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A History of Sorts

I realized at some point over the weekend that I started blogging in March and that I had now been writing a blog, although not necessarily this blog, for 10 years. That first blog post was on March 16th, 2005, exactly 10 years and two weeks ago.

I knew nothing about blogging when I started. I hadn't read blogs, didn't know what it was about, but thought it would be a good way to keep track of my scattered thoughts and projects, a personal journal of sorts, only online. And so I began writing Sewdistracted, began as if I was in the middle of a conversation with myself, which indeed I was. On that particular morning I wrote about how I used the kitchen island as a cutting table, and how this allowed for occasional multi-tasking:

"This morning I saw the neatly stacked pattern pieces on the island and thought, "aha! I can do this while I cook breakfast". Luckily George asked for hot cereal, a menu that I can easily work around. I put the water on to boil, traced a couple of pieces, added the cereal and stirred, did more tracing, and so on. By the time the dear wandered down for breakfast everything was stacked back up just as I left it last night and I was putting the cereal on the table. He was none the wiser except for noting that the cereal was a little thicker than usual. Was I distracted or what??"

But in 2005 my mind was fairly compartmentalized, and I could not figure out how to write about sewing and knitting both, so I started another blog: purlsandmurmers, a place where I could write about knitting and the occasional perambulations of my thoughts while knitting.

Those blogs were a refuge in their own way, a place where I could escape from a life that was becoming increasingly fragmented. George's dementia was already quite evident to those who worked with him day in and day out, but unfortunately that was a very small circle consisting merely of myself and his office staff. For the most part he would pull himself together when dealing with others, and we would suffer the brunt of the collapse when he returned to the office or home, and his overtaxed mental muscles would collapse.

It was evident to all of us that this could not continue, that we would not be able to cover for him much longer. But I soldiered on. Protecting George I suppose. Hoping that the world would see, but at the same time not really willing to force the issue because he was struggling so mightily to keep it all together.

In June I started a third blog, Dooney's World, where I wrote about anything non-knitting that crossed my fancy. I kept that blog fairly secret for a while, afraid that people wouldn't like me if they knew my opinions, and at that point in my life I felt that being likeable and anonymous was all I had. As I write this, it makes me cry for that woman, but not with regret. I have no regrets. We each make the best choices we can, and hope that we will end up into the right place in the end.

I wrote those blogs for five years, even as it became evident that I was not sewing or knitting nearly as much as I had in the past, even as it became apparent to me that I could no longer separate my life and my thoughts into neat little boxes, each existing in their own sphere. And so this blog was born.

This is not the anniversary of this blog, but that is not the point. I am here now. The previous blogs still exist in cyberspace, and I maintain links here. They still, surprisingly get visits. At one point I thought I might resurrect them into active life, but I am not so sure. I am not convinced I would still be blogging if all I wrote about was sewing or knitting. I am not convinced that I am a candidate for a themed or branded blog. I like the meandering flow of thoughts, the informality of just throwing something out there, whatever I am thinking on a particular day, as if it were a conversation that wends its way through the ups and downs of life.

March 30, 2015
Palm Sunday

Lorenzo Ghiberti: Christ's Entry into Jerusalem. One of twenty panels depicting scenes from Christ's life on the North doors of the Baptistry of San Giovanni in Florence.

Palm Sunday, I can never quite explain what it means to me. There is the story I grew up with, the triumphant entry into Jerusalem with the cheering crowds and the palm fronds. And yet, all that revelry turns to darkness, death, despair, and eventually new life. We don't necessarily like to think about that, but it is always there, and always a part of our lives, not solely in our religious observances. For does not religion also provide us with a path through which we attempt to understand our own lives?

Here we are. Another Palm Sunday. Another winter becoming spring. Here in Knoxville the trees are bursting into bloom, but it is a tenuous celebration, a fragile flowering. A sudden chill and glorious blossoms become limp reminders that sometimes we celebrate too much too soon. And the service that I remember as celebratory when I was a child takes on its darker meaning. How easily our loyalties and our emotions shift.

