Amy Dixon-Kolar
Singer/Songwriter - Acoustic Folk/Contemporary/Traditional/Celtic
Musings
July 24, 2010
The Life of Violet Rose Jack, or the Miracle of 8 year-olds
Violet Rose Jack came into our lives on July 5, 2010. At that time, we didn't know if Jack was a Jack or Violet was a Violet, so our 8 year-old naturalist decided to call it Jack-Violet. J-V (for short) was a very small caterpillar living in a clear plastic cup with a coffee filter lid and milkweed leaves for sustenance. YuYu loved this caterpillar from day one. Every morning she would check on J-V and make sure s/he had a new leaf. She even cleaned out the caterpillar poop (a new one for me - I never knew caterpillars could poop so much)!. Every night before she went to bed, there had to be one last look at J-V to make sure s/he was comfortable. There were also the various checks during the day.
One evening when I was out, I called home and was greeted with, "Good news! Good news!! J-V has crawled to the top and is now in a 'J', so the chrysalis is next!!" She wanted to set up the video camera to make sure we didn't miss a step of the journey of Jack-Violet. That didn't happen, and sure enough, the next morning there was a bright green chrysalis attached to the coffee filter. It was made clear to me that Mom should have listened to the 8 yr. old naturalist. I'll forever be guilty of missing the filming of J-V turning into a chrysalis. It's a guilt I'll just have to bear.
Repeated checking of the plastic cup and coffee filter showed the bright green chrysalis hanging on. We left well enough alone and didn't touch the filter or the half-eaten leaf in the cup. Didn't want to disturb our lovely J-V when s/he was working her or his hardest! Impatience growing, repeated requests for the movie camera to be set up when the chrysalis turned dark, repeated checking.
Fast forward to last Sunday, 7/18. Mom trying to pull herself together to get out the door to the Woodstock Folk Festival. "IT'S DARK!!!!!!" comes the yell. The chrysalis had gone dark, which was the clue that s/he would be emerging soon. The paper said it would happen the day before s/he emerged. So there was plenty of time to set up the movie camera, right mom?? Well, it wasn't going to happen, but I grabbed my camera and we started snapping some pictures to capture the moment.
As we sat there, staring at this dark little blob attached to a white coffee-filter, excited by what was to come the next day, little naturalist started jumping up and down. "It's moving!!!!!!" "It's cracking!!!" And there it was. This UGLY little black blob poking its way out of its shell. I couldn't imagine for the life of me how this misshapen thing was going to turn into a beautiful, full-winged monarch butterfly.
Well, this took precedence over everything. Of course I had to get to a festival, of course I had some errands to do, of course I needed to take a shower to be presentable in public, but all that was lost to the moment. There was a butterfly being born and an 8 yr. old whose eyes were shining brighter than I've ever seen before in all her short life. We sat and watched J-V as s/he stretched out her wings to change from a black blob into a magnificent monarch. It's then that YuYu could confidently exclaim, "It's a Violet!" As to how she knew it was a female monarch, I give all credit and honor to second grade teacher Mrs. Bebber. We are forever in your debt.
We sat and watched as she started to spread her wings. But, as often happens in life, there was an obstruction. The leaf. Over the last ten days it had gone from a supple milkweed leaf giving sustenance to an ever-growing caterpillar to a dried, autumnal, immobile, miniature monolith, not giving in to the insistence of the fairy-light wings of the newborn monarch. The flapping of Violet's wings grew less and less. We started to worry that our desire to not intrude upon the sleeping J-V would be the death-knell of Violet. Butterflies need to spread their wings and flap or the wings will stick together and they won't be able to fly. And they'll die.
The instructions on our caterpillar-to-butterfly paper said that after the wings had dried, it should be moved to a flowering plant within six hours so it can start to feed. We were unprepared. Being the incredibly inept gardener that I am, I had no flowering plants at all in the yard. Off to the store where nature-girl picked out a simple daisy plant. Also were some frank discussions about the cycle of life, how sometimes, even with our best efforts, our loved ones do not survive, and how we will do everything we can to make sure Violet can go free. Stoically, she walked through the Dominick's with her plant, determined to do her best by her pet.
By the way, the naming of Violet Rose Jack was explained to me thusly, "Violet, because she was always Violet; Rose - because it's my middle name; and Jack, a good last name if there ever was one."
