I believe in flow.
Flow has been at the heart of my life as a dancer.
If dance has been like a river flowing
throughout my life,
changing times and an aging body
has caused the river to branch into tributaries
of poetry, clay sculpture, drawing and music.
Singing has had its turn
and painting, too,
to flow around obstacles created by doubt.
Doubt has often loomed heavily,
obscuring the way,
and times of despair have caused drought.
My progress has stalled…
bogged down in the muck;
my heart feels dry and my world
appears colorless for a while.
Recently, decorating pottery in the Shearwater annex
has brought flow and color back to my life.
I have found renewal in the clay:
the feel, look, smell of this earthy substance
has grounded my body…
revived my heart.
My right arm –
stalled by extensive and painful surgery –
has grown strong and brave,
and has carried out my purpose
of resuming the flow.
The river of dance –
still present in my seventy-year-old being –
has formed yet another tributary.
Praise heaven and all the angels:
I am able to bring color to my world!
As my confidence has grown in the present flow, I have pondered sculptural shapes: free-form vessels formed by my hands, conducive to my particular style of decorating. Not instead of my work at the annex with my dear women companions, but a possible means of growth…a chance to explore. So clay was purchased – and a small expensive kiln. The latter with considerable fear and trembling. At my age you do not take on such things as blithely as when younger. I approached the clay before the kiln was delivered, as tentatively as someone who had never created clay sculptures before. I wedged the clay, slamming it down repeatedly to soften it…bring it to yielding. I felt my shoulder object, and I wondered what I was doing. I felt old and scared: doubt did its damnedest to stop the meager flow that was trickling forth. My hands kept moving: pushing, pulling, stretching and stroking despite the doubt…despite the twinges of pain. I didn’t last long that first session. I wasn’t encouraged by this beginning. I covered her quickly, a bit embarrassed by my efforts. It took a while to return. When I did, I reminded myself that judgment at this point was foolish; completion was so far off, and decorating and firing were more than half of it. I had begun!
A few days later the kiln was delivered from Dogwood Ceramics via movers I had hired. It rode in the back of a truck thoroughly crated in wood. I was daunted, but the movers dealt with it vehemently. Finally the kiln stood on my screen porch where the old non-functioning one had stood for years. But it did not look right. The box on the front: the computer and electrical unit was pulled out, metal bent, screws pulled loose. There was obvious damage. The kiln, expected to contribute to the flow, is itself an obstacle. A terrible question looms: Who is responsible? Another: Can I keep faith that the river of dance that is my life will maintain its flow. Of course I can… But I might need a boat.
A Dance of Balance 