I've written before how this period of lent, of winter becoming spring has always been a period of reflection and growth for me and it has never been particularly easy. Each year I ask questions and hope for answers. But the harder I look for those answers the more slowly they seem to be forthcoming.

But of course the answers are all always already there, waiting. It is not that the answers don't come. It is that we don't look in the right places. The answers are there before we even ask the questions. God gives us the answers before we even know what we are looking for. We are not waiting for God to respond; we are waiting for ourselves to be ready to listen.

March 29, 2015
Vibrating the Sinews of my Brain

Last night, as I settled into my seat at the Bijou Theater waiting for the concert to begin, I wondered if being there was really a good idea. It had been a long day. I had not slept enough the night before and had managed to get myself through my morning meeting only by virtue of a steady slow stream of caffeine. And although I was fine during an afternoon with friends, I was fading fast during the drive home from Farragut. Traffic was heavy and slow, and I found myself drifting off to sleep at traffic lights.

I had 20 minutes at home, enough time to feed Tikka and Moisés, and take Tikka for a far too short walk while I drank a double shot of espresso. Then, knowing that I had been waiting for months to hear The Bad Plus and the Kronos Quartet in Knoxville, I headed downtown. It was worth a try and I could always head home again.

In the end it was well worthwhile. The first concert I attended was a performance by The Bad Plus. In the opening they sat on stage, a video behind them, recorded music….. but the instant they began to play I snapped out of my transitional fugue into bright sharp alertness. It was as if sunshine filled my body and every cell blossomed forth in alertness, and I snapped to attention.

They began with their reimagining of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, and the way in which I find new understandings every time I hear this work continues to amaze me., To both see and hear it live was a marvel.   Drummer Dave King's mastery of techniques and the way he coaxed and controlled sounds made me wish my grandson Owen could be watching and listening, even though I am not sure I really want him to hear the Rite of Spring quite yet. I knew that piece of music when I was very close to his age, but now I am more protective, I don't want him to hear what I hear in this music, although of course I have no memory of what I actually heard when I was 9.  At least The Bad Plus's vision of The Right of Spring is not as brooding and menacing as the original and lacks that sense of bone-crushing darkness that the best orchestral performances bring to the Rite.

I was sitting near the front, in front of Bassist Reid Anderson, and his technique, sinuous and controlled, forceful and gentle, was fascinating. For once I was not watching the pianist, not that Ethan Iverson isn't worth watching at any time. It was a fabulous performance, vibrant and alive, and incredibly moving and thought provoking, both the Stravinsky and the group's own compositions.

After the concert I felt eager and alive and filled with excitement, much in the way that my 20-something self would be filled with excitement after heading off to BAM. I knew I wasn't ready to head home. I saw a young woman, a friend, hepped-up, and excited and I remembered those days, when I would be virtually vibrating with excitement and energy. Alas no more; by brain was buzzing but my body was continuing to wilt.

My plan had been to attend the Kronos Quartet concert, but I wondered, temporarily, if I should head off to hear Tyondai Braxton instead as that performance was shorter. I opted for the Kronos Quartet, and in retrospect I think it was a good choice, for me. Once again the music revived me. Yes even the music of minimalist Terry Riley, plucked at the sinews of my brain waves and caused them to vibrate in excitement.  The Cusp of Magic is a quintet, written for the Kronos Quartet and Wu Man, who performed it last night. It was a fascinating and marvelous piece, simultaneously jarring and soothing, a piece of music with very controlled effects that somehow seem serendipitous, as if you alone are just learning something for the first time.  This closing (for me) concert made me think of the way the world exists in multiple layers and levels, and the way we find our way through the fractured prisms, thinking we are on a clear path, and only occasionally being startled into realizing that what se see is just a fragment.

All in all it proved to be a good day, full yes, but filled with individual activities that still seemed somehow to mesh together into something else. And it was honoring this wish within myself, to indulge myself in the music, that brought it all together:   The photo above is of a bottle stopper I purchased in Sweetwater during my afternoon shopping trip with friends. It is made from a vintage pool ball, and although it is a little large and heavy on the bottle when viewed solo, I love the way it fits into the liquor case amidst the other bottles. The photo reminds me somehow of the fracture lines of thoughts in my mind following the concert, or is the music that makes me fond of this photo? Perhaps a little of both.

