restingmotion

Timeless and Out of Time

I was not a concert-hopping fool this weekend.  I did not bop in and out of performances, did not try to go to everything, and I am perfectly content with my choices.  I had a good time.  I may have missed something amazing, but I am ok with that.

I intentionally took it slow on Saturday.  Slept late, puttered through the day, rushed nothing. Although it was tempting to wind myself tight as could be and go downtown and revel in the music, it was also all too apparent that time to unwind was a greater priority.  This one of those occasions where plans and reality actually aligned themselves. It had been a busy week.  Sunday was overscheduled and I knew that I would push myself to do and see and hear as much as possible.  I needed to refuel.

 I did go downtown to one concert, a performance by Wu Man at the Square Room.  Sitting on the floor, legs crossed in front of me I found the music at times to be very meditative and calming.  In fact Wu Man captures the world in four strings and the music had incredible depth.  It felt timeless: ancient and modern; alternately spiritual and worldly; simple and complex.  And yet, even in those worldly songs of battle and other human concerns, my inclination was to pull inward, and relax into the music. At one point even the sound of water, slowly gurgling beneath the melody, flowed through her strings. 

I could not help but think of an infant lying on a blanket very close to where I was sitting, could not help but hope that this was a good thing, this music filled with history and humanity, this oasis in a world often filled with dissonance, the now, and the rush to the future. 

A History of Sorts

 I realized at some point over the weekend that I started blogging in March and that I had now been writing a blog, although not necessarily this blog, for 10 years.  That first blog post was on March 16th, 2005, exactly 10 years and two weeks ago. 

I knew nothing about blogging when I started.  I hadn't read blogs, didn't know what it was about, but thought it would be a good way to keep track of my scattered thoughts and projects, a personal journal of sorts, only online.  And so I began writing Sewdistracted, began as if I was in the middle of a conversation with myself, which indeed I was. On that particular morning I wrote about how I used the kitchen island as a cutting table, and how this allowed for occasional multi-tasking:

"This morning I saw the neatly stacked pattern pieces on the island and thought, "aha! I can do this while I cook breakfast".  Luckily George asked for hot cereal, a menu that I can easily work around.  I put the water on to boil, traced a couple of pieces, added the cereal and stirred, did more tracing, and so on.  By the time the dear wandered down for breakfast everything was stacked back up just as I left it last night and I was putting the cereal on the table.  He was none the wiser except for noting that the cereal was a little thicker than usual.  Was I distracted or what??"

But in 2005 my mind was fairly compartmentalized, and I could not figure out how to write about sewing and knitting both, so I started another blog: purlsandmurmers, a place where I could write about knitting and the occasional perambulations of my thoughts while knitting.

Those blogs were a refuge in their own way, a place where I could escape from a life that was becoming increasingly fragmented.  George's dementia was already quite evident to those who worked with him day in and day out, but unfortunately that was a very small circle consisting merely of myself and his office staff. For the most part he would pull himself together when dealing with others, and we would suffer the brunt of the collapse when he returned to the office or home, and his overtaxed mental muscles would collapse.

It was evident to all of us that this could not continue, that we would not be able to cover for him much longer.  But I soldiered on.  Protecting George I suppose.  Hoping that the world would see, but at the same time not really willing to force the issue because he was struggling so mightily to keep it all together.

In June I started a third blog, Dooney's World, where I wrote about anything non-knitting that crossed my fancy.  I kept that blog fairly secret for a while, afraid that people wouldn't like me if they knew my opinions, and at that point in my life I felt that being likeable and anonymous was all I had.    As I write this, it makes me cry for that woman, but not with regret.  I have no regrets.  We each make the best choices we can, and hope that we will end up into the right place in the end.

I wrote those blogs for five years, even as it became evident that I was not sewing or knitting nearly as much as I had in the past, even as it became apparent to me that I could no longer separate my life and my thoughts into neat little boxes, each existing in their own sphere.  And so this blog was born. 

This is not the anniversary of this blog, but that is not the point.  I am here now.  The previous blogs still exist in cyberspace, and I maintain links here.  They still, surprisingly get visits.  At one point I thought I might resurrect them into active life, but I am not so sure.  I am not convinced I would still be blogging if all I wrote about was sewing or knitting.  I am not convinced that I am a candidate for a themed or branded blog.  I like the meandering flow of thoughts, the informality of just throwing something out there, whatever I am thinking on a particular day, as if it were a conversation that wends its way through the ups and downs of life.

 

 

Palm Sunday

 

Lorenzo Ghiberti: Christ's Entry into Jerusalem. One of twenty panels depicting scenes from Christ's life on the North doors of the Baptistry of San Giovanni in Florence.

