The Dance

Whirling Dervishes in a Tekke, c. 1845-1855
Water and bodycolour over pencil
Preziosi, Aloysius Rosarius Amadeus Raymondus Andreas (5th Count Preziosi)



Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

 

Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.

It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white

feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

 

Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,

until at last, now, they shine

in your own yard?

 

Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?

 -Mary Oliver--excerpt from Why I Wake Early

 



We dance on...all of us, dancing and spinning and turning and reaching for one another and connecting and disconnecting. 

Whether in a structured setting...

  

Two Dancers in the Studio
Edgar Degas, Oil on canvas, 1901 

The Square Dance
Artist Unknown



At the Ball -- Oil on canvas, Leopold Schmutzler



On a stage or in a grand ballroom...



Jeune le Cafe de Paris
Oil on canvas, Beraud



Or maybe in a decidedly

unstructured setting,

indoors...



Dancing Gypsy Woman 
Oil on canvas , Adrien Moreau







...or outside in the fresh spring air.



Maybe it's only metaphorically that you dance. However it is that you choose to dance through life, 

Dancing Tree, photographer unknown



keep turning.

Who says the trees won't join you in the dance?

And so the dance goes on. Remember, we only imitate the wind, who invented the dance. At times we look out toward the mountains and on to the stars beyond them. At other times we look inward as we spin and arch and spin some more.

It's all in the cycle and seasons of our existence here, then, isn't it? Neither approach is better than the other. It's only different. That's my theory anyway.

Are you looking at the 'big picture' as you dance the dance? Do you see the white-capped mountains that loom so large in the distance? That sort of dance makes me feel dizzy and overwhelmed at times. I'm much better at the inward-looking part of the cycle, where the universe it equally infinite, but each moment seems easier to hold onto, to see more clearly, to inspect thoroughly. I feel more empowered when looking at the 'little love-ring' as I whirl.

The important thing, I think, is to just keep on turning in this "frisky theater" in which we live and love and work and play and laugh and cry each day .

What kind of dance are you doing in this little garden of dust?

Whether with the piqué turn of a ballet dancer, or the wild abandon of a gypsy (or anything in between), I hope you dance today.

I found this video named "The Mountain," from Norwegian photographer Terje Sorgjerd, to be as beautiful as any dance I've ever seen. Music is "Nuvole Bianche" by Ludovico Einaudi. It illustrates to me the connectedness of all living things, great and small. We're all in this great dance together. Enjoy.

The Mountain from Terje Sorgjerd on Vimeo.

The Art of Listening

"Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."
- William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Flaming June, Lord Frederic Leighton, Oil on canvas, 1895
Ponce Museum of Art, Peurto Rico

Last night another round of thunderstorms rolled through Weldon Spring. They were not frightening, as the ones that rolled through Oklahoma yesterday had been. They were comforting.

Distant flashes of light and soft rumbles filled the quiet night air. The rain tip-tip-tipped steadily, and Brother Wind swayed the trees quite gently. My window was cracked and the cool breeze crept in, but I was wrapped in the comforting warmth of loving arms throughout the night.

Morning came amidst the dark cold rain, the sun deeply subdued and barely perceptible. The birds must know that the rain will continue all day, and are filling the morning with song. Brother Wind is still passing through the scene outside my window, creating the most pleasing rocking motion through the trees. Even he (who enjoys taunting me at times) seems to offer comfort, saying, "The week ahead will be difficult. You will need strength. We've created this gift for you...take it and rest."

I'm trying to listen more carefully these days. It's an art...one that I hope to improve.

The week ahead includes a memorial celebration for my mother, and will be very special, yet difficult, I'm sure. Today I have no work that can't wait until afternoon. I have darkness, and light rain, and breezy cool inside and out. I have this been offered this gift, and I am listening...

I think I will accept it. I'm going back to bed.

Today I wish you the pleasure of nature's gifts and the ability to listen.

Music today is the familiar and beautiful "Méditation from Thaïs" by Jules Massenet. ["Thaïs" is a beautiful opera, but one of great difficulty, and as such, is not part of the standard repertoire of many opera companies. "Méditation" is actually not a part of the opera per se, but is an entr'acte, played between the scenes of Act II.]

The legendary violinist Anne-Sophie Mutter performs with pianist Lambert Orkis in this 2008 recital. Let the music wash over you as you listen.

What do you hear? Longing? Sorrow? Strength? Peace? Only you can say what the message truly is for you...just remember how important it is to listen carefully. Please enjoy.

 

Let There Be Light

"Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack in everything,
That's how the light gets in."
- Leonard Cohen


Girl with Pearl Earring, Jan Vermeer, Oil on canvas, 1665
Louvre Museum, Paris, France


What makes this painting so special? Most experts will tell you it's Vermeer's understanding of light, using it to highlight the earring with such intensity that he pulls the observer's eye toward the center of the painting filled with darks and lesser highlights. What an impressive mastery of his subject and the observer!

