Taken out of Context

Samantha and I had the pleasure of visiting the great city of New Orleans over this spring break.  Despite battling through a sinus infection (Samantha) and some sort of throat nastiness (me), and being the least partying people in the French Quarter (in bed by 10:30), we had a great time experiencing the sights and sounds of the Crescent City.  

One of the unexpected gems during our brief vacation was the Voodoo Tour.  We made reservations with Tree (yes, his name) of Racontours, billed on Tripadvisor as the number one tour in the French Quarter.  While occasionally a bit of a rogue, Tree’s colorful character danced our small group through the French Quarter, delighting us with the rich history of the former French and Spanish colonial periods.

I expected a New Orleans Voodoo Tour to aggrandize the stereotypes associated with the practice.  I anticipated bloody stories of animal and human sacrifices, of voodoo dolls and their unassuming victims, of black magic and demons.  I was wrong.  So many of my assumptions fell flat, no more than uninformed drivel handed to me by pop culture.

Voodoo at its roots worships ancestral spirits.  Certain spirits have gained a reputation for answering particular prayers, and those have gained more of a following than others.  Voodoo dolls are a way of inviting healing powers and luck into your life.  They can also be used as a way to extrinsically work out personal grudges without bringing actual harm to others.     

Louisiana Voodoo adopted many Catholic elements in the 1800s through the teachings of Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau.  A devout Catholic herself, Laveau drew her Voodoo followers into the church by drawing comparisons between the Voodoo’s spirits and the Cult of the Saints.  The Voodoo spirit of Legba fulfilled the same role as St. Peter - holding the keys to heaven.  Aida Wedo and the Blessed Virgin, Ghèdè and St. Expeditè, Ogun and St. Jude, all merged.  Marie Laveau taught that they were expressions of the same forces, the same spirits, and praying to one would mean praying to the other.

Taken out of context, glorified for entertainment value, Voodoo makes for good horror.  At its core, practiced in its intended form, Voodoo expresses an adapted version of an ancient tradition passed down by word-of-mouth through many generations by people struggling to live through more hardship than you or I could imagine.  Essentially, Voodoo helps people to find spiritual healing through prayer and meditation.  While its practices may appear foreign, its goals strike me as similar to every major religion I know.

Christianity taken out of context could look equally as ridiculous as Voodoo’s pop culture portrayal.  Masses of people who once a week grow hungry for the blood and flesh of their creator, who incidentally is now undead.  Zombies and Vampires?  Believe me, I don’t make this point to ridicule anyone’s beliefs, but I think the point is valid.  When taken out of context, just about anything can sound malevolent.

If you find yourself in New Orleans with four or five hours to spare, jump on the Voodoo Tour with Tree.  Besides a good time with an entertaining guide, the history of the Voodoo world will unfold before your eyes in a very enlightening way.

Untethered

The other night, I was talking to Samantha on my cell.  I was at home relaxing and she was on her way back from a Mary Kay appointment.  We usually call each other when we are on our way home, beginning our time together a little earlier.  Yeah, I know, it’s sweet.  Anyway, nature called, so I got up from the couch and headed to the bathroom.  I tucked the phone between my ear and my shoulder, leaned over and lifted the lid and seat on the toilet.  The next thing I know - KERPLUNK!  My phone slipped from its cradle and gravity did the rest, aiming my phone straight at the toilet bowl.

I snatched the phone from the bowl, grabbed a towel, and dashed for the kitchen, wiping as I went.  I ripped open the pantry door, grabbed a zip-lock sandwich bag, and snatched an open bag of jasmine rice from the shelf.  The outside now dry, my phone went into the bag, followed by as much of the rice as would fit.  I only hoped everything I had read on the internet about using rice to save a phone from an unfortunate encounter with water would work.

With my phone now buried in a bag of rice, I immediately felt gratitude I hadn’t yet started to pee before my phone took its swan dive.  That might have been a mess rice couldn’t have solved.

Now, a few days later, I am happy to report that my phone still holds a charge, makes all the necessary sounds, reacts to swipes on the screen, and appears dry.  Unfortunately, I can’t see anything on the screen.  It has managed to not run out of a charge even though the last time it was plugged in was two days ago.  It remains sequestered in a bag of rice on my kitchen counter.

So, since Thursday night, I have been phoneless, unconnected, and untethered to the world.

In this age of instant connectability, living life without a cell phone has been odd.  When I went to teach Friday, I told Samantha I would call her to meet for lunch.  She asked if I even knew her phone number.  I am happy to report that after ten years, I confidently have it memorized.  But, I am not sure I have many others memorized.  I tried to recall friends’ numbers, family numbers, and other important numbers.  I got nothing.  I know mine, Samantha’s, 911, and a smattering of useless numbers from my pre-cell phone childhood.  Awesome, huh.

The next trouble I encountered was red lights.  I hadn’t realized how much I depended on my iPhone to get me through the red lights I encounter during my day.  I don’t use my phone while driving, except for directions or to talk.  When stopped though, the story changes.  I think I read most of Stephen King’s latest thriller 11/22/63 at stop lights through my Kindle app.  I check the weather, as if I need digital confirmation for what I can see right outside my car window.  I check my email.  I text.  I pay bills, reload my starbucks card, learn french.

Now that I don’t have my phone, what the hell am I supposed to do with red lights?

I can look at the wildflowers outside my window.  I can acknowledge the other people around me (if they weren’t all on their cell phones).  I can look up at the sky and experience the beauty of the planet on which we live.  I can take a moment and let my mind be still.

In a way, I find it slightly ironic, and a bit pleasing, that this happened at the beginning of Spring Break.  I get a vacation from my normal weekly life and at the same time, I get a vacation from my digital shackles.  I appreciate being unavailable.  I can only be reached if I want to be reached.  I am free to sit here, writing my blog, without the distraction of text messages, facebook notifications, myfitnesspal bothering me about entering my breakfast, or any other distractions my phone thinks up.  It is nice.

Try it.  Try a day or two without your phone.  Let people know you are disconnecting so they don’t worry - because they will.  You know they will.  Then put the phone away.  Turn it off.  Open yourself to the world out there.  

Just don’t go about it the way I did.  Water and phones don’t mix.  Let’s hope the rice works.