Signs of Mastery

I just read a draft of one of J_______'s newest poems and I am bowled over by the mastery of craft she achieves in a "draft." My son designed a "mock up" promotional brochure for me not long ago and I was amazed by the professionalism of his "thrown together" work.  A short conversation with a small circle of Fools the other day evoked tears of laughter and joy, warmed my heart, opened my eyes, inspired an artistic notion and renewed my spirit. They are very good at what they do, including

Aware of our judgments, we seek to meet people where they are through the arts, education, advocacy and accompaniment. (from their Mission Statement)

All three of these wizardly entities have been steadily honing their crafts for many years, showing up (as far as I can see) nearly every day, putting in time.  Now, every time and everywhere they show up to do the thing they do, something beautiful appears. It might seem that simply applying oneself consistently over time raises the quality of everthing overall. 

It may be true.

But, where "beauty" is concerned, the mistake in that perception is apparent in the frequent displays of slip-shod workmanship, near-fatal oversights and burnt-out insensitivity among "professionals," service providers, educators, artists and others who, for pay or not, show up nearly every day, putting in their time. Examples are abundant.

Beyond simply applying oneself, "diligence" is the alchemical process:  

dil·i·gence

noun

1.  constant and earnest effort to accomplish what is undertaken; persistent exertion of body or mind.

Word Origin & History

diligence

mid-14c., from O.Fr. diligence "attention, care," from L. diligentia "attentiveness, carefulness," from diligentem (nom. diligens) "attentive, assiduous, careful," originally prp. of diligere "value highly, love, choose," from dis- "apart" + legere "choose, gather" (see lecture). Sense evolved from "love" through "attentiveness" to "carefulness" to "steady effort."

Showing up every day, putting in time will produce....well, something or other.


Showing diligence, putting in attentive, careful time, paying dues (due diligence), where the object of interest is valued highly, loved....chosen


brings one closer to divine perfection.


I'm looking for evidence of diligence in my own life.  What am I doing with unmistakably more mastery today than 10 years ago?

LOL

Last night I dreamed I had a premonition I was about to receive an email with "Pumpernickel" in the Subject line announcing my mother's death. I convinced myself the premonition was not to be believed since anyone informing me of my mother's death would not let me know via email.

When I remembered the dream today, the whole thing felt like an episode from a sitcom -- confusing and not really all that funny.

Getting it Right

One must take off her fear like clothing;

One must travel at night;

This is the seeking after God. – Maureen Morehead, In a Yellow Room

As it appears in epigraph to Ahab’s Wife or, The Star-Gazer by Sena Jeter Naslund

On Christmas Day

I am stuck.

There are things on my mind that I want to write about but only if I can write well--flawless, clear, strong, beautiful.  Without that assurance, I have, for months now, been unwilling to show up here -- or anywhere else -- and put "pen to paper." Unwilling = afraid.

Today, the discrepancy between my fear and the fearless creativity I encourage in my students (what students?  Just one of the many news items I am not writing about...) is bothersome. Today I'm talking to myself the way I talk to the kids:  Perfection isn't real. Imperfection is more interesting and more fun. Often it takes doing a thing badly for awhile to get good at it. Process matters more than product. Blah blah.

I've developed an appetite for flattery and compliments. Not just for the blog but for everything. I've come to believe that I'm good at everything I do. Exceptional, in fact. I think I'm smart and fluent and perceptive and wise. 

Ego at work.

I want more space.  Space to fail.  To flounder.  To figure shit out. 

Luckily that space is free of cost and I don't have to ask permission. 

Time Steps Forward

Your eyes gaze unblinking at me. This photo is the wallpaper for my computer desktop.

Hello little girl!  It's very late where you live.  Are you asleep? 

I imagine you are asleep. And dreaming...but you don't know what a dream is.

I am looking at your picture and searching for myself, some little evidence that you came into the world through me.  Through my son who came through me. I am looking for a trace of my own face.

You don't even know that I exist. You are dear to me even though I have never seen you.  

Hello little girl!  Welcome.

Where I Find Myself

I spent 3 hours creating a blog post earlier today and managed to lose the whole thing.  It was an ambitious post:  a good amount of strong, clear writing and lots of hyperlinks and images.

I was upset. I just could not believe it was gone. 

A cigarette craving sat up and screamed inside me.  Tears welled up in my eyes.  My hands went from clenched fists to helpless wringing and back again.

The "pain body" writhing and roaring and flailing.

Five hours have passed since I wrote the last sentence and here's some of what happened between then and now:


Suddenly, my attention went to my breath 
[why?  how?  Spiritual practice.]

In breath
Out breath
Time disappeared
"I" was standing somewhere else;
somewhere outside the eye of the storm of my frustration.


I looked at my hands


I felt fear
and anger
coursing through my body, into my fingers.
Into my eyes, my tear ducts.
Fear and anger and shame rolling through me like a fast river.
My throat was tight.  My mouth was dry.


There was also some other pain not clearly or primarily expressed in the body. Something more like cognitive barbed wire. Some conclusion or question my mind kept returning to....and resisting. 


I didn't want to accept that the writing was gone. 


The cigarette craving was a distinct pang but it was weak and went quickly out of existence.


I prepared and consumed two quesadilla and stood in the sun for a few minutes and played a computer game for half an hour.


Then I got my keys, retrieved the piano music bag from the truck and walked down to the Abbey Cafe to check out piano possibilities.

The sun felt very very good on my skin 


It felt very very good to be walking
to be outdoors
to have sun on my skin


I stopped in front of a house where I heard live piano music and a young woman stepped out onto the porch.  We talked for a bit:  she is the young mother of a 5 year old girl and a 7 or 8 month old boy. She is looking for a piano teacher for the little girl.  It was a sweet exchange and I hope I get to meet the little girl. (I will house-sit here for one more week.)


The Abbey Cafe is a large open room. It's part of a church so, perhaps, it's a converted fellowship hall.  There's a piano in this room but I would never play casually in a public room this large at this time of day. The clerk suggested 6 to 8 p.m. or 7 to 9 am would be good times if I wanted fewer people but I was welcome to play at whatever time I preferred as long as another artist had not reserved the room or piano.

There's a grand in the sanctuary. Some very friendly young men ushered me there but a meeting was in progress so I could not play. 


The young men offered to abandon the room where I found them in conversation to allow me to use the old upright against the wall. It was extremely warm in the room; a single oscillating table fan provided not-much cool. 


The sustain pedal was dead but I figured I could do an hour of Bach WTC.  


A young man in a wheelchair came in and asked if he could listen to me play.  His name is Tim and he sat with me for awhile -- sometime talking when I wished he were silent.


To my surprise, the sostenuto pedal actually had some functionality. Depressing it in synch with the sustain pedal sorta worked...  I was sufficiently encouraged to actually attempt the Faschingswank and two Chopin nocturnes.


I'll go back tomorrow around 6 and hope to play either the grand or the spinet in the cafe.

}}}}}}}->->->->->{{{{{{{{{{

I created a blog post and lost a blog post and created a blog post....   The first item on my Facebook wall today was a poem that now seems a very nice way to end the day and this post:

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

Theater of the Oppressed, Part 1

“Theater” was the people singing freely in the open air; the theatrical performance was created by and for the people. It was a celebration in which all could participate freely. Then came the aristocracy….some persons will go to the stage and only they will be able to act; the rest will remain seated, receptive, passive…

…the barrier between actors and spectators is destroyed: all must act, all must be protagonists in the necessary transformations of society.

--Augusto Boal, in the Foreword to Theater of the Oppressed