The great masters of Chiaroscuro like Raphael, Caravaggio, and Vermeer began to explore concepts of light and dark in the Renaissance era, and today the concept of light remains as provocative as ever.

Blues Come Through, Alice Dalton Brown

I looked at a print of the painting above, and nearly couldn't believe it wasn't a photograph. (I don't know the original medium used, but I suspect it's a watercolor.)  Dalton Brown, a Contemporary Realist who was born in Pennsylvania in 1939, studied art at the Academie Julian in Paris. She's known for her attention to detail and, like most great artists, "finding the sublime in the everyday." I'm simply amazed at her understanding of the interplay between light and shadows.

The dark, murky shadows of the light-deprived winter season have finally given way to the crisp, clear shadows that accompany the bright spring sunshine.  As the sunbeams came streaming into the house this morning, I couldn't help but reflect on the power of light and how deeply it affects us all.

Physically and metaphorically, I'm letting the light in today. I've opened all the shades and thrown up the sashes on this perfect spring day. (A high of 75 F. is expected today. How perfect is that?) As the brilliant Leonard Cohen tells us, I'm going to try to accept the cracks in my world and understand that it is through those very cracks that the light will enter. 

Today, I wish you light through the cracks.


Wow. Leonard Cohen. He is one of the greatest poets of our day, to my mind, and certainly one of the most gracious performers to ever live.

Of course the music selection today is his brilliant "Anthem" from which the quote above is exerpted. Many versions are out there for you to explore (here is a very unique version posted by my friend, Steven, over at his blog, the golden fish), but this one is filled with the grace of Cohen's soul from beginning to end. Please watch his face as he performs, allowing the music and the poetry of his lyrics to enter completely into him, and so, into us.

As much a I enjoy the beauty of the music and the words, I enjoy the final introductions of the people with whom he shares the stage, given and receieved with such reverence for one another. Enjoy. 

Sacred Solitude

"Inside myself is a place where I live all alone, and that's where I renew my springs that never dry up." - Pearl Buck


Solitude,  Sir Frederic Leighton, oil on canvas, 1890
Maryhill Museum of Art, Goldendale, Washington.


I believe it's sacred to spend time alone.

We live in a society so polarizing we feel pulled apart most of the time.  Demands on our time make us feel fragmented.  We describe the overload of stress as causing us to wonder if we're coming or going. 

I believe that we can learn to feel more whole by spending some of our time in solitude.

By that, I don't mean simply being alone, watching television, reading, working out, or surfing the internet. I see solitude as a chosen period of time used for the purpose of reflection, prayer, or meditaton.

To me, solitude is a chance to listen and appreciate. You may choose to "saunter through the woods for four hours a day, at least," as Henry David Thoreau did, or you might choose to sit in silence in a comfortable chair for fifteen minutes each morning.

Those of you who know me well know that I've been practicing a meditation for over a year now called Inner Smile, based on precepts which combine The Tao and Traditional Chinese Medicine (ooh, that sounded complicated...it's not). Basically, it's an introspective visit to the five major internal organs of one's body (heart, spleen/stomach region, lungs, kidneys, and liver).

As I enter peacefully "into" each organ, I smile (literally...smiling into your heart, etc. is very powerful), thank it for the way it serves me, acknowledge the hard work it does, and then release any negative emotions held there (according to TCM, each organ is the storage point for positive and negative emotions, but I won't elaborate on that here). Just the simple thought that you are releasing negativity from your body can be very healing.

I absolutely love this meditation, but it may not be for you. I promise you, though, there is healing in the very act of honoring your soul by sitting with it and focusing on it alone every once in a while. It is sacred.

If you haven't made a moment of sacred solitude part of your routine yet, I encourage you to do so without guilt. It is absolutely as important as working, paying the bills, tending to the home, exercising, or playing with the kids.

As Anne Morrow Lindbergh said, "What a commentary on civilization, when being alone is being suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it - like a secret vice."

Don't allow anyone to encroach upon this sacred moment. You're not a recluse, or a hermit...or, godforbid, antisocial. You are taking care of yourself.

I'll get off the corner soap box now with this thought. As the original Ad Men said, "Try it, you'll like it."

Today, I hope you begin your journey to sacred solitude.

Van Morrison takes his soap box to the corner with this great performance of "The Healing Game." Many thanks to my friend, Lisa T., for this one. Enjoy! 

L'Adieu to the Arts?

"But something touched me deep inside,
         The day the music died..."
- Don McLean, "American Pie"




Frédéric Chopin


I'm immersed in thought over what is happening up on Captitol Hill today. The issue of a looming government shutdown is complex and wide reaching, yet how many of us truly realize what that means?

Most of us think it means simply that government offices will close (so what?), politicians will take a break (so what's new?), and maybe a few services will be curtailed (so what's a little more trash on the curb?). 

It seems so much more dire than that to me.

