One Today

I confess when I published that silly blog post yesterday, the full import of the date hadn't registered. I was moved by several moments during the inauguration, including, for the first time, hearing a President pair Selma with Stonewall in a list of Americans' struggle for equal rights. And I was proud listening to the beautiful poem by Richard Blanco, the first gay man to read an inaugural poem.

Here's the text:

One Today
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the "I have a dream" we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.
The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.
Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across café tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.
One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn't give what you wanted.
We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always — home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country — all of us —
facing the stars
hope — a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it — together

There was a young parson named Bings

I heard Stephen Fry recite this on a recent episode of qi. A little different from the poems of the last couple days, but variety is the spice of something or other.

There was a young parson named Bings,
Who talked about God and such things;
But his secret desire
Was a boy in the choir,
With a bottom like jelly on springs.



Highs in the 20sF today & snow overnight. Yay! Might toddle down to the Ashmont station a little later to pick up caffeine stimulant beans at Flat Black. Tootling & stitching on tap as well.

Autumn Passage

This is a poem by Elizabeth Alexander, who was the fourth poet in history to contribute to a U.S. presidential inauguration. Krista Tippett interviewed her on the most recent On Being. If you want to listen to the podcast, it's here. The transcript is here.

Autumn Passage

On suffering, which is real.
On the mouth that never closes,
the air that dries the mouth.

On the miraculous dying body,
its greens and purples.
On the beauty of hair itself.

On the dazzling toddler:
"Like eggplant," he says,
when you say "Vegetable,"

"Chrysanthemum" to "Flower."
On his grandmother's suffering, larger
than vanished skyscrapers,

September zucchini,
other things too big. For her glory
that goes along with it,

glory of grown children's vigil,
communal fealty, glory
of the body that operates

even as it falls apart, the body
that can no longer even make fever
but nonetheless burns

florid and bright and magnificent
as it dims, as it shrinks,
as it turns to something else.

Broken Covenant

This is a poem by Richard Blanco, the gay, Latino poet, the first such person and only the fifth poet ever to participate in a Presidential Inauguration. He who will be reading one of his works on Monday.

Broken Covenant

after the storm rain                         scattered driftwood

starched sands     no footprints     of what once was

       the gossamer blue sails

       of man-o-wars

       gasping in the sun       pieces of broken coral

                                              snapped like wishbones

slivers of tiny fish                       a filmy green bottle

flickering on the shore

               a few reclaimed          a torn net

                   by the ebb

                            of a wave                    a lost buoy

a yellow bulldozer          heaps of spent seagrass

raking the sand

        diesel smoke like incense          a snapped fishline

        spiraling into the heavens

        in the name of the vanished              a dead fish

Here's the Richard's picture:

Nico Tucci / Courtesy Richard Blanco

A student is showing up soon, so best I get this up early & prepare for her arrival. Brr - only 19F out there right now.

Leave a Message

Another of the poems from a recent NY Times.

When the wind died, there was a moment of silence
for the wind. When the maple tree died, there was always a place
to find winter in its branches. When the roses died, I respected the privacy
of the vase. When the shoe factory died, I stopped listening
at the back door to the glossolalia of machines.
When the child died, the mother put a spoon in the blender.
When the child died, the father dug a hole in his thigh
and got in. When my dog died, I broke up with the woods.
When the fog lived, I went into the valley to be held
by water. The dead have no ears, no answering machines
that we know of, still we call.

— BOB HICOK, the author of the forthcoming “Elegy Owed,”
which includes this poem\\

Cold (for Boston) here today - 19F a current reading. Will probably venture out at least to the Post Office later today with my lovely shearling coat that I got @ Filene's Basement back in the day. Not a wind in the world gets through that wrap. Oh, & tootling & stitching, too.

Each of us standing

Each of us standing at a particular
Spot we favor — our own location
Along the mortal shore.

Scanning the horizon.
     There it is!
We watch the boat of the Book
Float by.
     All our beloveds on board.
Waving from the deck,
Calling out our name.
Some of them singing.
     Some just
Gazing at us with that look we loved.

— GREGORY ORR, the author of the forthcoming “River Inside the River,” which includes this poem

Beautiful sunny day here, if a little warm (40F) so the lovely snow we got yesterday will probably all be gone by tomorrow. Off soon to an Alexander lesson & then laundry & stitching (I generally take Thursdays off from practicing - shh - don't tell anyone).

Seeing inside

This is an excerpt from Krista Tippett's wonderful interview & Q & A session with Joan Halifax on On Being, first broadcast on Jan. 10, 2013.