Daisy purchased, plastic cup and the not-yet wing flapping bug in hand, we were off to the outside deck to see if we could save Violet. The ever-so-careful transfer of a new-born butterfly from coffee filter to daisy. The silence. The waiting.
THERE IT WAS! Her wings started moving and she grabbed onto the petals of the daisy, very much alive! She flapped and rested, flapped and rested, all the while a little girl was encouraging her along. Even after I went in to get ready to leave, she was out there, singing to her Violet (to the tune of the William Tell Overture):
"Flap your wings, flap your wings, flap your wings wings wings,
flap your wings, flap your wings, flap your wings wings wings,
flap your wings, flap your wings, flap your wings wings wings,
Ohhh, flap your wings."
And flap she did. She flapped, she grew more sure of herself, and then she flew, up into the tree. A brisk wind came along and she held on. What a strong butterfly she is! And as the wind died down, the shining-eyed 8 yr. old bade good-bye to her beloved Violet as she headed off to start her life as a full-fledged, incredibly beautiful, forever loved monarch butterfly.
And I got to witness it all. The miraculous birth of a butterfly, which in my fifty years I had never beheld, and the incredible wonder, determination and love for a bug by an 8 yr. old. It still brings tears to my eyes. It was an honor, a privilege, and a mystery to have shared. I have been blessed.
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July 1, 2009
Revenge of the Gourds
My hands are the kiss of death. If you happen to have chlorophyll running through your veins and you see me looking your way, head for the hills. I’m all black thumb and I’m willing to admit it. Ask my lawn. Ask the empty flowerbeds screaming for life. To be honest, I’ve probably built up a pretty good layer of mulch and compost from all the plants, bushes, and flowers that have withered and died in our one-third acre of horror.
I can sing. I can play the guitar, write a decent song, and I’ll square off at twenty paces in an interpreting duel any time. I love all plants and flowers. So why has it come down to my guilt-ridden mass murdering of all things growing every spring and summer?
But still, I persevere. My mother is a renowned gardener, having been featured in Better Homes and Gardens for her natural prairie plant gardens and living labyrinth. My sister can make anything grow from the tiniest of cuttings and in less than a month it’ll be full of foliage and fruit. That might be a slight exaggeration, but they’re both definitely in the green thumb club. I have their genes. I’m a good person. Shouldn’t that be enough?
You and I both know it isn’t. As my friend Audrey reminded me when I was mourning the most recent flats of impatiens I had massacred, it takes time. It takes hard work. I’ll give on that. I’m impatient with impatiens, and every other type of plant. I want the flowers, and I want them now! But there’s something else. There seems to be some sort of mysterious communion between seed, hand, water and dirt that I’ve not been made privy to.
Enter my seven year-old daughter, YuYu. She’s like me. She loves plants, but she doesn’t really want to work at it. Why should she? She’s seven. She’s never seen all the work that goes into her Nana’s garden or Aunt Sara’s back yard. She just sees the results and knows she likes it. Fine and dandy. Kindred spirit, we two.
Early this spring, she found an old gourd leftover from Halloween decorations. How I’d missed it, I don’t know. I haven’t a clue what kind of gourd it was, just that it was old, withered and sounding like a great maraca. YuYu decided to crack it open and look at the seeds. Seven year-old curiosity strikes again.
She set her sights on our front yard flowerbed. Barren except for the stalks of tulip plants whose flowers are yearly devoured by whichever nocturnal animal passes by, she dug a tiny hole and threw in a handful of seeds. Sweet innocence. I tried to prepare her for the fact that they would not grow. Squirrels, deer, birds, rabbits or raccoons, all who live in the general vicinity of our front yard, would get at them as soon as we turned our back. The sun would dry them out. The cold snaps and snow that hit in April would destroy them. No rain, too much rain, we didn’t tend them enough. Maybe I laid it on a bit thick, but I wanted to prepare her for disappointment.
About a month ago, the yard decided to get back at me. The gourds started to grow. One tiny plant at first, then more and more. It looks as if all the seeds have sprouted and have taken over a part of our yard. They’ve grown out of the flowerbed and are now creeping across the lawn. They’re growing higher, and longer and bigger than anything I’ve ever planted in my life. And they’re laughing at me. Every tendril that snakes out seems to be wagging its finger, or stem, at me saying “nyah, nyah – even a seven-year-old can do it!”
