No, says my inner self. No work tonight.
Instead, I've been listening to Kelly Joe Phelps play the blues while driftily browsing. I have read about perfect numbers; the theory of relativity; how to calculate your net worth; Naropa's buddhism-based MA in Divinity; Jeff Buckley singing "Hallelujiah" in concert; a library of essential dlls; photos of Devon marshes & moors; the ruined abbey & crypt at York; Venice's red roofs & stone waterside doorsteps; and the inside of Andrew & Gennie's new house.
My underconscious is chewing on something. Not work.
This is the first rest I've had in weeks. I wonder why today is so restful.
I think because this phase has finished, and the winds are coming. My projects are in hand, the nights are icy, my relationships are cleaning up. Even the earth has shifted; it's winter now, and all my windows are open.
Cold air sheeting through, two loads of laundry done, dishes washed, oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies baked, fresh tunafish with purple cabbage chilling in the fridge. I visit my mom next weekend.
Even my bones are relaxed.
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Someday you will meet something that brings you to your knees, says Natalie Goldberg. And you will finally find your voice.
Theatre was that for me. I think intimacy, the intimacy I am now capable of, will do it again.
I took a quiz recently that asked, "How often do men 10 years older than you hit on you?" The answer is almost never. But men 10 to 20 years younger, all the time.
I find that when my days are full of theatre, I am liquid in technique; steeped in the difficulty of how bodies move and light falls, of how two people touch. Times like now, though, I know what theatre is about. The currents & complexities, intimacies & strangenesses at work illuminate Shakespeare's courts. It's never black and white. It's always interconnected, shaded, incongruous. Small fierce intact weather systems, marked with grace.
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Today a yellow-jacket flew in my open dining-room window. Lumbering, mazed with cold, it buzzed and crawled on the window pane, heading away from the open air. I tried to shoo it out with a sheet of paper. It buzzed angrily and headed even more determinedly the wrong direction.
I cupped the paper a couple inches behind it. As I watched, it suddenly stopped buzzing and began furiously to wash its nose and face. I was reminded exactly of an old woman who, rushed and flurried, stops for a cup of tea and to powder her face.
I waited while the old-lady bee finished her toilet and got calm again. Then I slid the paper next to her, so she had to step backwards onto it. I poked it out the window and she sailed off. Or he; who knows with bees.
I'm heading home. I'll leave you with Jeff keening the Corpus Christi Carol. First read the lyrics below. Then click the link, lie down, shut your eyes, and let him sing to you.
He bare her off, he bare her down
He bare her into an orchard ground
Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away
And in this orchard there was a hold
That was hanged with purple and gold
And in that hold there was a bed
And it was hanged with gold so red
Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away
And on this bed there lyeth a knight
His wound is bleeding day and night
By his bedside kneeleth a maid
And she weepeth both night and day
Lu li lu lay lu li lu lay
The falcon hath bourne my mate away
By his bedside standeth a stone
Corpus christi written thereon
-- Old English, arranged by Benjamin Britten for male soprano, sung by Jeff Buckley
2 comments:
Sounds peaceful. Like you've been working hard, and have a few minutes to just sink completely into yourself. heavenly rest comes when work is done and brings with it joy and peace.
Heh - some of that sounds/looks familiar...
Don't know if you've stopped by lately but I recently blogified my site and have started posting daily again (after a break of nearly a year). Amazing how much more I am getting done and how much more of my family I see now that I no longer need to commute to work!
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