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Mid-January, Rain - January 13, 2012
Almost Midwinter - December 14, 2011
Saturday, Noonish, Sunny - November 05, 2011
October, White - October 31, 2011
October, 2011 - October 04, 2011


June 26, 2008

6:03 p.m.

In the Woods

(Begun on Friday, June 20)

I�ve never been in a place where there was often no noise at all. Unless the little fridge (which I placed in the bathroom, to be as far away as possible) is humming, or the hot water heater is maintaining, there is a lot of time when I cannot hear a thing beyond my own breathing.

The acoustics in my studio are sweet; I have been singing, at times, at the top of my lungs, which for the first couple of days caused me frequently to burst into tears. It teaches me how this consciousness of others� comfort, or others� mere proximity, has dictated my behavior, from how I walk across my apartment floor to how softly I practice at home. I sang and played so loudly yesterday that I startled a young deer that was passing under my open window. Off she went into the woods, white butt flashing.

So this is my third full day at MacDowell, and I�m settling into some kind of routine. Most days include a long hike, finding by trial and discovery where the little trail map they gave us is inaccurate. It�s a magical forest here, with high tree growth but not so thick that one can�t see a good way into the woods. The ground is soft and mulchy and there is lots of deadfall and moss-covered boulders. I found a back trail to the main hall that is about fifteen minutes� walk, and now I have an alternative to riding my bike. The bike rides here around the property are generally short and excruciating, with many hills. The ride to where I shower is mostly uphill -- then, thankfully, mostly downhill on the way back so I don�t have to get sweaty again after getting clean. I didn�t end up in a live-in studio, but I do like this one. It�s a little shady, being in just a wee clearing, but it�s a spacious room and my little bed is extraordinarily comfortable. I have an electric tea kettle, a fireplace (which I don�t need in this season), a rocking chair, a piano, and two very large work tables. I�ve been doing rudimentary piano exercises and beating on my drum and trying to unravel the knot of a song I put down last year because I got stuck. No big output yet, but at least I�m showing up for work.

The other artists here are superlative. I say that and I haven�t even seen any of their work yet. They are so nice, and so casually witty. I�m starting to remember names, and I know the guys who live in the other studios on my dirt road. I�m rather in the hinterlands here, which is fine with me. No car noise, nothing. Birds sometimes. Once in a while an airplane, maybe. Anyway I like everyone and do not feel as isolated as I thought I would be. Yet, I can be as isolated as I want.

The food is abundant and good.

Five Days Later

Well, today I was cursing my songs and hurling the f-word at them, as I�ve made very little headway and nearly lost interest in all the ones I�ve been working on. I brought several I�d started last year and hoped to finish, but I feel detatched from whatever prompted them at first and rarely make any progress. What author was it who said, of his productivity, �This morning I took out a comma... this afternoon I put it back in.�? That�s how I feel. How have I ever written any songs? What do I do now that I have all this time and space and opportunity, yet have nothing pressing to talk about?

I�m not heartbroken. I�m not in turmoil (except for the pressure of needing to write songs). Will no longer inspires me to work through my process of desire and release. What else IS there? I long for a house and a garden. Of what interest is that to anyone else? Is it possible, or even of any value, to separate Bornearly the songwriter from Bornearly the bookmaker, the poet, the Reiki Master, the Celebrant?

I ponder these tough questions as I hike through the Middle Earth woods and hope for deer sightings. I broadcast my spirit all over those woods today hoping for a deer, and saw none. I even made up a little deer song to summon them. I did find a couple of very good staffs, though, one a beautiful birch limb, and a couple of likely Talking Sticks. I wish I were making books here instead. I feel I could make books. But that would require bringing up a huge amount of stuff, big plastic stackable drawers of stuff, and completely distracting myself from songwriting, and I have some guilt even thinking about that. I�ve thought maybe I should concentrate on finishing my third poetry book, making it something I really feel proud of. I can do anything I like, really -- and I�m going home day after tomorrow for a gig, so I could bring something else up to work on. I�ll think about it. Feels a little self indulgent.

Anyway I have been practicing my piano exercises, and a woman came in this week who is a fan of the band and has been a piano teacher for many years. She had suggestions for better piano books that I could get in town, so I�ve ordered them. Maybe I�m here to learn piano. It seems to be what I�m enjoying most.

I have to be open to what the Universe shows me here. I had all these preconceived notions and they seem to be crumbling, though I hold tight-fisted to them. Let go. Let go.

Thursday

Pondering all this late last night, I remembered that when I applied here, songwriting was about my third choice of discipline, but the only one for which I had enough demonstrable credits and work to submit. Maybe it doesn�t matter as long as I got here. I�m having all these book ideas. I want to incorporate all these beautiful little things I find in the forest here -- mosses, birch twigs, stones. It�s raining again, and the sticks I brought in two days ago are still a little damp. I think I have to get over this �identity struggle� and give myself permission to create things as the cycles come up -- and if it�s not songs right now, it can be something else. I feel I�m trying to work against nature, forcing songs out when it�s not their time.

I saw the deer this morning. She leapt across the road just before I turned onto my dirt road, so she was in the trees to my left. Fortunately she was more concerned about some walkers coming up the main road than about my car, so she didn�t even pay me any attention until the walkers had passed by -- a couple of minutes anyway. She just froze there among all the browns and greens, only twitching her big ears to follow their progress and conversation. They hadn�t seen her. I lowered my window and watched her, trying to find significance in her arriving at that moment, when I was thinking about giving myself permission to change direction here. She looked at me finally, but seeing no movement was not spooked. She turned and hopped away. Pretty brown deer.

In very happy news, Rose finally completed writing a grant yesterday for the Ghana Health Mission, with whom she travels to Africa every summer to help heal really poor and really sick people. The grant was for millions of dollars. In less than 24 hours they�d contacted her and said she won the grant! This is going to turn things around completely -- no longer will the volunteers (medical professionals and med students) have to pay their own way; no longer will they have to choose who gets to go the hospital for the life-saving operation and who has to die. They can have better facilities built -- with air conditioning, imagine that. Sanitary facilities. Office equipment. MEDICAL equipment. School scholarships. I suppose, anyway, that they can do all these things -- decide how the money gets used.

I�m sure she�s emailed her buddies in Africa, her �foster children,� and told them, and everybody is laughing and dancing.

It�s the kind of thing that could change the course of history.

More as it happens, or soon thereafter.


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