 Palm Sunday,  I can never quite explain what it means to me.  There is the story I grew up with, the triumphant entry into Jerusalem with the cheering crowds and the palm fronds.  And yet, all that revelry turns to darkness, death, despair, and eventually new life.  We don't necessarily like to think about that, but it is always there, and always a part of our lives, not solely in our religious observances.  For does not religion also provide us with a path through which we attempt to understand our own lives?

Here we are.  Another Palm Sunday.  Another winter becoming spring.  Here in Knoxville the trees are bursting into bloom, but it is a tenuous celebration, a fragile flowering.  A sudden chill and glorious blossoms become limp reminders that sometimes we celebrate too much too soon. And the service that I remember as celebratory when I was a child takes on its darker meaning.  How easily our loyalties and our emotions shift.

I've written before how this period of lent, of winter becoming spring has always been a period of reflection and growth for me and it has never been particularly easy.  Each year I ask questions and hope for answers.  But the harder I look for those answers the more slowly they seem to be forthcoming. 

But of course the answers are all always already there, waiting.  It is not that the answers don't come.  It is that we don't look in the right places. The answers are there before we even ask the questions.  God gives us the answers before we even know what we are looking for.  We are not waiting for God to respond; we are waiting for ourselves to be ready to listen. 

Vibrating the Sinews of my Brain

 

Last night, as I settled into my seat at the Bijou Theater waiting for the concert to begin, I wondered if being there was really a good idea.  It had been a long day.  I had not slept enough the night before and had managed to get myself through my morning meeting only by virtue of a steady slow stream of caffeine. And although I was fine during an afternoon with friends, I was fading fast during the drive home from Farragut. Traffic was heavy and slow, and I found myself drifting off to sleep at traffic lights. 

I had 20 minutes at home, enough time to feed Tikka and Moisés, and take Tikka for a far too short walk while I drank a double shot of espresso.  Then, knowing that I had been waiting for months to hear The Bad Plus and the Kronos Quartet in Knoxville, I headed downtown.  It was worth a try and I could always head home again.

In the end it was well worthwhile. The first concert I attended was a performance by The Bad Plus.  In the opening they sat on stage, a video behind them, recorded music..... but the instant they began to play I snapped out of my transitional fugue into bright sharp alertness.  It was as if sunshine filled my body and every cell blossomed forth in alertness, and I snapped to attention. 

They began with their reimagining of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, and the way in which I find new understandings every time I hear this work continues to amaze me., To both see and hear it live was a marvel.   Drummer Dave King's mastery of techniques and the way he coaxed and controlled sounds made me wish my grandson Owen could be watching and listening, even though I am not sure I really want him to hear the Rite of Spring quite yet. I knew that piece of music when I was very close to his age, but now I am more protective, I don't want him to hear what I hear in this music, although of course I have no memory of what I actually heard when I was 9.  At least The Bad Plus's vision of The Right of Spring is not as brooding and menacing as the original and lacks that sense of bone-crushing darkness that the best orchestral performances bring to the Rite.

I was sitting near the front, in front of Bassist  Reid Anderson, and his technique, sinuous and controlled, forceful and gentle, was fascinating.  For once I was not watching the pianist, not that Ethan Iverson isn't worth watching at any time.  It was a fabulous performance, vibrant and alive, and incredibly moving and thought provoking, both the Stravinsky and the group's own compositions.

 After the concert I felt eager and alive and filled with excitement, much in the way that my 20-something self would be filled with excitement after heading off to BAM.  I knew I wasn't ready to head home.  I saw a young woman, a friend, hepped-up, and excited and I remembered those days, when I would be virtually vibrating with excitement and energy.  Alas no more; by brain was buzzing but my body was continuing to wilt. 

My plan had been to attend the Kronos Quartet concert, but I wondered, temporarily, if I should head off to hear Tyondai Braxton instead as that performance was shorter.  I opted for the Kronos Quartet, and in retrospect I think it was a good choice, for me.  Once again the music revived me.  Yes even the music of minimalist Terry Riley, plucked at the sinews of my brain waves and caused them to vibrate in excitement.  The Cusp of Magic is a quintet, written for the Kronos Quartet and Wu Man, who performed it last night.  It was a fascinating and marvelous piece, simultaneously jarring and soothing, a piece of music with very controlled effects that somehow seem serendipitous, as if you alone are just learning something for the first time.  This closing (for me) concert made me think of the way the world exists in multiple layers and levels, and the way we find our way through the fractured prisms, thinking we are on a clear path, and only occasionally being startled into realizing that what se see is just a fragment.

