•the whole point•

"Whoa. I'm getting energy from this girl. The girl who is singing."

(We are listening to classical music on the radio. No singing.)
(I guess the musicians are singing. Through their instruments.)

"I'm a tiny snowflake. When I listen to this music, I turn--the tiny snowflake turns-- into a frog!"

•playing along•

Happy weekend to all!
xox

[This post is part of a tag-you're-it game, designed by Amanda Blake Soule. Please check out her moment, and discover the beautiful world of the Soules!]

•the art of art•

(In which our heroine spares us, please, the definition.)

I'm thinking today (a period there would be so funny) that my songs are the greatest gifts I've ever given myself. Bear in mind, I have spent *more* time wishing those songs didn't exist... but. At some point, a person does manage to shove aside her own internal censor (oh, move OVER!). At some point, a person does manage to be in the moment, to let things go, to see what there is to be seen. It's just art.* There, in the world, for us, for anyone and everyone (for ever and ever, amen).

Yesterday: I was reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Then I found my music on Pandora. Then I picked up my toddler by bike in the shimmering sunlight, and on our ride home we watched sheep, racing in their paddock. We picked kumquats, and ate every last one. We went to dinner (brussels sprouts, pasta, cake), and the adults talked about blank space in literature.

Today: I played my fancy guitar for the first time in months. My fingers knew where to go. My voice knows the words, still. My horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the deep and drifting snow.

xox

* This reminds me of a magnet my aunt Jane gave me. It's a cartoon of two obese women, huddled over a whole blueberry pie, with the caption, "It's only fruit." That, in turn, reminds me of a particular cooking-class evaluation from work. It was written by a teenage girl, "Instructor should be more relaxed. It's chocolate! CALM DOWN."

p.s. It's art, no matter what we do. (Couldn't resist a definition, after all.)

•on collections•

When you get a bunch of things together, don't you just love looking at the set? So many sets in our lives. Leaves on the ground, under a tree. Mushrooms poking up. Fog, seeking nooks and crannies. Visible stars.

We spend so much of our lives arranging and rearranging. Clustering, to make sense. How exactly I got the hang of it, the ability to regard things as whole, I will never know. (Just because I have the hang of it doesn't mean I can always move on. I'll still be tetris-ing certain "sets" for years to come...) Almost everything in life is unfinished. Incomplete. In my early thinking years, I heard this a lot: such-and-such is never finished, only abandoned. I heard those words, and understood they were important, and still--I was dissatisfied with everything I did. Every project, every flippin' cairn. Nothing was ever good enough, nothing "done." My censor was so very, very loud, it's a wonder I'm not deaf today.

Now, I dump out the contents of my green bag (dare I call it a purse?) and marvel at the bits and bobs. Sand. Empty jars of orange peel and cardamom. Sharpies (that's where they went!). A walnut. A cloth napkin, featuring a duck in a shiny red helmet. An uncharacteristic bottle of hand sanitizer. Gathered together, they make a whole. A snapshot. Some kind of story, someone's actual life. I see the set--and, mind you, it's just a pile of crap I'm talking about--and I see that it's complete. As done as done can ever be. Maybe this is a piece of the action/non-action paradigm. Wu wei.

So, I've got some Zen going on, here. About as much Zen as one can pack into a pile o crap with no less than five--5--different lip balms. Huh. This really turns my former aw-shucks-I-suck attitude toward things like, say, my recorded music, on its ear. If I can empty a bag and find magic in crumpled receipts, then.... I can certainly put on an old album and love it for what it is. A set. A snapshot. A done thing, wholly separate from my self, with a life all its own. xox

•of use•

Spent the morning giving advice to a young songwriter. Reminiscing, really, over cappuccino. Like a washed-up rocker. "How'd you do it?" She clutched her espresso. Giving advice makes me cringe, but it's tradition. Ritual. It's how I got here. Someone told me I could.

It's good to feel useful. Even if I am rusty. And the tide is coming in. Fast. xox