We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it. The missing plays of Sophocles will turn up piece by piece, or be written again in another language. Ancient cures for diseases will reveal themselves once more. Mathematical discoveries glimpsed and lost to view will have their time again. You do not suppose, my lady, that if all of Archimedes had been hiding in the great library of Alexandria, we would be at a loss for a corkscrew?

Isn’t that just lovely, and true?

i do love my city. it's heartbreakingly beautiful.

And today I had one of those experiences that are not at all uncommon for me. It’s bitterly cold, and I was about 20 minutes early for an appointment. There was no Starbucks in the neighborhood (what???! No Starbucks in the neighborhood???), but there was a Dunkin Donuts, so I stopped in and bought a small coffee so I could justify sitting at their little table in the window. I was very cold, and the coffee smelled so good, and I sat in the sunlight, smelling the coffee, and looking out the window at the very bright light bouncing off the skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan. I saw the people curled into commas, hunched inside their thick coats against the cold, walking so fast down the sidewalk. And then it hit me, how beautiful the world is, how beautiful the constructed world is, how beautiful the natural world is, how touching it is that we all walk past each other with our struggles and joys, how beautiful winter is, against the other seasons, and I started crying. I felt cracked open by the world, as I often do. I thought “Cracked open in Dunkin Donuts” and that sounded like some kind of nutty short story. And I laughed.

The concert featured Paul Winter on his saxophone, of course, and there was a singer and a guy who played the thumb drum (brilliantly!), and The Force of Nature Dance Theater. This video will give you the full flavor, but don’t miss the rest of the post:

When we first arrived, I wasn’t feeling the magic I felt last year — the magic of the solstice, of that one moment when the night is so long and we wait for the light. But the space went dark and I heard that first note, and I slipped into the magic, happily. The show opened with a call and response sequence that was amazing, in a space like the Cathedral of St John the Divine (which is the largest cathedral in the world, and the 4th largest Christian church in the world). The opening moment was Paul Winter playing from a niche high up on the back wall, and someone playing the response on the far opposite wall (whom we couldn’t even see). Back and forth they played, and then the pipe organ began a call and response with an organ on the far end. The one at the back is one of the most powerful organs in the world, and when it plays it plays, boy. That series felt something like noise calling creation into being, since the space was so dark. I love a good call and response, so it was a lovely way to open the show.

The program didn’t list the names of songs so I can’t name anything, but the second song Paul Winter played left me crying. Without knowing the song’s title, and since it didn’t have words, I may have totally missed the point of the song from the creator’s perspective, but it sang to me of goodbye. At first, as I listened, I thought it was about goodbye to the year — makes sense, given the context — but I realized it’s about all goodbyes, about the sweetness of goodbye, and especially the sad sweetness of a goodbye when there isn’t more to be had. Goodbye to the year, it is over now whatever it was. Goodbye to people we won’t see again. Music and art can make you understand something more fully than words, and I understood something I’ll never be able to articulate here, and however I do articulate it, it’ll miss the fuller boat. I was thinking of people who are not part of my life, who died or left, and I realized that they didn’t leave, that they really are in me. Everything that happened with them, between us, is part of me and I’m not at all the same person I was before, and I can’t be that person again. Forever, all the moments with them are part of me, even if I don’t specifically remember them. I mourn not getting to have more of them, perhaps, but they’re not gone.

As the show progressed, I realized it was essentially the same show as last year; one performer replaced another (the incredible Armenian singer named Arto Tunçboyacıyan was replaced by the thumb drum player, for instance), but Winter played the same songs, the same solstice tree was played in the same way, the same earth was wheeled in and raised over the stage, the same series with the sun gong was performed, it was all the same. For a moment I felt disappointed until I realized that this is kind of the point: every year we hit this same mark, the world turns and returns back to where it started, but I am not the same person. I’ve been around one more time, I’ve had hundreds or thousands of experiences that have left me changed, even as I return to the same point. When I was in graduate school, a friend in the clinical psych program said she thinks of therapy like a slinky stretched out on its side: patients move along and may return to the same spot on the rings but they’re farther along each time. So throughout the performance, the sameness gave me reason to reflect on the un-sameness of me.