Tonight, as I was out watering this behemoth of vegetables, I started to hear something else. Not a laughing at me (well, maybe just a snicker), but a rejoicing that someone else just may have stumbled upon that mystery, that communion, between earth, plant and human. This plant, lifting its leaves to the heavens that, once again, in a new generation, there’s someone with that special spark of magic and caring that can bring forth new life from the earth.
Now, as I figure out how to let this thing grow without losing half the lawn, I can look at my daughter as having blessed the gourds, and having been blessed by them in return.
So, what does one do with a yard full of gourds?
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September 1, 2008
A Full Cup
A woman I know died suddenly last week. She was a former student of mine, and she wasn't that much older than me, maybe ten years. I'm saddened by her death, and thoughtful of her life and my own.
From what I know of Leslie, she had a good marriage, raised wonderful boys, found a fulfilling career, was very involved in her spiritual community, was ever learning and growing, and had a circle of friends that extended outward until the day she died. I'm sure her memorial service will be packed.
She once gave me a cup, a coffee mug, which I have always treasured. It's a beautiful hand-made cup from Mexico, depicting the faces of women - one of those wonderfully artsy gifts you get from cool friends. I was looking at the cup again last night, thinking of Leslie, and about all that cup means. There’s the obvious – a cup holds water or liquid, necessary for life. It’s a vessel that gives and doesn’t take. It’s a cup of friendship, the symbol of a bond between two women and a time they shared together.
For me, it also symbolizes transitions – I was working on closing the door to teaching, she was coming back in. I was adopting our second child, she was sending her youngest to college. I was going back into music, something I’d longed to do for many years, she was going back into the working world full-time, wanting to give back to the community she had learned from.
As women, we have so many facets of our lives, so many faces that we show to the world, and so many we keep hidden. I was honored to see a few of her faces, and she, mine. I hadn’t seen her in a few years, but I have always thought of her with great warmth and every time we ran into each other it was a delightful surprise.
So this great coffee mug, which has always sat in a prominent place in my office, full of Chinese money, political pins, pictures of my children, and ticket stubs of long ago concerts, is a cup of memories. It’s full to the brim and overflowing with everything good. When I see it, I’ll think of Leslie, and my life, and I’ll smile. She was a good woman, and she has added to the richness of my journey.
I can only hope that somewhere out there, someone is looking at something I’ve given to them and thinking of me with warmth, with loving memories, and smiling.
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November 20, 2007
Entertaining Angels Unaware
I have been thinking a lot about two phrases for the past three days.
“Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren, you do unto me.” (Matthew 25:40)
“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares". (Hebrews 13:2)
Yes, they’re both passages from the new testament, but I’m sure that in any texts of religious philosophy about the treatment of others I were to look at, the core message of regarding others with kindness, love, respect and dignity would shine through.
I experienced this message first-hand last weekend down in Georgia, sharing two days of grief, anger, renewal and hope with almost 25,000 other people in front of the gates of Fort Benning. For the 18th year, we went to call for the closing of the School of the Americas (now called the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation – WHINSEC). Without taking up pages to explain why we were there, the short answer is that these 25,000, and many, many more around the world, believe that the people of Latin America have the right to be treated with kindness, love, respect and dignity. They believe that the US government shouldn’t be training the military, military police and civilian police of Latin American countries to use torture, rape, kidnapping, murder and massacre as a way to control their people. That the foreign policy interests of the US should not be upheld by armed soldiers destroying villages, killing men, women and children, and spreading a reign of terror among those peoples around the world who are not in the upper echelon of big business or government, all in the name of national security. (For more information about last weekend and the work to close the SOA, please go to the School of the Americas Watch website)
My experience, however, wasn’t global. While I was there to support a change that could affect the world over, the angels I speak of were personal. Those incredible, in your face, I-love-you-even-if-you-don’t-know-who-I-am type of angels.
I was on the stage, interpreting, and I started feeling poorly, lightheaded. I was able to get the attention of my partner who raced back to switch with me so the interpretation could continue. As I walked off the stage, I mentioned to someone that I didn’t feel well. That’s all it took. These phenomenal, loving strangers swept into action. Lovely Elise brought me over to a chair, cooling my face and neck with water. A man, whose name I later learned was Jean-Jacques, was immediately at my side with a soothing balm to massage into my arms, my neck, my face. Another woman whose name I still do not know came to do the same, and to bring me healing energy. Sandy, Jennie, Peggy and Laurie came to offer food, remedies and encouragement. John, Pat, Holly, Tor, Anne and I’m sure about ten others came to offer a hug and a kind word. They stayed with me, rubbed my back, let me sit quietly, sang to me, healed me with their loving kindness. Me, a stranger. I sat there being ministered to by those who I can only call angels.
