beauty

reflections on blogging, one month review, ‘discovering more beauty through writing’

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The subtitle to the blog ‘discovering more beauty through writing’ has also been on my mind.  I wrote it without any real reflection; this in itself is important for my work.  Writing is the place where I discover what I think and feel about certain things.  It seems to arrive onto my journal, a screen, a letter and it’s at that point that I find out what is there.  I know there are some people who mull over their work forming it in words in their mind before they write it down, but I’m not made like that.  Now I think of it, it’s like brewing tea (which I also love), I’m aware of phrases swimming about in my head for a certain period of time before they pour out in a writing stream.  I try to stay out of their way, because if too much conscious, analytical me gets in the way, they lose their naturalness.

There are several ways that I am discovering beauty through writing.  I love beauty – in nature, in things, in people, in adventures – and over time I have come to see beauty as a place in which magical things can happen, things like hope, healing, courage, revelation, insight.  In my own writing, I am trying to grow an attitude that sees more beauty in everything, but also to pay attention to particular instances of beauty, almost to amplify it in a world that is so often full of distress.  In addition to this, I have found that sometimes I can write about hard things and discover the beauty in them as I write.  This is because writing brings understanding and meaning, and it is meaning that can make difficult things bearable, and even redeem them and transform them into something full of honour and grace and depth.  For me, this is the true magic of writing.

Finally, knowing that I might want to write at any moment increases my attunement to the present.  It heightens my sensitivity to beauty all around me.  It makes me be on the alert for treasure that I can catch in my writing net and bring home to nourish people with.  It’s so much fun!

recovery

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So it’s getting near to the piano exam, and an important and underrated skill is coming to the fore:

Recovery.

It turns out that despite my own deep desire to avoid mistakes, this is not a realistic goal.  In fact, the more pressure that is put upon my performance to be exquisite, like the concert pianist I watched online, the more likely it is that my fingers will hesitate, trip over themselves and take a tumble.

So as well as practising getting the notes, pace, rhythm, tonality, expression right, I am also practising keeping going when it goes wrong.

I am getting accustomed to the heart-lurch and sense of impending doom, and telling myself this is part of the adventure of performance.

I am getting used to trusting that my fingers will be able to find their way back to harmony and beauty.

I am training my inner monologue not to equate a small stumble with a total collapse of the piece.

I am learning to hop my fingers out of the ditch of the wrong keys and back on the horse of the right keys.

I am realising that by starting at a manageable pace, I am more likely to be able to sustain a polished performance.

I am growing cannier in identifying ‘stepping stones’ where I will be able to regroup if I have a sudden nerve-jangling moment.

I am reminding myself to breathe deeply and be in the present before I set off.

I am noticing that if I look up at the music, if I anticipate a little,  I play better than if I look down at the keys.

I am discovering that mistakes are part of live performance, and it’s how you deal with them that counts.

I am learning how to live.

five luxuries

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a perfect cup of tea, made by someone else, right to the end (into my hand)

waking up on a Saturday with no alarm, refreshed, and discovering that it is really quite early

arriving at the beach to run the moment the sun comes out after the rain

making an illicit diversion to the department store on the way to work and being welcomed with smiles, chocolate, fragrance samples and a hand-massage

using a pretty-and-robust umbrella on a rainy day

falling – commentary

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I don’t know whether I want to write commentary on my poems, but I am trying it out here.

This week I have noticed that lots of old routines and facets of my life are changing or disintegrating.  I am back to writing my book after a long time away with my business work, my colleague is on maternity leave, my favourite café is no longer home, some friends are moving, some are in new relationships, and I have been trying to write daily for extraplorer, which has caused its own twenty-first century vertigo,  even my hairdresser might be changing.

Everyday this week I have felt disorientated.  I wake up, and can’t quite pin down who I am.  I am having to train myself back into the routines that serve as anchors to my everyday life.  Sometimes I forget the things that create stability or peace or connection and productivity and it’s like I have to reinvent or rediscover them.

I love the phrase ‘ontological lightness’; it means a kind of insubstantiality of being.  This week I have felt insipid, more of a breeze than a person, tipped about by circumstances.

But really this is only partial reality.  It’s more in my head than in my legs.  If I stay still for a few minutes, like right now, essence of me starts to fill up and I feel like myself again.

It’s the essence of me that is linked to the essence of the old oak in the poem ‘falling’.  Leaves falling have an ontological lightness; they will decay and fade, but the inner reality of the tree, and the reality of the acorns which although perhaps not visible to the tree do exist in the world, are full of substance.  Very full, and overflowing with life, which will become again visible through the buds of spring.

So once again, patience.

falling

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There comes a point in time in the life of a
brave old oak
when its cloak
gives way,
bit by bit,
to wind, to rain, to age, to the
inevitable pull of
seasons.

When its much loved array
of green and gold
leaves it, forever,
to the nakedness of
cold.

When its acorns, once full of
anticipated joys, of life,
of potential, of
infinity,
are entirely gone.

When even its very last cherished leaf,
the one to which it finally
clings with all its might,
takes flight.

Then the voices in the winds wuther:
‘Call yourself an oak?
Where’s your cloak?’
‘Where are your acorns?’
‘You’re a joke.’

And so the old oak stands,
vulnerable and grey,
lashed by storms
and frost and even
heavy with snow.

And hopes.