The performance made a lot of light and dark; occasionally there would be wild flashes of light in the darkness, and the giant scary pipe organ in the back would suddenly blast sounds that made me jump out of my seat. Those kinds of sounds are unnaturally natural — the deep sounds that the earth makes, which are always scary. Once, when the organ was blasting, I put my hand on my chest and felt my body vibrating with the sound, which was kind of cool. And sometimes in the dark there would be clangy bells all around — cowbells, kind of. People walked up and down the center aisle and the side aisles carrying those bells so they were randomly clanging, but so many that it was a constant chaotic sound in the dark. It was disorienting and unsettling, at the least, and frightening (to me!) now and then. But I loved it.

And GOD ALMIGHTY THE FORCE OF NATURE DANCE THEATER. They are incredible, no words I could possibly write, even if I were a brilliant writer, could properly convey their performance. They’re the primary reason I came this year, and the primary reason I’ll go again next year. In addition to the performance they gave in the first half of the show, which was high energy and gorgeous and vivid and alive, they performed a new piece called Water in the second half that had me gape-mouthed, sitting on the edge of my seat, leaning forward with my eyes open as wide as possible. Occasionally it made me laugh out of pure joy of what they were doing. I felt this whenever they were on stage. The notes I wrote in the dark were:

• GOD ALMIGHTY
• bliss
• insane
• big arms (Izzard!)
• ecstasy
• AWE^2

[their movements included very big arm movements, which made me think of the Eddie Izzard piece about Jesus and the disciples posing for Leonardo as he painted the Last Supper....oh Izzard, you've taken over my mind!]

If you’re ever in New York when this concert is taking place, I encourage you to go. It’s an incredible experience, in person. The solstice happens next Thursday, so I’ll have a proper winter solstice post then.

I’m not quite sure why, but I’m feeling off, kind of disconnected, more blah than blue but hanging out in that neighborhood. Maybe one reason is that I won’t get to be with my daughters and their families for Christmas in Austin, a crying-worthy fact that aches me. I suspect that’s the bulk of the reason for my mood, since even writing that sentence made me well up with tears. But I’m usually pretty good at scrambling around and setting things up in a way to be happy with not getting what I want……so I plan to have video chats with them on Christmas, and we’re planning to all be together for Christmas 2013, come what may. That helps.

I’ve been trying to plug into things I have to feel grateful for, to help me feel better. And you know, sometimes that’s just very hard to do. It isn’t that I can’t see them and count them — I do, and can. It’s more that they’re bled of color, or something. The warmth that comes from them doesn’t reach my skin. This feeling is one reason I wanted to do the giveaway, actually; I know the wonderful feeling that comes from giving, so I’m trying to do it in all parts of my life, which of course includes y’all.

As I made my french press coffee this morning, I did each step mindfully, trying to be present for the sound of grinding the beans, the scratchy sound of the kettle coming to a boil, the heavy feeling of stirring the wet grounds, the thick smell as I pressed the plunger, the rich taste in my mouth. I breathe, feel it fill my lungs, I pay attention. I listen to the sounds — the compressor in the refrigerator, the kids running down the sidewalk, the click of my fingers on the keyboard. I’m here.

This morning I woke up without the mean headache that tormented me all day yesterday — grateful! Yeah, that one made me wake up with a smile, but it didn’t reconnect me to anything beyond itself. Today is a busy day, going all over town up and down, east and west, ending with my book club meeting tonight, on the east side…..and it’s a gorgeous sunny day, not the rainy day that had been forecasted. Grateful! It rained yesterday [hence the headache] but today, my get-around day, it’s glorious. Oh so grateful.

But as I’ve been writing this, a thought started creeping in: wait a minute. This is a day of my life. This, right now, this is one of a numbered days of my life. I get to have this day (weird, the sun literally came through a cloud just then ). I am lucky beyond measure to have this day.

As Steve Martin says, no one can be sad when they hear a banjo play. And if one banjo is good, 5 banjos are EVEN BETTER!

Enjoy this day of your life, it’s a very precious thing!  (edit:  ha! a friend of mine just wrote a great post for Huffington on this general topic.)

We were off to the subway at 9:45, to go downtown to City Winery in Soho for my klezmer brunch. There was a jazz guitar player at our station, playing my song (Somewhere Over the Rainbow). It was so beautiful, resonating and echoing in the subway, it made me cry and feel like it was a serendipitous start to my day. Oh — and the day itself was stunningly beautiful, bright blue skies and sun. Then on the way downtown, at one stop a band got in the train. . .  mariachi!! I love the mariachi bands, they’re my favorite. They were wonderful, my cheeks were hurting from grinning so hard. Two for two, my favorites, oh what a day.