Back out front, the speeches and songs recalled for the 25,000 the horror of atrocities done by a number of the graduates of the SOA. Survivors of torture spoke out. Mothers of children who were disappeared spoke out. Family members of those who were murdered spoke out. But through it all, there was the message of hope. The message that if there are this many people in the world who say no to violence, torture, war and killing, that maybe there can be a change on the horizon.
The next day, we all walked together to the gates of Fort Benning and placed white crosses, with the names and ages of the victims of the atrocities, into the closest of the three barbed-wire topped fences that had been erected to keep us out. All these strangers, carrying the names of strangers, coming together to remember, to memorialize, to mourn, and to carry away a sense of hope and renewal. Together, we knew we could go forward and work for change. We walked by each other as we processed to the gates, and all I could see was the goodness of these ordinary people.
And there it was again. That palpable feeling of loving kindness, spread over a quarter-mile road filled with thousands of people. This time it wasn’t a love for me, personally. It was a love for humanity. That in your face I-love-you-because-you’re-my-brother-and-sister, we’re-all-in-this-together type of thing that has nothing to do with singing “kum by yah” and has more to do with understanding that people are people are people. We’re one of them, so whatever we do to others, we do to ourselves.
People are people are people, unless they’re angels.
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October 28, 2007
A friend and I were out listening to the Don Stiernberg Trio. Jazz, Swing, Bluegrass, Folk, Reggae – they played it all. And more. We were sitting in the back, being absolutely blown away by their talent. These three guys on mandolin, upright bass and guitar. Whenever I hear good music like that, I have to move, have to do something physical with the energy of the music. Tap my foot, jig my legs, sway, drum out the beat. Then came a Django Reinhardt tune. My friend turned to me and said “Do you dance?” That was it. We were the only two up, over on the side by the water glasses, dancing to the tune. He said it best – “There are some tunes you just have to dance to.” So, here was another person like me, who can’t just sit still and must go where the music takes him.
A few days earlier, I had been giving a lecture on the impact of deafness to parents of deaf children (part of my day job). Evelyn Glennie, the deaf percussionist from Scotland, came up in the discussion. That night, on a whim, I Googled her name and found some videos of her work on YouTube. There she was, giving a lecture on “How to Listen to Music With Your Whole Body.” Here’s this phenomenal talent who has perfected the art of listening in the way that I have felt was right since I was small, but could never have articulated so beautifully. Music should be listened to with the body, the whole body, and not just the ears. Music is meant to felt!
Then, a couple of days ago, a professor of psychology and music, Daniel Levitin, wrote an Op Ed piece for the New York Times. “Dancing In The Seats” is about how our brains are wired to feel the music, and that sitting passively while listening to music is actually not the ‘norm’ for humans. In many cultures, music and movement are inextricably tied. We are meant to have a physical reaction to music – we’re meant to move!
So here’s this message repeated to me in three very different ways, all in the span of a week. The relationship of music and the physical.
I spent probably a third of my life involved with dance. Lessons, recitals, dance troupes, musical theatre. To look at me now you wouldn’t know that, but it still influences my reaction to music. Dancers get it instinctively. Of course music is meant to be felt, to be listened to with the whole body, that we’re meant to move. Of course. And they look at the rest of us wondering why this is such a difficult concept to grasp.
But now, I’m not a dancer. I’m a folk singer. I stand up in front of people, alone with my guitar, and sing my songs. And people sit quietly, listening politely, often enthusiastically, laughing, singing, sometimes a tear in their eyes. And then I’ll see someone moving, swaying along, and I know I’ve spotted a kindred soul.
So my friend and I, Evelyn Glennie, dancers, and all the other folks I know who can’t sit still, aren’t odd, at least about this. We let ourselves get transported by the music. Carried away, literally, to a place of physicality, of movement, expressing outwardly all that the music evokes inwardly. And it’s what humans are meant to do.
But to those of you who sit quietly in your seats – I see you. You may not get up and dance, you may not jig around until you’re almost falling out of your chair, but I see you. Your eyes close. Your head moves slightly with the beat. A finger taps lightly on the table in front of you. You give your partner a squeeze. I see the music in you. You smile or frown with what you’re hearing. It’s affecting you. And that’s the goal of the music. Of all music. To transport you to that place of feeling, instead of just listening.
