynous, bizarrely sexual man, that made my heart beat with excitement of a new sound and vision of rock music and stardom. It must  have been about 1972, hanging out with my friend, also a David, who later got murdered for drugs. Not such a happy ending for him, but it’s a happy memory of him, for me. And Bowie, still prolific and brilliant today, he remains my god.
When I hear certain songs I have an abundance of amusing memories that play through my head like mini movies . Thoughts of certain heroes bring up colorful images  of the past. I hear a song and I remember the words, the music, sometimes the clothes I used to wear. I am reminded of my romantic idealism from my starry-eyed young womanhood by gods of that time whom have been permanently tattooed in my memory.  Like cruising down the highway in my dark blue Buick Skylark convertible, nicknamed the Buck because the ”I” was missing off the front grill, singing along loudly with Steppenwolf, “Born to be Wild,” and Traffic, “Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys.”  I felt invincible and free, wind in my hair and ready to take over the world in my sixteen year old  want-to-be-a musician way. How my gods shaped me back then, made me listen to the music and the words, offered me a chance to listen to the quiet as well as the stories. Their words taught me to take time to reach inside to find myself, and to take time to dream. I will not forget.
Forward again to art school, there was Elvis. Costello, not Presley. An inspiration. Prolific to beat all. Since 1977, the man has put out so many brilliant recordings, I’ve lost count. His words, so right on, were satyrical and cynical, were titillatingly honest, saying what I wanted to hear. How did he know? If I needed to think, I‘d put on one of  his albums. If I needed to cry or laugh, I would put one on, they could evoke so many different emotions in me. I would sing along, or pull out my guitar and play along.  I put him way up high on my “Inspirational Pedestal.” Always.
If I didn’t have my gods, would my world be different? They have given me many ways to think about life, what or how I wanted to be when I grew up, and now, too, what I desire  in my life. I enjoy having my gods. It’s playful, in a serious sort of way. My philosophy about living.  I think we all need someone to look up to, to be inspired by, to learn from.  Some may call them role models. I like that  added something. Why not make them extra special, give them an act of reverence? Like draping a velvet cloak on a priest’s shoulders, or bowing down before the pope and kissing his ring, or raising up the little white Eucharistic host as the body of Christ? My worship has nothing to do with being raised Catholic. Or does it? Looking back now, that catholic upbringing  did influence the ritualistic side of myself. I honor ritual and have raised my own traditions, like building altars and lighting candles, and I have my own way of meditative prayer. Changing water into wine, I’m all for that. It just doesn’t have anything to do with God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
About ghosts and all things dark, I read Anne Rice and The Vampire Lestat  also in those art school years. I found the book in the dumpster in my apartment building, having no ideas what it was about. This was before the book became a cult classic. I fell in love with it, the writing, the story, and the characters, dark and mysterious and sexual and romantic, everything I thought I was. Who was this woman who wrote it? She quickly became a dark legend over the years of writing seductive sequel after sequel and series of erotica, vampires, witches, ghosts and gods. Although I didn’t join the forces of gothic fan clubs that sprung up from her readers, I, too, had my goth days of moody music, big hair and white makeup during that time period. It was the books and Anne that I admired. An independent successful woman. I wanted to write like her. I respected her and her prolificacy, her ability to do intensive historical research, and her ingenious mind to make up those other worldly worlds.  Goddess.
There are those times when meeting someone in person can bring on hero worship. My husband and I were fortunate enough to stay with Michael Abelman and his family this summer on their organic farm in Canada, purely by accident. What a gem of an accident. We traveled to their B&B in Canada, not knowing who they were, but hoping the farm would be a delightful place to stay and celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary.
Eating their most glorious breakfasts laid out for the guests was bounty enough, but we spent time chatting with them and observed them living their beliefs about the land.
What spirit Michael has, and a vision of a good whole earth. Through his organic farming practices, he  keeps alive old ways while building new ways of organic farming and sustainable agriculture, and he provides education and opportunities to those who seek his expertise. To use the land and sustain it, to work with the farmers, to grow and eat good food, of this earth, our bounty, not the world of biggie this or that, or processed items that resemble food, but this earth. Michael sticks to his ideals, works hard, honestly, without fail.  In his farmer’s spare time, he travels the world and writes books about farming. While at his B&B, I read two of them, On Good Land,  about his urban organic farm in Santa Barbara,  California land, and From The Good Earth,  about our planets land and the old ways of farming from around the world. Hero worship, in person.  Providing me with more inspiration for my own gardening and eating and way of life., and how I can continue with even my small good gardening deeds to support our earth.
How I admire Alice Waters for her advocacy for farmer’s markets and sustainable agriculture.  My heroine, the great chef, restauranteur, cookbook author, and supporter of local organic farmers, spoke at a book signing of her latest cookbook. She doesn’t just ride on the success of her world famous restaurant, Chez Panisse in Berkeley,  and multiple cookbooks. She uses her success to underwrite food programs for education. Supportive of today’s youth, trying to be rid of yet another McDonald’s in the the school cafeterias, teaching and preaching about good food and slow food and family meals.  She continues writing and lecturing locally and internationally, working on rebuilding gardens and food programs, to teach children about eating and gardening.  She’s a visionary and my hero. She’s on my “I’m Impressed” pedestal, for her her vivacity and dedication to spreading her work and her word. Amen, sister.
As my dining room table is now overflowing with books and CDs, on my walk down memory lane, my kitchen table, close by, is covered with the seasons local organic pears and apples.  I drink the wine of my favorite local organic winery, and if possible, I cook the food from the local farmers, to bring harmony into the lives surrounding me, mine foremost. My walls are covered with the art of people’s dreams, theirs’ that I can only fantasize about and honor. I dance and write my own dreams, inspired by those who have come before me, but they are mine.
As I have aged, matured, ripened like those pears into my forties, I don’t put so many gods on my pedestals.  I still have them,  it takes more to impress me now. I wouldn’t say that I am jaded, or have seen it all, not at all. I hope I never approach life with those views. I still love to be wowed, knocked off my chair, and given ideas to ponder. Now I am more selective who I choose for godhood. I have lived through drugs, rock n’ roll, promiscuous sex, spiritual searchings. I have found intense, romantic, and satisfying love with my soul mate. I have become a successful artist and career woman. I have worked my land and learned how to sustain myself. Not that my search for enlightenment and life meaning and adventure is over. Never. There is too much is this most fantastic world to experience
My gods, I thank them. Why not worship them, put them on a pedestal? Through words and music and art, they have helped to make and shape my life, to maintain my sense of humor, even through my darkest searches, and encouraged me to retreat or march forward with open arms.  Maybe I do romanticize them a bit too much. In my eyes they are living to their full potential. Courage, my gods give me courage. Courage to dream, write, dance, cook, love. To keep on.
Let the heroes be worshipped. And the gods be praised. I testify. Amen.

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