I am here to affirm
my world in bloom.
The obvious blooms declare the spring,
perfuming the air
attracting the senses.
They romance the eye
and the camera clicks.
Later we open a window and realize
what we have seen.
I am here to open windows
on a blooming world.
Yet blooming can be as subtle as a dream,
as tender and mysterious
as a sigh,
or a tear that no one notices.
It can be a profound response
to changes that no one can see.
Blooming can be a secret thing
disguised as a flower.
This dancer existed before she existed, from a time when I was doing paper cutouts for my Christmas tree. A plain white sillouette, she livened my tree along with others in various poses. Lights gave them their glow… and even the illusion of movement.
She has been revived for an exhibit of paper dolls, planned by my friend, Diane Stevenson, to open at the Mary C. Okeefe Center on April 12, 2013. Many artists will participate.
This was a project that I had procrastinated about for some time. I don’t have much confidence as a painter, and I could barely imagine making costumes that would fit. It was something new, and I was much occupied with other things.
When I finally faced the fact that it was now or never. I took out the sillouette “en arabesque” (she was slightly bent out of shape from being sandwiched with the others between the covers of an old drawing paper pad). I straightened her carefully (She was definitely the one.), and traced her onto a sheet of very good watercolor paper. Then I went and had lunch.
The next day I pushed all my nervous doubts aside, filled a bowl with water, and opened my box of Prang paints. Once settled on my old “kneeling seat”…brush in hand, a strange calm came over me: a sense of belonging right where I was. My heart gave a sigh. I had been here before: Hadn’t I illustrated my “Blue Chair” book a few years back with considerable ease and pleasure. Yes… It had been a while. But the sweet familiarity of wetting the brush and mixing the paints brought me back…gave me courage for the task. Applying the brush to the contours of the young dancer, bringing some color into her pallor, seemed to liven her whole demeanor and – by so doing – enlivened mine. We were both revived by this process. We were one.
For the first costume I kept it simple. A pretty little dancing dress, a small wisp of color and freedom that just might appeal to a young girl for whom dancing freely is the best sort of release. As for me, I was feeling my way…still not quite secure enough to be more inventive. By the following day, my balletic past had asked to be honored. More detail would be required. By then I was up to the challenge. A tutu!
Alright…yes, I could draw and paint a tutu, could make it fit the slender torso of my dancer, find a way to make it less confining, less expecting of exactness. Oh! Brilliant idea! I would use the colors of the chakras to soften the rigid shape, add a playful note to a less than playful moment in my memory. A flower for her hair brings to mind the Don Quixote pas de deux. But no fan, please…
After this I moved on to my liberation, when – thanks to Isadora Duncan, and the birth of my daughter – I left ballet behind me, and eventually discovered Airth: my dance of balance….my long time devotion to oneness with nature through uniting breath and movement.
Ahhh…comfort. Ahhh…ease of movement. Ahhh…freedom reflected by the flow of thin muslin…freedom based upon a strong sure torso practiced in the undulation at the core of all natural movement. I am nature, I am human nature. I am convinced that I am free to be me…and teach others the same. I perform and teach in equal measure, and they overlap. Airth was a long run…probably still running, though the outward expression has changed. Has evolved?
It is time to move on. The older woman, with a new kind of freedom in mind, flew to Paris. Her heart woke up in the city of lights; every step seemed a dance. She fell in love…with Paris, returning again and again. The older woman remembered the dream of her younger self, and wrote a novel in which Lily/Leif got to dance at the Paris Opera. L’Opera! I give you the last costume..now. Voila! La Danseuse en Paris.
Each time I walk onto the beach and see
the enormous expanse of familiar beauty,
I take out my camera, hoping each time
it will bring me closer…
to union with what I see.
Yet within the small window,
the beauty seems smaller;
even more out of reach
is the object I seek.
A dear little Tern…so loved by my eye,
recedes; her sweet edges blur.
I pull on the lever to bring her closer,
and the small tern…seeming to sense my need,
comes out of the water and onto the sand.
She is charming; she charms,
yet distraction saves me:
Seagulls are squawking,
and a heron appears.
My love is divided.
I have been here before…
as the heron walks
right out of the frame.
And where are my dogs?
It is time to pursue,
to capture and coax them
into the car.
Feeling free for the moment,
I walk down the road,
I am more than ready
for a different view.
And here I am, suddenly…
raptly aware
of a green briar vine dancing.
All strain drops away.
No need to zoom;
I lean into the dance…
breathe into the dance…
I am one with the dance I see.
I am thinking of
endings and beginnings,
of old dogs walking the delicate path
between here and nowhere:
thinking of loss
of living with loss
and the loss to come…
the sorrow and joy of it all.
I am thinking of
dewberry flowers in virginal white
smiling radiantly up
at the giant bending over them:
thinking of life
so briefly bestowed,
of fragile beauty relinquished
that lush sweet berries
may form, ripen, and be eaten by
whoever may come.
I am thinking of
life and death and
the tremulous place between:
of the beauty, the pleasure,
the sorrow of knowing that
all this will end,
or seem to end.
I am thinking of
walking down toward the water’s edge
on the beach I visit each day,
of watching the dogs move ahead of me
toward the shore:
thinking of
coming across the remains of beauty,
air, earth, and sky embodied…
now come to this.
I am thinking of
walking around the dead bird,
taking in the somber reality of
death and the inevitability of change:
thinking of
old dogs so close to the edge…
still dancing.
Stillness and movement…
Light yielding to shadow…
Black tree limbs are etched on a pastel sky
imprinted on water
re-arranged by the wind.
A Dance of Balance 