The Life of Violet Rose Jack, or the Miracle of 8 year-olds
Violet Rose Jack came into our lives on July 5, 2010. At that time, we didn't know if Jack was a Jack or Violet was a Violet, so our 8 year-old naturalist decided to call it Jack-Violet. J-V (for short) was a very small caterpillar living in a clear plastic cup with a coffee filter lid and milkweed leaves for sustenance. YuYu loved this caterpillar from day one. Every morning she would check on J-V and make sure s/he had a new leaf. She even cleaned out the caterpillar poop (a new one for me - I never knew caterpillars could poop so much)!. Every night before she went to bed, there had to be one last look at J-V to make sure s/he was comfortable. There were also the various checks during the day.
One evening when I was out, I called home and was greeted with, "Good news! Good news!! J-V has crawled to the top and is now in a 'J', so the chrysalis is next!!" She wanted to set up the video camera to make sure we didn't miss a step of the journey of Jack-Violet. That didn't happen, and sure enough, the next morning there was a bright green chrysalis attached to the coffee filter. It was made clear to me that Mom should have listened to the 8 yr. old naturalist. I'll forever be guilty of missing the filming of J-V turning into a chrysalis. It's a guilt I'll just have to bear.
Repeated checking of the plastic cup and coffee filter showed the bright green chrysalis hanging on. We left well enough alone and didn't touch the filter or the half-eaten leaf in the cup. Didn't want to disturb our lovely J-V when s/he was working her or his hardest! Impatience growing, repeated requests for the movie camera to be set up when the chrysalis turned dark, repeated checking.
Fast forward to last Sunday, 7/18. Mom trying to pull herself together to get out the door to the Woodstock Folk Festival. "IT'S DARK!!!!!!" comes the yell. The chrysalis had gone dark, which was the clue that s/he would be emerging soon. The paper said it would happen the day before s/he emerged. So there was plenty of time to set up the movie camera, right mom?? Well, it wasn't going to happen, but I grabbed my camera and we started snapping some pictures to capture the moment.
As we sat there, staring at this dark little blob attached to a white coffee-filter, excited by what was to come the next day, little naturalist started jumping up and down. "It's moving!!!!!!" "It's cracking!!!" And there it was. This UGLY little black blob poking its way out of its shell. I couldn't imagine for the life of me how this misshapen thing was going to turn into a beautiful, full-winged monarch butterfly.
Well, this took precedence over everything. Of course I had to get to a festival, of course I had some errands to do, of course I needed to take a shower to be presentable in public, but all that was lost to the moment. There was a butterfly being born and an 8 yr. old whose eyes were shining brighter than I've ever seen before in all her short life. We sat and watched J-V as s/he stretched out her wings to change from a black blob into a magnificent monarch. It's then that YuYu could confidently exclaim, "It's a Violet!" As to how she knew it was a female monarch, I give all credit and honor to second grade teacher Mrs. Bebber. We are forever in your debt.
We sat and watched as she started to spread her wings. But, as often happens in life, there was an obstruction. The leaf. Over the last ten days it had gone from a supple milkweed leaf giving sustenance to an ever-growing caterpillar to a dried, autumnal, immobile, miniature monolith, not giving in to the insistence of the fairy-light wings of the newborn monarch. The flapping of Violet's wings grew less and less. We started to worry that our desire to not intrude upon the sleeping J-V would be the death-knell of Violet. Butterflies need to spread their wings and flap or the wings will stick together and they won't be able to fly. And they'll die.
The instructions on our caterpillar-to-butterfly paper said that after the wings had dried, it should be moved to a flowering plant within six hours so it can start to feed. We were unprepared. Being the incredibly inept gardener that I am, I had no flowering plants at all in the yard. Off to the store where nature-girl picked out a simple daisy plant. Also were some frank discussions about the cycle of life, how sometimes, even with our best efforts, our loved ones do not survive, and how we will do everything we can to make sure Violet can go free. Stoically, she walked through the Dominick's with her plant, determined to do her best by her pet.
By the way, the naming of Violet Rose Jack was explained to me thusly, "Violet, because she was always Violet; Rose - because it's my middle name; and Jack, a good last name if there ever was one."
Daisy purchased, plastic cup and the not-yet wing flapping bug in hand, we were off to the outside deck to see if we could save Violet. The ever-so-careful transfer of a new-born butterfly from coffee filter to daisy. The silence. The waiting.
