At the Summer Solstice...

At the Summer Solstice,

We honour the four directions…
The four seasons…
The year…

Our life.

East - Air - Newness.

Seeds stored in dark places

During winter

Are now borne into the air 

To fly to new beginnings,

and sinking into the dark earth,

Break open with their purpose...

New ideas - dreams - wishes - intentions.

South - Fire - sun - light - warmth.

In the warming encouraging soil,

The seeds begin to germinate.

The sun and long days

Nourishing Spring's dreams into reality.

Leave the seeds sown;  

Poke around not in the soil

To see if tiny roots have sprouted.

Wait. 

Trust.

Believe.

Nurture.

Tread not on their potential carelessly,

Nor walk away in doubt.

Keep the soil clear of these weeds - 

The weeds of mistrust and fear.

West - Water - Nourishment - Care.

Watch.

Respect.

Love.

Be one with the weather,

One with the soil.

Water when dry,

Drain when wet.

Protect in the storms.

Rejoice in light rain.

And still 

Just watch.

No prodding and poking to see if...  

No checking the roots and 

Pinching the tender shoots.

And no lazy ignoring,

No arrogant assuming.

And protect from trespassers, too.

"Tread softly,

For you tread on my dreams."

Let dreams and plans grow

In trust of their process;

But care for them, too.

Yet, not too much;

Drowning will kill,

As will watching in such fear,

That, immobilised, watering is forgotten.

North - Earth - Harvest.

Then the plant comes to fruition,

The dream becomes manifest.

And the harvest begins,

Leaving seeds for the future.

Take care of these;

Drop them not in the excitement,

For they are your future,

The turn of the wheel -

Life itself.

Rejoice today,

Give thanks for yesterday,

But look to the future

And save seed with respect,

For the east wind to scatter

And the next dream to have life.

Simplicate, don't complify...

In teaching, I often say:

'Simplicate,
Don't complify!'

We smile, and maybe laugh a little.

Simplicate -
Come to a pause,
A space,
Presence.

Listen within.

Notice the complifyings,
The holdings,
Tightenings,
Compression.

My hands and voice guiding you,
Their specific-ness comes into focus with practice.

Stay with them,
Let them be so.

Then…
In those tight places,
Simplicate.
Soften...
Melt...
Defrost...
Release….

Release into the knowledge that we expand,
Open,
Naturally,
By design,
When we soften….

Outwards and upwards,
Deepening,
Widening,
Lengthening,
Flowering…

And allowing the time it takes,
Drop preconceptions,
Release complication,
Meet simple.

Emptying My Hands of Old Blackness….

This book carries deeply emotional memories for me…
I burned it last year when I found it again in a pile of music.
It felt good.
(Now I find it is rare and fetching $250 - damn it;
That would have felt even better…
Delightful recompense...)

This book was a passion of my piano teacher.
She thought it would make me into Ashkenazy #2.
At 19, it gave me a breakdown.

It asked the player to perform acts with the hand
That are surely as far from freedom as can be.
And I don't know what Ms Rennie's idea of strength was,
But it wasn't mine.
As for 'independence' - there was none;
I've enjoyed a flowing inter-dependence within my hands long since…
It's a lot easier when the fingers can talk with each other.

Tonight, for some reason, this book's memory came back to me.
I was watching a programme on James Galway, the flautist.
His economic quietness as he plays -
His soft, just-enough fingers on the keys -
His light but appropriate breathing -
His body still, yet peacefully energetic -
His heart pouring forth the music….

But it was his hands that really got me….
Mine curled up and ran away in  shame as I watched…
And the book of exercises danced in my mind…

'Place the index finger on middle C, depress it and hold', it said,
'And play up and down the scale several times -
D, E, F, G, A, B, C, with your third finger -
Rolling the hand over towards the thumb as you do so
In order to be able to play these notes.
This will stretch the tendons between and within index and third finger.'

Stretch?
Tear……

And so it went on
For pages.
Fuzzy black & white photos of deformed and rigid fingers
Twisted hands, arms and shoulders
Forcing me into playing notes that tore into my hand,
and my mind….

Contorting.
Fixing.
Tightening.
Way beyond the hand and into my body….

"How many hours Blanch did you do this week? I want at least 2 hours a day."
Ye Gods.
Something in me knew this wasn't the way,
But I didn't know anything, did I; they said not….

