A new "flutie"
I think I am falling hard. Smitten.
In 1999, my partner and I said good-bye (for a little while) to our little dog Edison at his all-inclusive resort (aka "kennel") and we drove east on The Loneliest Highway across the Nevada desert to the Southwest for a two-week road trip. I was so enchanted with the mystery and cultural power embedded in the geological layers of Southern Utah, that the following year when I needed to detox from an intense stretch at the office, I went back by myself to the La Sal Mountains, near Moab, and spent everyday on foot on the trails in the Canyonlands.
One evening during that 2000 trip, I had washed down my dinner burrito with a couple of beers, and needed to let the buzz wear off before I drove up the mountain to my bed and breakfast. So I killed some time in a cluttered gift store, my eyes glazing over the mass-produced chotchkis in search of something unusual. In a forgotten display case in the very back of the store were five Native American Flutes. Knowing nothing about these instruments, but drawn to them because they were instruments, I asked if I could see them. Touch them. The store owner said, "Yes! You can even play them!" As if. Even though I still toodle around on my silver Armstrong flute that I played in the Red Coat Elementary School Band in the early 70s, I didn't pretend that that experience would translate to these simple, wooden pipes.
As the man brought the flutes out of the case, though, some other power drew the mouthpieces to my lips, and I started to blow. The store was big, I turned my back to the other customers, and I began playing each flute in turn, recognizing instantly that each one had its own life and spirit. In fact, there was one flute that seemed so effortless to me, even if I didn't know what notes I as playing or what fingerings were right. It didn't matter. It just felt good.
The store clerk noticed it too. After a bit, he came back and said, "Every time you pick up that Yazzie, it sounds beautiful." And so the aromatic cedar F#m flute was sold, complete with fuzzy fleece bag, for $125.
I clutched that flute for the remainder of my stay, hauling it along the hiking trails, pushing my breath through it in the slot canyons and enjoying this new music-making experience. But, alas, when I returned home to the rat-race, the flute rarely made it out of its bag for the next seven years.
Fast forward to the Summer of 2006 when my parents returned from their five-week RV trip to Montana, and my dad brought home native american flute. Somehow -- the details escape me at the moment -- he became hooked on the magical flute. Over the next several months, he employed his new Googling skills towards a successful search for a local flute circle. By December, he and my mom found themselves enjoying private flute workshop with none other than Grammy-winning Mary Youngblood.
Skip to last Saturday, my introduction to the friendly Loping Wolf Flute Circle. I brought my Yazzie, but since most of the collaborative music was in other keys, I appreciated the opportunity to play other flutes lent by the "real" fluties. An afternoon immersed in the sweet sounds of the organic music by flute-lovers of all abilities was transformative. I felt a refreshing energy wash over me and through me. Even though my attempts at joining the refrain were clumsy at best, I didn't care, and neither did my new friends. I came home with my relationship with my Yazzie dusted off and with new creative potential.
I think I am falling hard. Smitten.
In 1999, my partner and I said good-bye (for a little while) to our little dog Edison at his all-inclusive resort (aka "kennel") and we drove east on The Loneliest Highway across the Nevada desert to the Southwest for a two-week road trip. I was so enchanted with the mystery and cultural power embedded in the geological layers of Southern Utah, that the following year when I needed to detox from an intense stretch at the office, I went back by myself to the La Sal Mountains, near Moab, and spent everyday on foot on the trails in the Canyonlands.
One evening during that 2000 trip, I had washed down my dinner burrito with a couple of beers, and needed to let the buzz wear off before I drove up the mountain to my bed and breakfast. So I killed some time in a cluttered gift store, my eyes glazing over the mass-produced chotchkis in search of something unusual. In a forgotten display case in the very back of the store were five Native American Flutes. Knowing nothing about these instruments, but drawn to them because they were instruments, I asked if I could see them. Touch them. The store owner said, "Yes! You can even play them!" As if. Even though I still toodle around on my silver Armstrong flute that I played in the Red Coat Elementary School Band in the early 70s, I didn't pretend that that experience would translate to these simple, wooden pipes.
As the man brought the flutes out of the case, though, some other power drew the mouthpieces to my lips, and I started to blow. The store was big, I turned my back to the other customers, and I began playing each flute in turn, recognizing instantly that each one had its own life and spirit. In fact, there was one flute that seemed so effortless to me, even if I didn't know what notes I as playing or what fingerings were right. It didn't matter. It just felt good.
The store clerk noticed it too. After a bit, he came back and said, "Every time you pick up that Yazzie, it sounds beautiful." And so the aromatic cedar F#m flute was sold, complete with fuzzy fleece bag, for $125.
I clutched that flute for the remainder of my stay, hauling it along the hiking trails, pushing my breath through it in the slot canyons and enjoying this new music-making experience. But, alas, when I returned home to the rat-race, the flute rarely made it out of its bag for the next seven years.
Fast forward to the Summer of 2006 when my parents returned from their five-week RV trip to Montana, and my dad brought home native american flute. Somehow -- the details escape me at the moment -- he became hooked on the magical flute. Over the next several months, he employed his new Googling skills towards a successful search for a local flute circle. By December, he and my mom found themselves enjoying private flute workshop with none other than Grammy-winning Mary Youngblood.
Skip to last Saturday, my introduction to the friendly Loping Wolf Flute Circle. I brought my Yazzie, but since most of the collaborative music was in other keys, I appreciated the opportunity to play other flutes lent by the "real" fluties. An afternoon immersed in the sweet sounds of the organic music by flute-lovers of all abilities was transformative. I felt a refreshing energy wash over me and through me. Even though my attempts at joining the refrain were clumsy at best, I didn't care, and neither did my new friends. I came home with my relationship with my Yazzie dusted off and with new creative potential.
I think I am falling hard. Smitten.
Labels: Music
posted by Reneé (aka Mama Hawk) at 7:49 AM
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