THERE IT WAS! Her wings started moving and she grabbed onto the petals of the daisy, very much alive! She flapped and rested, flapped and rested, all the while a little girl was encouraging her along. Even after I went in to get ready to leave, she was out there, singing to her Violet (to the tune of the William Tell Overture):
"Flap your wings, flap your wings, flap your wings wings wings,
flap your wings, flap your wings, flap your wings wings wings,
flap your wings, flap your wings, flap your wings wings wings,
Ohhh, flap your wings."
And flap she did. She flapped, she grew more sure of herself, and then she flew, up into the tree. A brisk wind came along and she held on. What a strong butterfly she is! And as the wind died down, the shining-eyed 8 yr. old bade good-bye to her beloved Violet as she headed off to start her life as a full-fledged, incredibly beautiful, forever loved monarch butterfly.
And I got to witness it all. The miraculous birth of a butterfly, which in my fifty years I had never beheld, and the incredible wonder, determination and love for a bug by an 8 yr. old. It still brings tears to my eyes. It was an honor, a privilege, and a mystery to have shared. I have been blessed.
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July 1, 2009
Revenge of the Gourds
My hands are the kiss of death. If you happen to have chlorophyll running through your veins and you see me looking your way, head for the hills. I’m all black thumb and I’m willing to admit it. Ask my lawn. Ask the empty flowerbeds screaming for life. To be honest, I’ve probably built up a pretty good layer of mulch and compost from all the plants, bushes, and flowers that have withered and died in our one-third acre of horror.
I can sing. I can play the guitar, write a decent song, and I’ll square off at twenty paces in an interpreting duel any time. I love all plants and flowers. So why has it come down to my guilt-ridden mass murdering of all things growing every spring and summer?
But still, I persevere. My mother is a renowned gardener, having been featured in Better Homes and Gardens for her natural prairie plant gardens and living labyrinth. My sister can make anything grow from the tiniest of cuttings and in less than a month it’ll be full of foliage and fruit. That might be a slight exaggeration, but they’re both definitely in the green thumb club. I have their genes. I’m a good person. Shouldn’t that be enough?
You and I both know it isn’t. As my friend Audrey reminded me when I was mourning the most recent flats of impatiens I had massacred, it takes time. It takes hard work. I’ll give on that. I’m impatient with impatiens, and every other type of plant. I want the flowers, and I want them now! But there’s something else. There seems to be some sort of mysterious communion between seed, hand, water and dirt that I’ve not been made privy to.
Enter my seven year-old daughter, YuYu. She’s like me. She loves plants, but she doesn’t really want to work at it. Why should she? She’s seven. She’s never seen all the work that goes into her Nana’s garden or Aunt Sara’s back yard. She just sees the results and knows she likes it. Fine and dandy. Kindred spirit, we two.
Early this spring, she found an old gourd leftover from Halloween decorations. How I’d missed it, I don’t know. I haven’t a clue what kind of gourd it was, just that it was old, withered and sounding like a great maraca. YuYu decided to crack it open and look at the seeds. Seven year-old curiosity strikes again.
She set her sights on our front yard flowerbed. Barren except for the stalks of tulip plants whose flowers are yearly devoured by whichever nocturnal animal passes by, she dug a tiny hole and threw in a handful of seeds. Sweet innocence. I tried to prepare her for the fact that they would not grow. Squirrels, deer, birds, rabbits or raccoons, all who live in the general vicinity of our front yard, would get at them as soon as we turned our back. The sun would dry them out. The cold snaps and snow that hit in April would destroy them. No rain, too much rain, we didn’t tend them enough. Maybe I laid it on a bit thick, but I wanted to prepare her for disappointment.
About a month ago, the yard decided to get back at me. The gourds started to grow. One tiny plant at first, then more and more. It looks as if all the seeds have sprouted and have taken over a part of our yard. They’ve grown out of the flowerbed and are now creeping across the lawn. They’re growing higher, and longer and bigger than anything I’ve ever planted in my life. And they’re laughing at me. Every tendril that snakes out seems to be wagging its finger, or stem, at me saying “nyah, nyah – even a seven-year-old can do it!”
Tonight, as I was out watering this behemoth of vegetables, I started to hear something else. Not a laughing at me (well, maybe just a snicker), but a rejoicing that someone else just may have stumbled upon that mystery, that communion, between earth, plant and human. This plant, lifting its leaves to the heavens that, once again, in a new generation, there’s someone with that special spark of magic and caring that can bring forth new life from the earth.
