Metaphor of the Trees
I was thinking this weekend of the metaphor of the trees: those that cover the lower peaks of the White Mountains, their roots knitted together like fingers knotted in prayer
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Windows – 3
Lonny was the product of big energy and tiny town, where the limitations imposed by three square blocks of homes — an Alcatraz adrift on an ocean of unswimmable wheat — fueled the kind of incendiary pressure that could only come out wrong. Even back then, when I was eight and Lonny was nine, his …
Jazz
Recently someone asked me about the form of dance I practice — the form I aspire to, really; and like all good forms it is small enough for me to wrap my arms around, large enough to contain my curiosity, lean enough that an evening costs a few dollars and yields a fortune, full enough …
Our Daily Dance: An Intention
I returned late last night from the annual Dance New England summer camp near Lake Ossipee in New Hampshire, and woke this morning with dancing tape still on a couple of toes, the echo of taut and trained muscle still in the sinews, and the ache of separation from that vibrant and affectionate community of dancers already wringing out …
Soliloquoys
I. Our Daily Dance The waning moon has this hour turned above the crowns of trees, and spilled its liquid light into the yard. So this evening is accompanied by a shadow of sun's heat. The same moon that years and years ago was torn from earth's belly, born from her and borne away …
The Way West
Flying out of the east in splendor the silver beauty of the wings, oh beauty poised and driving like twin knives, and all those migratory lives depending, as it happened, on the magic of rivets and steel webs and pilots immune to fear — so be …
November
Here’s the canvas of the heart: streaked with tears, warm rain that melts before it reaches skin, the ice it was contained within undone by sun.
Mr. Now
At a birthday party the other night. A glass of wine, a meal, a toast, easy talk, genial anecdotes, a circle of laughter, good night. Somewhere along the thread of a conversation, one of the party-goers mentioned (wistfully, patiently, perhaps resignedly) that she was wondering when she would find "Mister Right". Anyone with some measure of intimacy with their own …
Gota de luz
Some words seem to be born of an inner and shared light… For me they may arrive after the stillness of meditation; but just as often the softest and most human words are accompanied or are led by a melody. All creation is frequency, is a movement of waves, from the highest vibrations of quasars …