"[W]ith this massive secularization that we're experiencing now and skepticism, it has separated us from our own spirituality. And I'm not a very sectarian anything, if you know what I'm saying. OK, I do Buddhist practices and so on and so forth, but I'm not a sectarian Buddhist. What I am, though, is someone who wants to help people see inside and there are many paths to that.

Our churches provide a path, our synagogues provide a path, our great literature and art provides a path, but mostly I believe that we've turned our vision to being so superficial and outward. There's a potential for a new kind of enlightenment in our time and that is, I think, a yearning that many of us experience as we see the world distancing itself from its own heart. So I don't feel hopeless or futile. I'm very interested. I'm so glad I lived this long because my superficial study of enlightenment, for example, in the Western world leads me to believe that we have tremendous potential to realize in these coming decades.

I just don't want to say it's a downhill slope, in other words [laugh], if you know what I mean. No, I just think, if you look at complex dynamical systems, we're on a fascinating breakdown and what we know about complex dynamical systems is that living systems — and we're in this robust living system and we've seen eras. You know, we can look back through history.

We're in an era of great breakdown, environmentally and socially and psychologically. And when systems break down, the ones who have the resilience to actually repair themselves, they move to a higher order of organization. And I think that this is characterized by something the complexity theorists call robustness, that we can anticipate both a time of great robustness, which we're in, with tremendous potential to wake up and take responsibility. And, at the same time, we're in a lot of difficulties and we need resilience to make our way through this change.

. . .

So you can have a five-minute [meditation] and it can really produce a nice effect. But we also know that dose makes a difference, so try the five, then go to 10 and then 20, then you might find an hour and then you might want to actually sort of take the plunge. But also, be very mindful of what is appropriate for you. Respect your boundaries, be sure you're with a qualified person because, I tell you, to stop in this world is to create the conditions where a lot of unusual experiences can rise up."

Links to the podcast & transcript are here. There's also a wonderful guided meditation, what Ms. Halifax prefers to call an intervention.

I love the idea "Let the breath sweep your mind."

If only

Potter & Mimsy would get along like this.

Andy & I had a wonderful visit to the MFA yesterday to see the postcard show & the Art on the Streets poster exhibition. We lunched at the American Cafe in the new Art of the Americas wing.

Today it's tootling & laundry, stitching & maybe a walk before the rain starts.

Blast from the past

Aunt Buzz sent me this awhile ago. Something Mom had sent to her & that she saved. It's an interview with Jan, at 19, by Barb Neverman of Menominee's Herald Leader (as was), when Jan came back from a year at The Hague:

Jan Ranck has mixed feelings since her return from a year of study at the Royal Conservatory in the Netherlands. Reluctant to talk about her "accomplishments" as a student of the flute, she is excited about the variety of experiences in music and living. She is obviously confident of herself, and enthused about the 11-month "sabbatical" which began Jan. 2 of last year, and ended Dec. ~. Jan, 19, is the daughter of Rev. and Mrs. J. Robert Ranck.

At the Royal Conservatory, she was the' only student from Indiana University, and one of two American flutists for part of the year. She returns to classes this week in Bloomington as a junior, having completed her independent study.

The experience was.something Jan wanted very much, asked for, and got. It was, in a sense, an extension of her experience in music at Interlochen National Music Camp in Michigan's lower Peninsula. There, two summers ago, she studied under the talented flutist, Alexander Murray.

"Often I heard he would be at the Royal Conservatory at the Hague, I wrote to him, and he accepted me as his student."

Jan describes Murray as an "experimenter in music." He designed his own flute, which has a system of fingering that makes the intonation more exact and the higher register smoother. Murray also incorporates the "Alexander Technique" into his teaching. Originated by F.M. Alexander, the technique is a "whole philosophy" in which mind and body are considered inseparable. Working with bodily balance and co-ordination and habits of both moving and reacting, it applies not only to breathing and music, but establishes a whole new relationship between individual and existence.

Jan is enthused about the technique and would like to return to Murray and his wife for more study and certification as an Alexander Technique instructor.

The conservatory itself emphasizes Baroque music, and has an outstanding faculty. Jan used her modern flute, although other students used copies of instruments from the Baroque period, including the recorder. She attended sessions in what proved to be~'an interesting old building where stodios of well-known musical artists are used as practice rooms. Classes are small (two of hers had only five students) allowing for individual attention.

 Although only one private lesson per week was required, Jan had up to three. She had a class in orchestral studies, another in flute methods. Frans Vester, a well-known flute literature expert, conducted several performance practices classes.