Now, as I figure out how to let this thing grow without losing half the lawn, I can look at my daughter as having blessed the gourds, and having been blessed by them in return.
So, what does one do with a yard full of gourds?
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September 1, 2008
A Full Cup
A woman I know died suddenly last week. She was a former student of mine, and she wasn't that much older than me, maybe ten years. I'm saddened by her death, and thoughtful of her life and my own.
From what I know of Leslie, she had a good marriage, raised wonderful boys, found a fulfilling career, was very involved in her spiritual community, was ever learning and growing, and had a circle of friends that extended outward until the day she died. I'm sure her memorial service will be packed.
She once gave me a cup, a coffee mug, which I have always treasured. It's a beautiful hand-made cup from Mexico, depicting the faces of women - one of those wonderfully artsy gifts you get from cool friends. I was looking at the cup again last night, thinking of Leslie, and about all that cup means. There’s the obvious – a cup holds water or liquid, necessary for life. It’s a vessel that gives and doesn’t take. It’s a cup of friendship, the symbol of a bond between two women and a time they shared together.
For me, it also symbolizes transitions – I was working on closing the door to teaching, she was coming back in. I was adopting our second child, she was sending her youngest to college. I was going back into music, something I’d longed to do for many years, she was going back into the working world full-time, wanting to give back to the community she had learned from.
As women, we have so many facets of our lives, so many faces that we show to the world, and so many we keep hidden. I was honored to see a few of her faces, and she, mine. I hadn’t seen her in a few years, but I have always thought of her with great warmth and every time we ran into each other it was a delightful surprise.
So this great coffee mug, which has always sat in a prominent place in my office, full of Chinese money, political pins, pictures of my children, and ticket stubs of long ago concerts, is a cup of memories. It’s full to the brim and overflowing with everything good. When I see it, I’ll think of Leslie, and my life, and I’ll smile. She was a good woman, and she has added to the richness of my journey.
I can only hope that somewhere out there, someone is looking at something I’ve given to them and thinking of me with warmth, with loving memories, and smiling.
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November 20, 2007
Entertaining Angels Unaware
I have been thinking a lot about two phrases for the past three days.
“Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren, you do unto me.” (Matthew 25:40)
“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares". (Hebrews 13:2)
Yes, they’re both passages from the new testament, but I’m sure that in any texts of religious philosophy about the treatment of others I were to look at, the core message of regarding others with kindness, love, respect and dignity would shine through.
I experienced this message first-hand last weekend down in Georgia, sharing two days of grief, anger, renewal and hope with almost 25,000 other people in front of the gates of Fort Benning. For the 18th year, we went to call for the closing of the School of the Americas (now called the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation – WHINSEC). Without taking up pages to explain why we were there, the short answer is that these 25,000, and many, many more around the world, believe that the people of Latin America have the right to be treated with kindness, love, respect and dignity. They believe that the US government shouldn’t be training the military, military police and civilian police of Latin American countries to use torture, rape, kidnapping, murder and massacre as a way to control their people. That the foreign policy interests of the US should not be upheld by armed soldiers destroying villages, killing men, women and children, and spreading a reign of terror among those peoples around the world who are not in the upper echelon of big business or government, all in the name of national security. (For more information about last weekend and the work to close the SOA, please go to the School of the Americas Watch website)
My experience, however, wasn’t global. While I was there to support a change that could affect the world over, the angels I speak of were personal. Those incredible, in your face, I-love-you-even-if-you-don’t-know-who-I-am type of angels.
I was on the stage, interpreting, and I started feeling poorly, lightheaded. I was able to get the attention of my partner who raced back to switch with me so the interpretation could continue. As I walked off the stage, I mentioned to someone that I didn’t feel well. That’s all it took. These phenomenal, loving strangers swept into action. Lovely Elise brought me over to a chair, cooling my face and neck with water. A man, whose name I later learned was Jean-Jacques, was immediately at my side with a soothing balm to massage into my arms, my neck, my face. Another woman whose name I still do not know came to do the same, and to bring me healing energy. Sandy, Jennie, Peggy and Laurie came to offer food, remedies and encouragement. John, Pat, Holly, Tor, Anne and I’m sure about ten others came to offer a hug and a kind word. They stayed with me, rubbed my back, let me sit quietly, sang to me, healed me with their loving kindness. Me, a stranger. I sat there being ministered to by those who I can only call angels.