She used to get my hands - like here, in this picture -

And squeeze my fingers' bends ever tighter,
Wrestling them
Until my fingertips were level with the crease
Right up between palm and fingers….
And until they were, she wasn't happy….

Please don't try it at home - it's painful, and so, so horrible.

Sometimes she'd make my fingers crack.
I'd wince.
She said it wouldn't hurt any more when I was getting it right.

Then she made me play the piano
With fingers as close to that shape as I could....

Funnily enough, I had to fight for every note;
My hands were too rigid to obey and play;
Clawing at every note just isn't the way….

I loved the piano -
But this way I hated it, too.
And I gave up -
Stopped.
Ran away.

A while later, Alexander lessons and teacher training….
Soften your hand.
Lengthen the fingers.
Sense - flow - feel
Finger pads touching life
Openingly…

And that's how it's been for 35 years.
A work-in-progress to touch with lightness,
Especially at the piano's keys -
Old habits dancing in the wings, but joy at the soft touch's kindness.

But tonight the memory flooded up again -
Watching 'Jimmy's fingers'.
And I screwed up my hands -
Not even half as much as she liked it -
To see if I was imagining it.
Ouch.
           No.
                  Please!

Oh how wrong it is…
I let my hands go again -
Something in their release revealing to me
The memory of the pain,
The constriction,
The deep hurt -
With an emotional depth.
With an apologetic ache,
My hands still emptying themselves of yet more
Of the black tightening that was inserted so long ago.

Poor woman -
          Meant well -
                    Had no idea -
                                Long gone now.

'Finger, hand and arm gymnastics at the piano'…?
No, don't ever let anyone ask that of you;
Let them ask you for music,
For heart,
For soul.

I am grateful to my hands for showing me this memory,
For I want to live with ever softening touch,
My fingers touching the world quietly,
And the world touching me gently.

Touch is where I meet the world softly,
And the piano,
And the computer, too.
So I continue to release,
Soften,
Let go...

I see You

You’re in such pain,

Back spasm,

Crunched up.

Gingerly walking,

Not getting about.

I come to you,

You speak - I listen.

We share.

We take time.

I ask you to take a breath and close your eyes.

To invite your higher, or soul self to work with you

In this safe space.

And in our unconditional companionship

I see you drop within.

I ask, How does it feel to be you?

You let your body show your soul.

Words not needed in this place.

How does it feels to be you in pain?

In the silences between,

I watch shadows flicker across your face,

Memories ripple around your body.

Nanoseconds.

There, then gone.

Here, then not.

Pain's sudden surging to a burning intensity...

And as soon, 

Gone.

After a while,

Truth.

A single spoken word, offered,

Which I see your mind question,

Yet which I see your body devour,

Opening to it in the relief of remembering.

Truth.

Your eyes open - bright and clear.

Your back curves around your heart -
My hand alights there -

So. Softly. Slow.

I do nothing - 

Sensing your back's wariness,

I wait.

Feel it begin to trust,

To listen,

To the silence of my hand.

You want nothing?

Says your back.

No, I don’t.

How are you? asks my hand.

A moment’s frozen wonder

At being acknowledged,

And it begins to soften.

Heard.

Your back is you, 

And you are your back,

Reacquainting.

Slowly, amongst the nothingness - 

The stillness of no demand -

You begin to trust,

To open,

To let go.

Hands light on your body.

Suddenly, there it is,

A question….

I’ll ask,  

Gently -

Did anyone ever thank you for all you did?

And like a rope being untied,

There’s a rumble-tumble of bricks

Flowing down off your shoulders 

Onto the floor,

Watered by gentle tears,

Witnessed by love.

Truth.

Pause - Ponder - Proceed

  

Pause: lovely word, funny word -
(Nice onomatopoeic.)
So much nicer than 'Stop!'
(Nasty onompatopoeic.)
It's not 'fix',
Nor 'hold',
Nor 'inhibit',
But just 'pause' in what I am doing.
A gentle 'Musical Statues', or 'Grandmother's Footsteps'….
Showing 'I'm alive and playing, but just not moving….

Sometimes it's called 'The Zero Point' - the space between….

Between what?