 

All in all it proved to be a good day, full yes, but filled with individual activities that still seemed somehow to mesh together into something else. And it was honoring this wish within myself, to indulge myself in the music, that brought it all together:   The photo above is of a bottle stopper I purchased in Sweetwater during my afternoon shopping trip with friends.  It is made from a vintage pool ball, and although it is a little large and heavy on the bottle when viewed solo, I love the way it fits into the liquor case amidst the other bottles.  The photo reminds me somehow of the fracture lines of thoughts in my mind following the concert, or is the music that makes me fond of this photo? Perhaps a little of both.

Thrown Together

When I was young and newly married we ate a lot of weeknight stir-fries. Simple. Fast. Good.

The other day I needed lunch in a hurry.  Upon looking in the refrigerator I found a generous handful of baby Bok Choy, a quarter of an onion, and two small but thick slices of smoked pork butt.  Cooked together with a bit of hoisin sauce, soy sauce, rice vinegar and sesame oil, it made for a very satisfying lunch.

Breaking Through

Winter.  Spring.  Lent. Easter. Loss. Birth. Rebirth.

I've been somehow fragmented lately, partially off my routines, but also just not quite connected, I suppose in some transitional sort of way.  But I can only say that if life is in fact one constant progression through states of transition: of periods of "almost" and "not yet" interspersed with periods of unity.

It is not that I have not been organized.  I have in fact at times been so organized, so focused on the minutia of detail that I have lost sight of the point behind it all.  It is quite possible to be too organized, to be blinded by detail, to organize oneself out of all connection with humanity and reality.  Of course that is, in all likelihood never the intent, merely an outcome stemming from good intentions.  It is possible to be so obsessed with being prepared for anything, for being so obsessed with the details, that one is not, in fact prepared for anything, at which point one learns it may have been better to do nothing at all.

It is possible that one can get so wound up in details, in the minutia of life, that there is no other solution but to reboot.

All around us we see nature rebooting.  Here in East Tennessee the daffodils and forsythia are blooming, and it seems that the world has been almost instantly transformed from dull gray skies, bare branches and endless seas of mud to an endless array of new buds  and growth.  Each day seems more colorful than the last, more filled with promise.  We see this blossoming forth and we are filled with hope and joy and yes, a sense of peace.

And although our ongoing struggle seems to be through cycles of death and rebirth, loss and growth, we need to remember that this too is just a construct, a way of understanding.  Yes the world we live in goes through cycles, and sometimes the cycles of this world can be quite overwhelming and violent and other times soothing and calm. And no we humans do not always adapt ourselves to our world, or to each other, happily.  But the possibility of unity and connection is always present, we need only to open our eyes and our hearts..

We can choose to live our lives constrained by duality. Or we can strive to see beyond it, working towards those all too precious moments of unity.  Like sunlight through the petals of a daffodil, there is always more than we can see.

 

A Little Spring Sunshine

The daffodils are blooming in the front yard. 

And there is sunshine as well.  What a beautiful start to the weekend.

 

The fact that I have Mozart running through my brain following last night's marvelous performance of the Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 25 by the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra and pianist Conrad Tao, is just icing on the cake.

 

I am playing catch-up this weekend.  But that doesn't mean there won't be walks in the sun, moments of beauty, and fellowship.   Have a happy weekend.

 

 

 

Alas Poor Sam

Sam the cat passed away Wednesday evening.  He was 15.

Although he was very shy when he first came to live with us, he was also very loyal and loved to cuddle.  He was always there to curl up in my lap whenever I was sad or lonely or just frustrated, and his presence was a balm during those years of George's decline.  He opened up considerably after we moved to Knoxville.  He loved sitting on the sofa with George's caregivers, and he missed them when they were gone.  He was a sweet, patient, lovely cat who would often greet visitors looking for a little affection.

I spent a lot of time with him these last few days.  He stopped eating Friday morning, but I was out most of the day and didn't really notice until evening. Saturday he was weak and having difficulty breathing and I wrangled an emergency appointment with his vet, where he was immediately put on oxygen and a large amount of built up fluid was removed from his chest.  I was shocked. He spent the weekend in the ER, where we learned he had lymphoma, and I authorized the first chemo treatment, hoping we could turn things around.  I visited him there and brought him home on Monday.  The tumor was too large, he was old, and too sick.  He had suffered with diabetes for years.  This time it was my turn to sit with him.

 

Moisés (on the right above) and I will miss him.  But if there is a kitty heaven, I am sure he is there, basking in the sun.

 

 

Wordless Wednesday

 

 

March Madness

March is breeding season.

For the turkey vultures.

Dozens and dozens are visible down the hill, in the woods, where there are many dead trees offering safe perches for raising one's young.

I don't think I've ever paid so much attention to the birds.  A week or so ago Tikka and I saw a wave of over 100 robins swooping through our fields.  Alas I was carrying neither phone nor camera.

Now there are dozens of turkey vultures communing in the trees. It may be an interesting spring.