March 28, 2015
Thrown Together

When I was young and newly married we ate a lot of weeknight stir-fries. Simple. Fast. Good.

The other day I needed lunch in a hurry. Upon looking in the refrigerator I found a generous handful of baby Bok Choy, a quarter of an onion, and two small but thick slices of smoked pork butt. Cooked together with a bit of hoisin sauce, soy sauce, rice vinegar and sesame oil, it made for a very satisfying lunch.

March 26, 2015
Breaking Through

Winter. Spring. Lent. Easter. Loss. Birth. Rebirth.

I've been somehow fragmented lately, partially off my routines, but also just not quite connected, I suppose in some transitional sort of way. But I can only say that if life is in fact one constant progression through states of transition: of periods of "almost" and "not yet" interspersed with periods of unity.

It is not that I have not been organized. I have in fact at times been so organized, so focused on the minutia of detail that I have lost sight of the point behind it all. It is quite possible to be too organized, to be blinded by detail, to organize oneself out of all connection with humanity and reality. Of course that is, in all likelihood never the intent, merely an outcome stemming from good intentions. It is possible to be so obsessed with being prepared for anything, for being so obsessed with the details, that one is not, in fact prepared for anything, at which point one learns it may have been better to do nothing at all.

It is possible that one can get so wound up in details, in the minutia of life, that there is no other solution but to reboot.

All around us we see nature rebooting. Here in East Tennessee the daffodils and forsythia are blooming, and it seems that the world has been almost instantly transformed from dull gray skies, bare branches and endless seas of mud to an endless array of new buds and growth. Each day seems more colorful than the last, more filled with promise. We see this blossoming forth and we are filled with hope and joy and yes, a sense of peace.

And although our ongoing struggle seems to be through cycles of death and rebirth, loss and growth, we need to remember that this too is just a construct, a way of understanding. Yes the world we live in goes through cycles, and sometimes the cycles of this world can be quite overwhelming and violent and other times soothing and calm. And no we humans do not always adapt ourselves to our world, or to each other, happily. But the possibility of unity and connection is always present, we need only to open our eyes and our hearts..

We can choose to live our lives constrained by duality. Or we can strive to see beyond it, working towards those all too precious moments of unity. Like sunlight through the petals of a daffodil, there is always more than we can see.

March 24, 2015
A Little Spring Sunshine

The daffodils are blooming in the front yard.

And there is sunshine as well. What a beautiful start to the weekend.

The fact that I have Mozart running through my brain following last night's marvelous performance of the Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 25 by the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra and pianist Conrad Tao, is just icing on the cake.

I am playing catch-up this weekend. But that doesn't mean there won't be walks in the sun, moments of beauty, and fellowship. Have a happy weekend.

March 21, 2015
Alas Poor Sam

Sam the cat passed away Wednesday evening. He was 15.

Although he was very shy when he first came to live with us, he was also very loyal and loved to cuddle. He was always there to curl up in my lap whenever I was sad or lonely or just frustrated, and his presence was a balm during those years of George's decline. He opened up considerably after we moved to Knoxville. He loved sitting on the sofa with George's caregivers, and he missed them when they were gone. He was a sweet, patient, lovely cat who would often greet visitors looking for a little affection.

I spent a lot of time with him these last few days. He stopped eating Friday morning, but I was out most of the day and didn't really notice until evening. Saturday he was weak and having difficulty breathing and I wrangled an emergency appointment with his vet, where he was immediately put on oxygen and a large amount of built up fluid was removed from his chest. I was shocked. He spent the weekend in the ER, where we learned he had lymphoma, and I authorized the first chemo treatment, hoping we could turn things around. I visited him there and brought him home on Monday. The tumor was too large, he was old, and too sick. He had suffered with diabetes for years. This time it was my turn to sit with him.

Moisés (on the right above) and I will miss him. But if there is a kitty heaven, I am sure he is there, basking in the sun.

March 20, 2015
Wordless Wednesday

March 18, 2015
March Madness

March is breeding season.

