It feels odd to throw the word “applied” in front of ethnomusicology. That is, it seems natural enough for the implication to exist regardless of the prefix. Why is it that the applied sector needs to be separate from all-things-academic or “intellectual”…? They seem to go hand in hand – one flows out of the other, or so I’ve thought. If I were giving my own elevator speech, you know, the one-minute answer to the question, “What do you do?” I would never insert the word “applied,” even though I would definitely categorize my work that way in my head. There are too many implications to it – or maybe that’s in my head, too. Our work has an impact on the communities we study regardless of the final product. Not sure why this is on my mind today – the whole thing seems as silly as the supposed distinction between musicology and ethnomusicology.
Okay listen, I’m sitting in this super posh resort hotel room in Destin for the day. There’s a Harry Potter marathon on ABC-Family, and I have a balcony overlooking the ocean. In other words, I’m set. I wish this could be the setting for all of my weekend work-days. Although I’m planning to run down to one of the resort restaurants to find sustenance, the majority of my day will be spent sitting here on the balcony with the ocean as my soundtrack – grading and writing, grading and writing (okay so there may be a bottle of merlot involved at some point soon).
I have found lately that I need to change my work location quite frequently in order to stay productive. At one point this past week during a marathon three days without sleep, I chose to sit at a friends’ kitchen table for eight hours while everyone in the house slept. It may have been the most productive eight hours of the semester, and I think it was simply due to the venue change. This is why I’m hopeful for the productivity that will ensue out of my current location. I think it’s also because the hotel room is not full of “things.” It’s not cluttered with junk, household things, dogs, dog fur, or piles of books and responsibilities. In other words, it is lovely.
So with that rant, I think sitting in a hotel room a couple times per semester on weekends just to get work done may become a personal ritual.
Yesterday I was thrown into a conversation about my heritage. It’s an interesting conversation, because I spend so much time in classes (both my own and those I assist) discussing the identity of others, and yet I have barely thought about my own or how I identify. I don’t identify with any specific heritage – perhaps because I grew up “a mutt” notwithstanding the strong links to various cultures. I grew up in a town with a large Buddhist community – one of the largest (probably the largest per capita) in the nation. Consequently, I was exposed to the teachings from an early age despite half my family calling the local practitioners “freaky” – they assumed that these people were leftovers from the 70’s age of cults and communal living. There were certainly leftover hippies. People always fear what they don’t understand.
One of my favorite hometown experiences happened when I was very young, though I don’t remember my age. It must have been past the age of ten because I was already performing in the local community band. After a Sunday evening concert one summer, I was sitting on the common eating an ice cream cone, and I met my first Buddhist nun. She had finished a walking meditation and was walking around the center of town softening clay beads in her hand to make a mala. I don’t remember the details of the conversation, but I know that’s what cemented my relationship to the dharma. I walked away with the mala she had created and kept it until Hurricane Katrina destroyed it in 2005 (ironically, after I returned to New Orleans I found it in the mud where it had settled inside a singing bowl as the water levels dropped).
My relationship with Buddhism has always been love-hate. The teachings are there, but I haven’t always followed them, even when they bubble up from the subconscious to play the angel on my shoulder. I’ve had wavering months of devout practice, and months lost in the land of capitalist-driven hedonism where my inner child considered the world to be its sandbox. All I can do is smile because of course the entire premise behind Buddhist teachings is an espousal of ‘the Middle Way”, commonly known as moderation. I’m a horrible example of this. Now, in the land of academics, the corners of my mouth turn into a smile once more because once again the teachings, this moderation, should be paramount to my existence… and once again it’s not. An example? I work exceedingly hard 6 days a week to the point where I feel like I’ll collapse and on the 7th day, I’ll sleep late and do nothing but watch ridiculous TV and play with my dogs. Wouldn’t my life be better served if for those 6 days, I practiced moderation, so that by the 7th, I won’t feel the need to laze around? Sure it would. Knowing and doing are two different things. If my life becomes an example for anything, it’s that.
The noble 8-fold path should be recodified for academics, and applied to our interactions with research, colleagues, and students: right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration. I think I’ll post the list on my office wall. Meanwhile… identity – I’m still working on that.