Sansaku: Ten-Thousand Hours, Two-Seconds
11/26/17
We talked about the ten-thousand hours it supposedly takes to master an art, like counseling, in training group. We also talked about tracking the experience, the two-second blink of brilliance that comes from the ten-thousand hours. According to Gladwell, there are tipping points.
The yunomi, my teacup, is precious and not like the ring of power. It’s like one those three elven rings, the one Galadriel wore. After pouring the golden green tea, I hold the cup with both hands. I know the sides and four rounded corners by heart and sight. It’s like a medicine wheel.
I don’t pour much at any one time. I like the tea hot. Just enough for a gulp from each of the four corners. I only drink from corners, the flat sides don’t work. Right now, the southeast corner is facing me. Irma lived in that part of Colorado as a child. I was born in the northeast part of the state. I moved to the southwest, the four corners.
The glaze looks wood-fired, but isn’t. The design Chyako carved looks ancient, yet modern. The symbol, a cup, has been crafted for ages in the psyche. It’s an icon. The yunomi on the desk looks alive. I’ve invested hours and years, no wonder it glows. Sacred technology.
The ten-thousand hours are mostly practice and play. Think about the way a musician learns to perform. I play guitar and rarely practice, but I like to sing some songs. I’ve been doing this for years. Rituals add up over time. I wrote songs for each of the parents.
When George turned seventy-five he asked, “I’d like to adopt you.” The song I wrote surprised me. The old stone shirt meant more than I’d realized. He was like the forest for the trees, a little too close for me to see. “Who you are is what I need…”
It’s a bit sentimental, but true. “I can see us in that jeep, going fishing every week. You were teaching me to choose and the words I now use, I’m teaching them just like you…”
The song I wrote for Corder contrasts in every way. The chords are complex and the rhythm leaps. The words are harsh but loving. “It was in the night and into the night, we drove and you said, I know we are drunk, but hear what I say, I need you to know…”
He’d just died when I wrote the song and I recorded it about ten years later when I was taking a course in family counseling. One of the graduate students was putting together a tape and asked if she could include those songs. I’m grateful I obliged.
I wrote the last stanza to Corder’s song first. “You said you never wanted me to see you this way, just an empty shell, a shadow that’s past, hell you know it’s not me. I always look back, reflecting what’s past, I never forgot, I never will.”
I wrote the song for Irma when I was living in the woods. I missed Mother’s Day and then her birthday. I decided I’d send her a song through the underground and breeze. I used some of my favorite chords and it’s easy for me to play, but hard to sing.
“Rancher’s daughter, growing up in Colorado, a sun-tanned girl with a smiling face…” I can usually get through those words, but start to get hung-up on the second verse. “Dark-eyed woman, you’re still your mother’s child. The only change is in this world of time…”
If I haven’t already lost it, the last verse does me in. It’s the reason I don’t perform. I can’t sing when I’m crying. “Rancher’s daughter you’ve a daughter, your daughter has a daughter too. The way of life is always giving, lord knows, it sure flows through you…”
Two-second words, ten-thousand hours, tipping-point transformations.
bestslowly 