Back out front, the speeches and songs recalled for the 25,000 the horror of atrocities done by a number of the graduates of the SOA. Survivors of torture spoke out. Mothers of children who were disappeared spoke out. Family members of those who were murdered spoke out. But through it all, there was the message of hope. The message that if there are this many people in the world who say no to violence, torture, war and killing, that maybe there can be a change on the horizon.
The next day, we all walked together to the gates of Fort Benning and placed white crosses, with the names and ages of the victims of the atrocities, into the closest of the three barbed-wire topped fences that had been erected to keep us out. All these strangers, carrying the names of strangers, coming together to remember, to memorialize, to mourn, and to carry away a sense of hope and renewal. Together, we knew we could go forward and work for change. We walked by each other as we processed to the gates, and all I could see was the goodness of these ordinary people.
And there it was again. That palpable feeling of loving kindness, spread over a quarter-mile road filled with thousands of people. This time it wasn’t a love for me, personally. It was a love for humanity. That in your face I-love-you-because-you’re-my-brother-and-sister, we’re-all-in-this-together type of thing that has nothing to do with singing “kum by yah” and has more to do with understanding that people are people are people. We’re one of them, so whatever we do to others, we do to ourselves.
People are people are people, unless they’re angels.
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October 28, 2007
A friend and I were out listening to the Don Stiernberg Trio. Jazz, Swing, Bluegrass, Folk, Reggae – they played it all. And more. We were sitting in the back, being absolutely blown away by their talent. These three guys on mandolin, upright bass and guitar. Whenever I hear good music like that, I have to move, have to do something physical with the energy of the music. Tap my foot, jig my legs, sway, drum out the beat. Then came a Django Reinhardt tune. My friend turned to me and said “Do you dance?” That was it. We were the only two up, over on the side by the water glasses, dancing to the tune. He said it best – “There are some tunes you just have to dance to.” So, here was another person like me, who can’t just sit still and must go where the music takes him.
A few days earlier, I had been giving a lecture on the impact of deafness to parents of deaf children (part of my day job). Evelyn Glennie, the deaf percussionist from Scotland, came up in the discussion. That night, on a whim, I Googled her name and found some videos of her work on YouTube. There she was, giving a lecture on “How to Listen to Music With Your Whole Body.” Here’s this phenomenal talent who has perfected the art of listening in the way that I have felt was right since I was small, but could never have articulated so beautifully. Music should be listened to with the body, the whole body, and not just the ears. Music is meant to felt!
Then, a couple of days ago, a professor of psychology and music, Daniel Levitin, wrote an Op Ed piece for the New York Times. “Dancing In The Seats” is about how our brains are wired to feel the music, and that sitting passively while listening to music is actually not the ‘norm’ for humans. In many cultures, music and movement are inextricably tied. We are meant to have a physical reaction to music – we’re meant to move!
So here’s this message repeated to me in three very different ways, all in the span of a week. The relationship of music and the physical.
I spent probably a third of my life involved with dance. Lessons, recitals, dance troupes, musical theatre. To look at me now you wouldn’t know that, but it still influences my reaction to music. Dancers get it instinctively. Of course music is meant to be felt, to be listened to with the whole body, that we’re meant to move. Of course. And they look at the rest of us wondering why this is such a difficult concept to grasp.
But now, I’m not a dancer. I’m a folk singer. I stand up in front of people, alone with my guitar, and sing my songs. And people sit quietly, listening politely, often enthusiastically, laughing, singing, sometimes a tear in their eyes. And then I’ll see someone moving, swaying along, and I know I’ve spotted a kindred soul.
So my friend and I, Evelyn Glennie, dancers, and all the other folks I know who can’t sit still, aren’t odd, at least about this. We let ourselves get transported by the music. Carried away, literally, to a place of physicality, of movement, expressing outwardly all that the music evokes inwardly. And it’s what humans are meant to do.
But to those of you who sit quietly in your seats – I see you. You may not get up and dance, you may not jig around until you’re almost falling out of your chair, but I see you. Your eyes close. Your head moves slightly with the beat. A finger taps lightly on the table in front of you. You give your partner a squeeze. I see the music in you. You smile or frown with what you’re hearing. It’s affecting you. And that’s the goal of the music. Of all music. To transport you to that place of feeling, instead of just listening.
