Dear whomever is kindly reading this post,
It is my 30th year on Planet Earth, I've been writing songs since a tender young age, and only minimally sharing these creations. That's changing this year... it feels like a mountain I must climb... Since 2012, I've written somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 songs (162 are recorded on my phone - the rest are scribbled on dare I say napkins... and the imaginary inked paper of my computer screen...as well as on pamphlets, magazines, the empty space on the top of newspapers and whatever else happened to be available as the flash of word and sound came through)... I've shared a handful of these creations with a handful of friends, I'm ready now to share what has been born inside of me...Tune in to hear the song of the week, a birthing celebration every week!
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Vulnerability is lauded as a superhuman skill.
Vulnerability is lauded as a superhuman skill, a skill which each and everyone of us can potentially grow and harvest within ourselves. Why is it important in a semi-permiable membrane (our bodies) to be semipermiable, to actually be able to put ourselves in another's proverbial and actual shoes?
I believe the fate of our species depends on this ability, the concept makes itself known in many spiritual traditions from the Buddhists - Metta - meaning loving kindness, to the biblical charge... love thy neighbor as thyself. It is not hard to understand why once the shoes your wearing are someone else's.
A story, to illustrate my point from a personal perspective. I was in the airport in Austin, going to fetch my luggage in a steep crowd mountain of people flocking for their possessions, I grabbed a bag that was not mine, it was it's doppellgangers, a women in tall high heels and a tight miniskirt, with the eyes of an enraged creature, snatched the bag out of my hands and scolded me in a verbose tone. For a moment my heart broke for her, for how much wrath was being projected at a "stranger" for an innocent mistake. I allowed myself to be in her huffing, puffing, I'm going to blow your f***ing house down shoes. Then I came back into the lining of my own skin, feeling the rush of blood in the veins, and the hot blush of fresh tears, that filled the creek of my face during this flash flood. I once again chose, to not be in the victim, victimizer, savior trinity, rather to immerse myself in the intelligence of kind acceptance in the face of meanness. This is a skillset, that my life circumstances have had me cultivate time and again.
Physiologically, I have a strong body odor, when I am nervous, excited, elated, cramped, wearing too many layers, or a number of other reasons ... some which I can measurably point to, others which baffle me considerably. It often gets me in trouble in civilization, in the world of perfume and chemically altered smells, my fragrant ardor has gotten me kicked out of classrooms with the advice to shave my armpits, as well as thrown off a Southwest flight, my family of origin often finds it offensive... and yet
I love that my body reeks of a medley of organic spices whether I shower or not.
As a result of this condition, I have given myself permission to embrace my wilds and not take out the tree line to have a more socially coveted view.
I believe the fate of our species depends on this ability, the concept makes itself known in many spiritual traditions from the Buddhists - Metta - meaning loving kindness, to the biblical charge... love thy neighbor as thyself. It is not hard to understand why once the shoes your wearing are someone else's.
A story, to illustrate my point from a personal perspective. I was in the airport in Austin, going to fetch my luggage in a steep crowd mountain of people flocking for their possessions, I grabbed a bag that was not mine, it was it's doppellgangers, a women in tall high heels and a tight miniskirt, with the eyes of an enraged creature, snatched the bag out of my hands and scolded me in a verbose tone. For a moment my heart broke for her, for how much wrath was being projected at a "stranger" for an innocent mistake. I allowed myself to be in her huffing, puffing, I'm going to blow your f***ing house down shoes. Then I came back into the lining of my own skin, feeling the rush of blood in the veins, and the hot blush of fresh tears, that filled the creek of my face during this flash flood. I once again chose, to not be in the victim, victimizer, savior trinity, rather to immerse myself in the intelligence of kind acceptance in the face of meanness. This is a skillset, that my life circumstances have had me cultivate time and again.
Physiologically, I have a strong body odor, when I am nervous, excited, elated, cramped, wearing too many layers, or a number of other reasons ... some which I can measurably point to, others which baffle me considerably. It often gets me in trouble in civilization, in the world of perfume and chemically altered smells, my fragrant ardor has gotten me kicked out of classrooms with the advice to shave my armpits, as well as thrown off a Southwest flight, my family of origin often finds it offensive... and yet
I love that my body reeks of a medley of organic spices whether I shower or not.
As a result of this condition, I have given myself permission to embrace my wilds and not take out the tree line to have a more socially coveted view.
A conversation on the bus
"How old are you?" The short haired curious eyed person whose voice sounded like the bassy chords of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, deep gutural sweetness pouring through and through.
The little girl, pig tailed with deep flush of tanned skin, a hot pink hearing aid tucked close to her ear like a seashell picked up at the beach, that decided to stay on and bring the blasting woosh of the world closer to the perception of this tender soul. She stood on her tiny sneakered tip-toes- waxing and waning as the curled spume of the ocean waves. An old jew in prayer, a rainstick shaking by a gentle inner pull.
"Sit your butt down, now!"said the littles ones mother, a gruff woman, wearing a loping hoodie that slid down her curvy body as snow melt does down the mountainside on a sunny day. She was pierced and tattoed by the intimate choices of her life and encircled by prayer beads. She handled the little one roughly, when the little one moved, spoke or did anything other than sit still and silent.
"Eternity, how old are you?" The person, with the coffee ground Cohen voice crooned.
I heard the off kilter sound that arises from an old soul in a little body, not in protest or spite, to their unruly and uncooth caretakers... rather in a still peace-able, holy known to themselves way.
" I am as old as age, as time, as light, lightening and thunder, as love itself, I am eternal."
The little girl, pig tailed with deep flush of tanned skin, a hot pink hearing aid tucked close to her ear like a seashell picked up at the beach, that decided to stay on and bring the blasting woosh of the world closer to the perception of this tender soul. She stood on her tiny sneakered tip-toes- waxing and waning as the curled spume of the ocean waves. An old jew in prayer, a rainstick shaking by a gentle inner pull.
"Sit your butt down, now!"said the littles ones mother, a gruff woman, wearing a loping hoodie that slid down her curvy body as snow melt does down the mountainside on a sunny day. She was pierced and tattoed by the intimate choices of her life and encircled by prayer beads. She handled the little one roughly, when the little one moved, spoke or did anything other than sit still and silent.
"Eternity, how old are you?" The person, with the coffee ground Cohen voice crooned.
I heard the off kilter sound that arises from an old soul in a little body, not in protest or spite, to their unruly and uncooth caretakers... rather in a still peace-able, holy known to themselves way.
" I am as old as age, as time, as light, lightening and thunder, as love itself, I am eternal."
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