This sculpture was done in the nineties not long after my mother’s death. I was teaching full time but privately suffering a disconnection that would eventually lead me to withdraw and begin to write down my life – to spill forth my history with passion and little restraint. This was a true response to the pain and confusion I was feeling. Isolation was embraced out of necessity. I called it a sabbatical – thought of it as temporary, expected to return renewed and with fresh ideas for sharing the dance I had named Airth. I hadn’t yet realized how profound was my need to privately experience the dance of my own despair. Some part of me knew that the pain of separating from my students and their love for the dance and their teacher was nothing compared to the pain of staying and pretending all was well. I was in my fifties, and needing to question the interior voice and listen without distraction.
Even as I have embraced the isolation, much living has been done. My aloneness must be practiced in the midst of family. Not easy when love tugs one into situations where some degree of pretence is essential to the well-being of others. Now after so many years of curtailing the voice of the bereft child except through the silent and solitary medium of writing, something miraculous is happening. I am learning to translate my deepest feelings into song. My intuitive teacher has me singing “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.”
At first I hardly realized what this song could mean for me, but on the day after he gave me the music I went into my studio and simply sang with no concern for incorrect notes. Free of self-consciousness, the song became a wail that issued from my whole being. My body curved itself around the motherless child that I knew myself to be, arms and legs were heavy with pain, my face was contorted with frustration. I felt the pain swirling behind my eyes, my belly contracted and released, and the deepest feeling soared and took flight as sound.
After that I returned to working on correct notes and attention to the breath, and by the time I returned to class and sang it for my teacher, I was more self-conscious than I would want to be. Again the perfect words from the insightful JT: Don’t forget to let your whole body sing; otherwise your tongue will close off the deeper fuller sound. Open up and the sound will bloom. He also asked me what the words meant to me, showed me the word: Lamentoso on the sheet music. In essence, He gave me permission to go all the way, to spill my guts – so to speak – and give voice to my deepest feelings. And the song exploded into that room. The notes bloomed blood-colored and purple with grief and my body backed up the passion of my expression. My teacher was blown away, I hope in a good way. His first remark was: That was kind of scary… But then he said: You’re good, girl. I want to work with you. Lets have an extra lesson.
I left there on cloud nine, a youthful pleasure blooming throughout my body. Imagine blessing and expressing the feelings that I have learned to hide, sometimes even from myself. Bless you, JT, for reminding me of the necessity of sharing all that I am – without restraint. This is wholeness. This is healing. This is joy.