At the restaurant, the receptionist was downright mean — who cares, it’s my birthday. We arrived at 10:30, and the music was to start at 11, so we ordered our food. Despite what the menu said, our sour waitress said they don’t serve espresso drinks, just plain coffee (maybe she was tired of disappointing everyone since all around me people were trying to order cappuccino). Who cares. Coffee is fine! I ordered  a frittata with onions and goat cheese; my husband can’t stand goat cheese, so I get it when I’m out. Score! My song, mariachi, and goat cheese. Winning, what a birthday!

The food arrived just before the music was to start, which made me so happy. The trouble was that the band didn’t seem to be ready. One guy would be on the stage, occasionally two, rarely the same two, and never the whole gang. The restaurant had loud music playing on the big speakers and the band members would do warm-up runs at the same time, and there was a huge group of very loud people off to the side, all shouting at the same time. Cacophony. 11:10, no music. 11:15, 11:20, 11:25, 11:30. No music. And still, the entire band was never on the stage at the same time. Finally, at 11:40, they all gathered on the stage (music was to begin at 11, remember!) but they couldn’t get the sound system set up. The sour waitress came to refill my cup and I guess she was just as startled as I was to see the whole band on the stage, because she poured coffee all over the table and on my elbow.

Still. My birthday. The band finally started playing at 11:45. Here’s what I have to say to the leader of the band: DUDE. Just because you play the clarinet, that does not mean you’re playing klezmer music. It was jazz, and not just jazz, but the kind of jazz where everyone is playing their own thing, whatever they want, and the bongo drums were too loud on top of it. And also, dude? Klezmer bands don’t have bongos.

But I didn’t care too much. Breakfast is my favorite meal to go out for, and it was a gorgeous day. When the 3rd song still wasn’t klezmer, we cut our losses and headed out for a walk to Chinatown, to buy shrimp. Such a beautiful day.

I got emails and facebook posts from friends all over the world, several friends sent me patterns through Ravelry (more on those in coming posts!), all three of my daughters called me and touched my heart, I saw my son after dinner and he touched my heart, and my husband just made the whole day very loving and special. I had an incredible dinner, orange shrimp, my mouth still smiles remembering it. AND I got a funny story out of the klezmer brunch debacle.

So I begin my 53rd year honoring my commitments to myself. I woke up and wrote my morning pages, 750 words more or less; I ate breakfast, and then wrote for an hour and a half and finished a scene for my novel; I did my strength training routine (yay, back in that saddle!); and at noon I’m heading out for a very fast walk in the sunshine, and to drop off a couple packages at the post office.

Lots to say, still, but lots to do! Gotta dash.

this is the just-dawn light. katie and trey got up MUCH earlier than they'd have liked, but it's worth it (easy for me to say!)

two pork butts so big it takes the both of them to turn them.

that's just shy of 20 pounds of pork butt. How many more times can I say pork butt? PORK BUTT. I am so mature.

How did I get so lucky!! My husband cooks fantastic meals for me every night, we eat fantastic meals on fantastic vacations, and now my daughter and her husband make fantastic meals for me. Granted, I put in my time on their end of the spatula — many, many long hard years of getting dinner on the table every night after a long day of classes and work — but this feels like a big bonus.

Katie’s frying some okra to accompany the pulled pork sandwiches we’ll have, and there’ll certainly be leftover Halloween candy — if not, we’ll have her pumpkin cookies for dessert. And I think there’s a gallon of Blue Bell chocolate mint chip ice cream in the freezer. Have I said it’s kind of about the food already?

Here’s a clip, with one very beautiful song (music starts at 30secs):

Nilsson said, “I was on acid and I looked at the trees and I realized that they all came to points, and the little branches came to points, and the houses came to point. I thought, ‘Oh! Everything has a point, and if it doesn’t, then there’s a point to it.’” That’s so him. Here’s another one of my favorites. Sigh.

Thanks Will, for starting the nostalgia series. I can take it from here. (Here’s the clip he originally posted — it’s so funny, such a relic of its times. I can dig it.)