For the turkey vultures.

Dozens and dozens are visible down the hill, in the woods, where there are many dead trees offering safe perches for raising one's young.

I don't think I've ever paid so much attention to the birds. A week or so ago Tikka and I saw a wave of over 100 robins swooping through our fields. Alas I was carrying neither phone nor camera.

Now there are dozens of turkey vultures communing in the trees. It may be an interesting spring.

March 12, 2015
Not Yet and Always

I had planned to drive to Atlanta Thursday afternoon for a quick overnight trip even though it meant I would skip class. There has been an exhibit of new works by photographer Andrew Moore at Jackson Fine Art, and this past weekend had appeared to be my only window of opportunity as the exhibit closes this week. Alas, its was not to be. I decided not to go. The snow and ice we had Thursday was not the reason, although I have no idea what the weather was like on the road to Atlanta, but the appearance of yet another ice storm confirmed the feasibility of my decision.

My decision was more an admission of "not yet" than an indication of lack of interest. I do admire the work of Mr. Moore, and would be interested in a future purchase. I am willing, and interested, in travel merely for the sake of art and music. But I am not yet ready, and the logistics of the less than 48 hour trip filled me with more stress than the thought of the art. It seems my period of settling in continues.

And so the weekend was spent running mundane, but necessary, errands around town. In truth it was a rather pleasant activity. Tikka went with me some of the time. I had forgotten how enjoyable errand-running could be, if one so allowed. Of course this may have primarily been because I had successfully avoided it for nearly a month, what with colds and ice-storms and snow. In previous weeks I had simply decided that I could do without. But as we all know, that state can only go on for so long.

The weekend ended with a concert, a short concert of choral works, sung by the parish choir of the Church of the Ascension as part of the Friends of Music and the Arts program. It was a rather ambitious program for an amateur choir, consisting of works by Duruflé and Poulenc, but despite a bit of struggle with some passages, it was overall, a lovely and moving concert.

The choir opened with Duruflé's Quatre Motels sur des themes Grégoriens, a work that always seems to me to capture some sense of spiritual presence and joy. Upon hearing the opening notes of the Ubi Caritas, I simply felt any residual tension fall away from my shoulders and calm descend, and I was able to simply relax into the joy of the music.

The Duruflé was a good opening for the music of Poulenc, which followed. The Quatre Petites Prières de Saint Francois d'Assise, for male voices, opened with such utter simplicity and stark beauty I could not help but be moved. The choir captured this beauty, and at a few points even captured that rascally sense of irreverence that is often woven into Poulenc's works, that sense of reaching for the holy but of always being somewhat constrained by the irreverence of humanity. It is subtle in this work, and sometimes overlooked, but I was thrilled to hear a hint in this performance, whether accidental or intentional. As I sat and listened, I could hear George singing softly next to me, as he once would have done, as he loved Poulenc, loved choral works for male voices, and would often sing under his breath during concerts. He had a lovely deep bass voice, and as I heard him singing, I was filled with that sense, not a bad sense in any way, of how those we love are always with us, a part of our basic makeup, always there when we need them, to remind us of some sense of ourselves, our personal saints in a sense.

The concert ended with Poulenc's Mass in G Major, a work where the fault lines between the divine and the human are far more apparent. This work, with its abrupt shifts in meter, its complex polytonality that verges on atonality, seems to capture a sense of an overwhelming straining and yearning for the divine, a state that cannot be maintained in its awe-inspiring beauty (and terror). In this work the difficulties of the text were more apparent, but there were moments when the sopranos achieved that ethereal angelic beauty that Poulenc was aiming for in this piece, angelic beauty offset by the disruption and dissonance of human life. What Poulenc captures in this music, and what the choir managed to highlight was this sense of fragility of life and of faith; that in the midst of life there is death, dissonance, and disruption, and yet that apparently fragile thread of faith remains constant and strong.

Simply beautiful.

Andrew Moore, Zydeco Zinger, 2014, photo taken from here.

Andrew Moore, Beaver Dam Lake 1, Tunica Mississippi, 2014, photo taken from here.

March 10, 2015