My friend Sheila Lees sent me this image and quote.

Many years ago I studied with dancers Eiko & Koma.  They were the first to introduce me to the idea of extraordinary beauty in what is imperfect, damaged, ruined.  We would move as if we were both wilting and blooming at the same time, like the haiku that describes a plum blossom at the end of a broken branch.

I feel that during the last month, I have been filling the cracks in my relationship with my oldest daughter with gold. It feels like a way of celebrating the wisdom gained from breaking.  Like marking the place where change happened, where learning happened.

 

 

 

My dear friend and colleague Ingrid Schatz gave me this.

“You have been telling the people that this is the Eleventh Hour, now you must go back and tell the people that this is THE HOUR.

And there are things to be considered…

Where are you living?

What are you doing?

What are your relationships?

Are you in right relation?

Where is your water?

Know your garden.

It is time to speak your Truth.

Create your community.

Be good to each other.

And do not look outside yourself for the leader.

Then he clasped his hands together, smiled, and said, “This could be a good time! There is a river flowing now very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and will suffer greatly. Know the river has its destination. The elders say we must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open, and our heads above the water. And I say, see who is in there with you and celebrate.

At this time in history, we are to take nothing personally. Least of all, ourselves. For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

The time of the lone wolf is over. Gather yourselves! Banish the word struggle from your attitude and your vocabulary. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

Oraibi, Arizona Hopi Nation

This morning over tea, Pam talked about improvisation.  About moving from one place to another unexpectedly, taking a fresh perspective, sitting where you don’t usually sit, walking in a different pathway around the house, outside of the house, driving a different route.

Improvisation is, of course, my favorite subject.  As I started to write this, I improvised by taking my camera outside and capturing the flowers that are blooming in my summer garden.  Yesterday, when I rode the lovely Sanne (the Friesian whose name means Lily, even though he is a boy), I improvised with halts and breathing, and conscious softening.  It felt like a meditation conversation between our two bodies and breaths.

Today, this poem was in my inbox.  It seems a perfect invitation for the day, for a life.

All the Hemispheres
by Hafiz

Leave the familiar for a while.
Let your senses and bodies stretch out

Like a welcomed season
Onto the meadows and shores and hills.

Open up to the Roof.
Make a new water-mark on your excitement
And love.

Like a blooming night flower,
Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness
And giving
Upon our intimate assembly.

Change rooms in your mind for a day.

All the hemispheres in existence
Lie beside an equator
In your heart.

Greet Yourself
In your thousand other forms
As you mount the hidden tide and travel
Back home.

All the hemispheres in heaven
Are sitting around a fire
Chatting

While stitching themselves together
Into the Great Circle inside of
You.

I saw these rocks walking on Philbin beach on Martha’s Vineyard last week.  I have been thinking about balance – about the dynamic, fluid, elusive quality of balance – emotional, physical, relational – about finding it, losing it, finding it again.  I am interested in the way that each action or event in our lives creates a series of reactions and corrections – a relentless, inevitable experience of fall and recovery.

When I was just starting to study movement and somatics, it was a revelation to discover that the simple act of walking was about falling out of and regaining balance.  I am curious about how much work I invest in not falling.  And what is falling?  Failure? Loss? Disappointment?  Fear?

Our oldest daughter’s announcement of an unexpected, unwanted (by us) pregnancy and subsequent TOTAL recalibration of her life path and our careful plans for her was a big fall. (An old AA joke:  Want to know how to make God laugh?  Tell him your plans.)

I wrote this in my journal a few weeks ago:  We are here.  She is poised at the precipice.  She stumbles, her body jerks and then her feet leave the ground and she is in freefall.  We stand below, watching her plummet.  I pray.  Is there a moment when falling becomes flight?

Yesterday we bought her the first little onesie and a couple pieces of clothing to accommodate her growing belly.  We are planning a wedding.  She is happy.  Over the weeks, we as a family are stumbling and teetering toward a new and unexpected balance, one which feels to me like flight, like swimming, like faith.