I've been accepted into a six-week work study program at the John C Campbell Folk School, and my second week is half over. It's one of the fairest work exchanges I've ever found myself doing. We work three weeks for lodging, food, and for up to three weeks of classes plus two weekend classes. But even the "work" is arranged to be pleasant, if you don't mind sharing some full-hearted effort. I've grown at least half a muscle in each arm, and I've been much too busy to do anything except soak in abundant opportunity.
The staff like to let you know the place is haunted by friendly ghosts. Last night my roommate and I awoke to find our bedroom door wide open, so maybe it's true. I like the idea of Olive's ghost watching over the place, walking through the gardens, and visiting the students in all her favorite places.
This school seems to have a theme of unnecessary but aesthetic gates.
I haven't been sure why I decided to attend the folk school, until I saw all the purposeless gates. My life really has no boundaries, few fences. And yet I continue to laugh at ghosts in half-closed doorways. I'm not sure I've ever been called to walk through any particular opening although my young life is richly colored hall of many entered doors.
I didn't have to go anywhere I've gone. But why wouldn't I? If there is a pretty door, and the latch feels good to the soul shivering ever alert under my fingertips? I love how it feels to have gone through instead of around.
Really, all doors and gates we come to are purposeless. We COULD jump over fences or find suffering to hack our way through.
You see, our mountains and valleys are littered with opportunities to fall into ditches or to step into beauty.
Every open door isn't a sign of potential purpose as much as permission to ponder possibilities.
I first heard of John C Campbell school at a music festival this summer. I stood in front of a public bathroom mirror smearing bentonite clay on my face. Some girl said, "Goals, girl! I want your confidence."
She told me how she'd been a work study at a folk school and invited me to bring my tatting and sit with her at the JCC table.
"Neat. I think I'll go," I committed on the spot.
I knew I'd soon be wanted excuses to leave on another extended road trip. I could wander aimlessly, or I could enter this pretty gate that had just opened and hit me in the face. Of course, I've done both the wandering and the entering.
It is only now that I'm here, entered through many random gates, that I'm excited to be here. I imagine that's how it'll be too when we're in heaven. At last, we'll look back and laugh at our pretentious talk of eternal life and rejoice that we made it through that aesthetic pearly gate.
These paths we walk are as strong as my perceptions of them. There are no doors as real as the one inside our hearts: doors often locked tight in fear, sometimes open for a moment peering out guilty to see if we ought to add our stone to the soup or if we might retreat again. And then occasionally we release the latch and throw away the chains and locks and we become that warming, whimsical beautiful gate. No-one must come to us, but many won't pass up the gift of a hand to hold.
Some of the wildest experiences here have been off campus:
The open mic of old-time story tellers where I sat and knitted a baby dress before standing up to offer my comedy spiel interwoven between sad poetry. They laughed. They shivered. No clouds were destroyed in the process of making our rainbow.
In the daytime it is a post office, at nighttime a Cafe. The mayor bartended and served the many old women champagne in crystal.
Some eccentric old man invited the work studies over to brunch at his book-cramped home. He told us to take books, or bring books, to come whenever. He said, "Let me show you where the key is because the work I'm trying to do won't work if it only works when I'm home."
The pressure is gone. Go where you want, but remember, you are the greatest, most beautiful of all the open doors, forks in the paths, and latched garden gates. What is your aesthetic? For me and my house, it is a place of grounded wonder.
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