Things.
      Doings.
           Beings.
                Stuff.
                    Habits.
                        Assumptions.
                             Desires.
                                 Worries.
                                       Life.

When Paused I can...

Ponder: On what?
On what the doing was.
How the stuff is going for me.
Whether I really desire the desired.
Whether I've made it all up.
Whether I'm flowing or stuck.
Whether the thing is doing its thing as I planned….

Ponder on being a being,
Which I had forgotten was happening
As I did the doing.

So, in my Pausing and Pondering…
I wake up.
I come to.
I Am.

I have a kinaesthetic Ponder too -
My tight heck.
My shallow breath.
My braced knees.
My slumped tum.

How did they creep up on me?
I missed that!
But they did.
So I let go -
And expand -
Easing the tightenings,
Lengthening the collapse.

Now I move. I….

Proceed: Where?
On.
Or back.
Or not.
Or over there.
Or up.
Or down.
It depends on what I Pondered in the Pause.
But now awake, I make a Now choice,
And so my Proceeding is fresh,
Alive,
Appropriate.

I've changed something right inside me
Where I can make secret, personal, change...
And I can expand,
Up from down and down from up,
Side to side and side from side,
Front to back and back to front.

A long, open, wide, deep me
Will enjoy whatever the wherever-ing.
A short, tight, compressed me,
Wont.

So I take the Pause and the Ponder,
And let the Proceed begin within -
I go from where it begins inside,
Flowing from centre to goal.

And soon again I Pause - still moving,
Greeting the Ponder in the space it makes,
And see Proceed flow out as gold...

The Space Between….

I was told to rigidly stick to the notes….
But you can't make music if you stick to the notes.

Stuck to the notes, they stagger and fall,
Too heavy to fly and flow.

Squashed,
Stuck,
Trapped,
Frozen,
The music withers,
And dies.

And the hands and arms, from finger-tip up,
Shrivel and shrink with the shoulders and back,
Or fall in pieces on the keys.

Inspiration,
Self-revelation -
To be carried on the composer's skilled gift -
Whimpers, cries,
And evaporates.

The space between player and music
Was un-traversable.
Cheated.


'I told you, stick to the notes - see, when you don't, you fail.'

No, sticking to the notes failed us all -
The music and me and you.
But
The spaces between them will never fail us;
They are the greatest gift of all -
They are the place where we play.

Shine...

You come in pain.
There's a rigidity in your body -
A holding -
A guarding -
A suppressed panic -
Your body seems to say, "What if…?"

What if what?
"What if I'm wrong?
What if nothing will change -
And I feel like this for ever -
Or worse, it worsens…?"

"I've been told…."
"I've got to…."
"I must…"

Yet, companioning you in that place,
Witnessing you just as you are -
No pushing, no pulling -
Listening touch asking you to witness yourself just as you are,
Brings a gradual softening.

"Shall I put my hips here?"
No, let them be.

45 seconds they say -
45 seconds is all the time it takes before something in the body changes -
An emotion - a tightening - a panic - a clenching.
Yet we run from all these feelings into new ones,
Long before the 45 seconds passes - and why not;
They're horrible feelings, they are,
And no one has ever stayed with you,
Said you are human in these feelings and sensations.

"Should I do this with my head?"
No, let it be.

No one has ever stayed with you,
Preferring to change you rather than feel your discomfort.
No one has listened with you to your clenched panic,
For as along as it takes,
 
Until now.

"Should I push my knees back here?"
No, let them be.

And witnessed - not judged -
Audienced - not criticised -
The experience changes.

Supported by quiet hands
Space appears -
Possibilities surface -
A clarity stirs.

'Do this' and 'Don't do that',
'Lift here' and 'relax there', all irrelevant;
Your body knows what to do, where to flow…
And now we hear it speak its truth.

So much correctional instruction in the past -
Assumptions,
Fashions,
Pushings,
Forcings,
Contradictions...
'Make the body behave!'

Oh bless it, and bless you….
No, no, no….
Come, rest under my hands,
Sense the wisdom in your body,
Feel the waves quieten,
Be.

"So, I just stand here? Resting on my feet ? My head on top?"
Yes.

You.
Wondrous you,
Just lost under all those should-ed shoulds.

Come out, come out;  you're too fine to be hidden thus.
Gradually come free,
Gently shine,
Be.