The cathedral wasn’t as full as it was for the Winter Solstice Concert, but it never is for the summer concert. I took a seat on the aisle and sat in the dark, thinking. One thing I thought was why are the hooks on a bra right over the spine, because that’s mighty uncomfortable when sitting in a hardback chair. I pulled out my moleskine notebook and a pen to scribble notes in the dark, hoping I’d be able to read them when I got home — I imagined the experience would be wonderful and I wanted to remember detail.

The extremely dim lights went down and the music started. A saxophone played from behind us, and then Paul Winter came up the center aisle, playing the whole time, and took the stage. One musician after another did that, and it was extremely cool. There was a Tibetan woman named Yangjin Lamu who sang this very high, wailing song**; her voice broke again and again but on the same note (not like yodeling, in other words, where the break takes the voice to another note). Her vocal breaks were almost like a stutter. It was such an eerie sound, like something from the ancient past. There were sounds that were so deep they were nearly just a rumble, so deep they almost didn’t have a note. I thought about how deep rumbling is so closely associated with something wrong, something terrifying, something of the earth itself. There were spaces of silence, where last notes hung in the giant space until they faded, and after a space of no sound, something else began. It reminded me of the great OM, where the silence after the last sound is part of the OM itself.

The musicians played for two hours, sometimes performing solos and sometimes together with others – voices and instruments – without a real break between songs. They just kind of flowed around like streams of water, one into the other, mingling and overlapping and then something else emerging. There were some sounds that were so mysterious, I couldn’t tell if they were voices or instruments. None of the vocal music was in English — most contained just sounds, but any words were in languages other than English.

Why are minor chords so dark? There is such great relief when it moves into a major chord. I know so little about the psychology of music, I’m sure someone could talk about the differences between minor 5ths and 7ths and how and why they’re colored differently.

Just as in the Winter Concert, Arto Tunçboyacıyan was part of the ensemble and his voice alone was worth getting up at 3:45. I think I could listen to him forever.

Sitting in the dark of a gothic cathedral, you can really see the spaces carved out by the architecture — the even darker spheres shaped by the domes over the apse, the pointed shadows that hang near the tops of the arches, the long hollow spaces made by the barrel vaults. Darker shadows in a dark space, but shadows that are in very particular shapes. The stained glass windows above the apse were illuminated a bit by the moon, just enough to see indistinguishable shapes, but with a big slash of brilliant deep red. As the light came up with the sun, the figures in the smaller windows around the clerestory, which were set in backgrounds of dark blue glass, looked like people just hovering high above.

[this note I scribbled just to relieve some of my irritation: dude behind me: can't you shut up and stop sharing all your thoughts for 2 hours? for the record, whispers are really loud in a silent space.]

At the end of the concert, the first word was spoken. Paul Winter finished playing his note, stepped toward the microphone, and said Good Morning. It was the most wonderful thing – the audience laughed with something like relief and happiness.

When I turned around to leave, I saw the gorgeous sky-blue rose window:

It’s too bad the stained glass windows don’t show up in this photo (both taken with my phone), because the blues and reds are gorgeous.

It wasn’t as joyous or intensely moving as the Winter Solstice Concert (here’s my post about that one), but I’m glad I went. I do wonder why the summer solstice is welcomed with quiet, and the winter solstice is welcomed with noise and flash — something like whistling in the dark I guess. I may not go again next year, though I’ll always try to go to the winter concert. Maybe the summer just isn’t scary, and we don’t need courage to face it, as we do the dark winter.

***

A Summer Solstice Poem: The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

**If you want to hear the ancient style of Tibetan singing, listen to this, starting around 2 minutes and 30 seconds:

I haven’t been down in the dumps lately, but there have certainly been a number of times in my life when I got awfully close to the bleakest edge you can imagine. I’m so glad that those moments didn’t go the direction they were headed, and that my life force did not give up. I got struck by a tremendous blow of joy this morning. It happened as I was writing my responses to this little list:

1. Five things you love about yourself.
2. Five things your body can do.
3. Five things you’re grateful for.
4. Five things that make you happy you’re alive.
5. Five people who you love (pets included!).

Well! In a stunning confluence, I became so happy I started crying and just couldn’t stop (the confluence was that the first thing I wrote in response to the first one was that I’m easily moved to tears ).  Does this happen to you, you become so embodied with deep, deep happiness — joy, maybe — that you almost feel like you can’t hold it, or maybe it’s kind of like the boundaries of everything disappear and you feel larger than yourself?

See what happens if you make the 5 lists. Just do them in your head, if you like. I wish you joy, too.