While in Holland, she had opportunities to play in churches and in informal duets with fellow students.

Jan found that American standards of music performance are sometimes higher than those in Europe. Laughing, she said, "You can be more musically expressive if you hit the right notes!"

Jan began playing the flute when she was 10. Anton Peshek, band instructor at Menominee High School, gave her the first, basic, instruction. Rev. Joseph Mattern, former band director at Marinette Catholic Central High School, gave her lessons during middle school and early high school years. As he coached her, she said, "I absorbed his musicianship."

Asked what the year's experience has given her, Jan, said, "A confidence about my playing that I didn't have before .. and ideas in music I had never thought of. Mr. Murray is not only a "great" in performance, but a very knowledgeable man in other fields. All of these, he somehow applies to playing music!

"And I learned more about myself - I learned what I need as a person because I was often alone."

During summer vacation, Jan went to Salzburg where she studied German. she also worked in Cologne, since she was responsible for her expenses of transportation and room and board. She learned both Dutch and German and is able to compare the languages. Jan loved both and pointed out that there was a similarity in the two, but great differences in the people who spoke them.

"Attitudes of various ethnic groups must be different, because thought structure is based on language. And even. such things as differences in sentence structure change the way of thinking."

Jan spent the first six months in Holland with a Dutch family, the Wijmans, in Voorburg, a suburb of the Hague. When she returned after the summer months, she moved into an apartment and then to a student house .. important months, she said, because she had the opportunity to react with people, and have a social life.

Asked about what high school experiences she had which might have been of value, Jan said she was always sorry Latin was dropped.

"It's helpful in learning so many other languages, and language is important. Americans tend to assume that everyone in the world speaks English, and of course they don't. So it helps to learn at least one other language. As I said, it's part of getting to know how other people think."

In the months in Europe, Jan became aware of the strengths of the United States. But she can be a critic, too.

"There is a higher consciousness level in America .. there is something being done about blacks, the rights of women, etc. Europeans take things more for granted."

She criticizes America for its lack of mass transportation (our transportation systems can lose luggage between Chicago and Menominee, and certainly don't run to the minute on schedule) and feels that our large cars are a waste.

"By European standards, our small cars are hardly small."

She enjoyed the European lack of billboards as well.

Jan said there is some anti-American feeling in Europe, and hoped she presented, while there, the image of an American other than "the rich American traveling in Europe, which most Europeans see."

She admits that she missed the structured academic life of the university.

At Bloomington, she is majoring in music and literature. Her major there is unique since it is actually a degree in the "inter-relationship of the arts", yet not an interdepartmental program.

Jan doesn't want to "make money with music." Concentrating on "making it" in the performance circuit' seems to warp the musician, she said. She does feel that performing, music is as creatively valid as composing it, since one must discern and then somehow newly express what the composer has said.

Writing as a music critic is perhaps another facet of being creative in the field.

Jan is eager to get back to the university as she loves school, its life, its people, and the classes. Ultimately, she wants to find a lifework related to literature to support herself. She will always continue to read .. and to play music.

For contentment Jan needs places to walk alone and access to the cultural stimulation she needs.

She also wants companionship. "It means a great deal," Jan said.

We three kings

What else for 12th night day? But a version we never heard in church!

Here's a link to how the original was created.

Onward to the rest of 2013. Wishing you all the best in it.

Candlelight Carol

One of the lovely contemporary Christmas songs.

Lovely sunny day here. Tootling & maybe even a toddle on tap. Mimsy just stopped by to say "hi."

Stille Nacht, heilege Nacht

I remember Grandma Vi singing this at Christmas time:

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Hirten erst kundgemacht
Durch der Engel Halleluja,
Tönt es laut von fern und nah:
Christ, der Retter ist da!
Christ, der Retter ist da!

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,
Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht
Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund
, Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund'.
Christ, in deiner Geburt!
Christ, in deiner Geburt!
Words: Joseph Mohr, 1816
Music: Franz Xaver Gruber, 1818

Rasta reindeer

To get your toes tapping this cold January morning (happy birthday, Jamie!). :)

Off soon for a grocery run - at least to get cat litter - acupuncture cancelled today due to practitioner's illness. Tootling & stitching also on tap.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

Covered by my favorite folk guitarist, John Fahey.

Sun's very warm out there so our little snow will probably melt today - just before the deep freeze (for Boston) for the rest of the week.

Tootling & stitching & maybe getting out in the relative warmth on tap for today. Happy New Year.