Deep cuts are being proposed to the national budget, many of which are essential to our economic recovery. No matter which side of the aisle your perspective comes from, we all see the need to monitor the ongoing escpades of lobbyists, special interests, and corporate potentates. Everything is up for debate, right?

Everything but the arts, please.

We're locked in struggle, a desperate uphill battle to restore some balance in our society, and this fight cannot be won unless and until we recognize that it cannot be restricted to commerce alone. It is also a battle for the very spirit of our nation...our ethos.

Enter the arts.

I spent a magnificent few days in our nation's capitol recently, and was astounded at the wealth of artistic treasures it contains. The National Gallery of Art is comprised of two beautiful buildings, one historic, the other of new, modern design.  Much of our nation's and world's art is preserved and displayed here.

"The" Smithsonian is not, as we know, one building, but a complex of the world's largest museum and research complex, with 19 museums, 9 research centers (and more than 140 affiliate museums around the world). A shutdown of this facility alone would affect thousands of individuals.

Symphony orchestras, dance companies, and theater groups would be on furlough along with the trash collectors. Is this really what we want for our country?

A free society can not legislate culture, but we can vow to protect it. We can acknowledge the purpose of art, to transcend the mundane and lift us up to the cerebral and ethereal nature of our souls. It fills a void and nourishes us. When we are most desperate, we find sustenance in art. The arts reflect our sadness and struggles, as well as our joys and triumphs. They are a mirror to our national soul.

We cannot live by politics alone. We can and must aspire to sustain beauty in our civilization, to replace noise with music, to insert poetry where there is debate, and to look bravely into a future filled with the beautiful, magificent, myriad reflections of our souls.

Please join me in sending messages of peaceful cooperation to Congress today.

Although I might have selected any number of American composers for this post, of course my favorite composer comes to mind. Chopin wrote this lovely waltz, "Waltz Opus 69 No. 1" in 1835 as a farewell gift to Maria Wodzińska, to whom he was engaged. Although Maria's parents agreed in principal to their engagement, her mother felt Chopin's health to be too frail, and they never married. Chopin died at the age of thirty-nine.

[Nearly half of Chopin's works are alive today because his sister disobeyed his deathbed request to burn his manuscripts which had not yet been published. Hooray for rebellious sisters!]

This melancholy waltz was one of those pieces published posthumously. Its nickname is "L'Adieu" or "The Farewell Waltz" and it is my very favorite piece of music. Ever. Not even Tiny Tim's "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" can compare. This version is played by the brilliant technician, Tzvi Erez. Enjoy.

Grace Notes

"I do not want the peace which passeth understanding, I want the understanding which bringeth peace." - Helen Keller

Fantasy Bust of a Veiled Woman (Margeurite Bellanger?)
Albert-Ernest Carrier-Belleuse, c. 1865-1870, terracotta
Chester Dale Collection, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

The last two weeks have been extraordinary, profound, and healing.

Just days after my mother's passing, I traveled to Maine to meet a dear friend and see my daughter perform in a ballet there, and then with only one full day in between trips (barely enough to unpack and pack again), I traveled east again, this time to spend a few days with two friends in D.C.

I struggled mightily with the decision to continue with my plans for these two trips. I had just suffered a significant loss. I was in pain. I wanted to curl up and hide under the covers. I was wrapped in grief.

In fact, when I saw the bust pictured above at the National Gallery a few days ago, I was covered with chills and thought to myself, "That's just how it feels." Veiled. Swathed in yards of heavy sadness. Grief, thy name is Margeurite.

Two weeks ago, I thought these two trips might be inappropriate or ill-adivised. I wasn't sure I could physically go. Could I even find the energy to pack one suitcase? Two seemed impossible. I wondered if I could make it emotionally. Tears come at unexpected times when we're grieving. Would I completely embarrass myself? What if I burst into tears in the middle of the airport? Or worse, in the midst of happy friends?

What I understand now is that there are no accidents. These trips that were planned well in advance of my mother's death had been scheduled at the perfect time with the perfect people in the perfect settings for the purpose of healing. I am in awe, and I am so very grateful for having decided to make these two trips. 

They were grace notes in grief's symphony.

[Grace notes are extra notes 'suggested' by the composer (they are indicated in classical works by printing a note that is much smaller than a regular note, sometimes with a slash through the note stem) for extra embellishment, but not necessary for the harmony or melody of a composition.]

They aren't necessary...just rather special and really appreciated.

As I progressed through the last two weeks, the layers of weighty sadness fell away slowly and gently, removed tenderly by family and friends who care for me.  The heavy veil was lovingly replaced by a weightless armor of understanding and peace.

If you offered a word of comfort, a hug, an act of kindness, or a smile to me in the last few weeks, know that I heard and saw and felt it. Each act is a grace-filled note in the poignant symphony of grief.

It isn't exactly necessary to the process, but very special and deeply appreciated.

I will share more about these trips, but for today, I want to leave it here...in grace.

May you have added grace notes to your symphony today.

Music today is Mischa Maisky playing the Prelude to Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. Enjoy.