Music Hath the Power

A-9 Dance - the last dance before going off to different high schools. HE, not the one all the other girls like, but still, a cute one, asks me to dance to Strangers on the Shore - a SLOW dance! Each strain of that urgent and soulful clarinet underlines in neon the romantic circumstances of fourteen year old love: he notices me, he asks me, he’s touching me! I’m swooning with infatuation... or my belt is too tight. Same breathless effect.

Although the afternoon sun is blazing, this near-end-of-term June day, we might as well be on a moonlit cruise. I have stars in my eyes, and the dappled sun on the side yard offers enough shade, (hopeful thought), to hide my flop sweat.

All these years later, Acker Blik’s mellow reedy sound conjures that gestalt of poignancy of “addled-essence.”  I wonder where the HE in that scenario ended up. I’m happy where I am... Hopeful he is too.

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Daughter Mo came down this weekend from the Bay Area to celebrate her 20th High School Reunion.  She’s an organizer supreme... picnic Saturday afternoon in Eagle Rock; dance party gala that evening in Chinatown. Meanwhile, Gran’Pun and I get to be  Grandies to the amazing five year old - her daughter - who holds magic, mayhem, and keys to our hearts. 

She has enthused and amused herself all day, by meeting other kids, working out on park play structures, doing magic with her granddad, swimming, and watching “Frozen” here at home. I sing her to sleep Saturday with only a couple of the usual repertoire of twenty or so lullabies. Quickly, she begins snoring softly beside me, yet in the morning remembers, “Gra’Moose! You sang Climb Upon my Pony... ‘I’ll take you where you’ve been,’ instead of ‘...where I’ve been!’” We both laugh. Even half asleep, with twilight vision, this child has 20/20 recall!  

Our final Monday morning breakfast is punctuated by Carole King’s Really Rosie album. On it, Ms. King has put music to all four of Maurice Sendak’s tiny books: Alligators All Around, Pierre, Chicken Soup with Rice, and One was Johnny. Miss D has memorized nearly all of the lyrics to all of these songs/stories, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but AM surprised that she’s also memorized virtually all the words to Dar Williams’s Song, I Had No Right, and she sings along with the CD in her mom’s car on a brief drive this morning. Heavy lyrics. Powerful images. She’s questioning her elders about death, which seems to spring - unbidden - from all quarters; from lightning strikes in Venice, to war in Gaza, to her teacher’s report that her brother was struck dead by lightning as a child, to whirlpools and rip-tides sucking folks under, to my mom - her Great Grandma’s death, to Frozen, where the parents go off and never return, and to Ms. Dar’s song.

I Had No Right

God of the poor man this is how the day began
Eight codefendants, i, daniel berrigan
Oh and only a layman’s batch of napalm
We pulled the draft files out
We burned them in the parking lot
Better the files than the bodies of children

I had no right but for the love of you
I had no right but for the love of you

Many roads led here, walked with the suffering
Tom in guatamala, phillip in new orleans
Oh it’s a long road from law to justice
I went to vietnam, I went for peace
They dropped their bombs
Right where my government knew I would be

I had no right but for the love of you
I had no right but for the love of you

And all my country saw
Were priests who broke the law

First it was question, then it was a mission
How to be american, how to be a christian
Oh if their law is their cross and the cross is burning

Aaaaaaaaah the love of you
Aaaaaaaaah the love of you

God of the just I’ll never win a peace prize
Falling like jesus
Now let the jury rise
Oh it’s all of us versus all that paper
They took the only way they know who is on trial today
Deliver us unto each other, I pray

I had no right but for the love of you
And every trial I stood, I stood for you

Eyes on the trial
8am arrival
Hands on the bible

Reassurance required.

Humming them safely home, for the next six hours, with songs of protection, including chants to Ganesh - Remover of Obstacles. 

Music had BETTER HATH the power!!!

Legacies

Harold and Maude is one of my favorite movies. 

This weekend, it felt as if I was IN the movie... going from funeral to funeral - one Saturday and one Sunday. Plus another coming up for our dear Dr. Fleiss. What a mensch he was! 

The two services I attended over the weekend had lovely food, delightful people, and illustrative slide shows. Both were for long-lived ladies, with measuring stick histories, which cause me to review my life thus far. What IS the legacy I’m leaving?

One of these gals was most concerned, in her later years, with supporting food banks. Her idea was that no one should go hungry. She raised three beautiful, loving, and productive children, all of whom are doing good things on the planet.

The other, who had longer to do good things, because she lived to be 100 years and 41 days, hosted the Democratic Club meetings in Echo Park, as did my own mom. Her two sons, both successful artists, have made names for themselves in their chosen careers. What I learned, during the slide show of photos and through word pictures painted by relatives and friends, is that she was happiest when she was in nature, or talking with people at the shop she founded with one of the sons. The Soap Plant, now known as Whacko, is nearly as iconic as I view its founder Barbara Shire.

What will my legacy be?

Former dancer, tutor, nursery school teacher, yoga and meditation instructor, who became a body-worker - just so I could figure out how touch could be helpful to my Gram when she came out of triple bi-pass surgery... where does it all lead.

I continued studying whatever modality of bodywork seemed to help me on my own healing journey. Is it wrong that each of my clients became a “Guinea Pig” as I navigated my way from novice to adept (enough) in wielding each tool? For their patience with me, I am grateful. That’s why I call what I do a bodywork PRACTICE... I’m always practicing.

Who knows what my legacy will be? What will my eulogy be?

Good friend, perhaps? Singer, writer-of-songs who still played guitar badly even at the end of her life? Volunteer camp counselor? A Gra'Moose who loved her granddaughter soooo much?

On a recent visit with my older daughter, we let our hair down with each other, and she told me how much she appreciated my telling  her and her sister just enough of what was going on when memories of my early childhood, that I had  suppressed, came flooding back when I was in my forties. I thought I was going crazy, in someone else’s movie, having someone else’s flash-backs, and having terrible somatic symptoms. I remember reassuring my daughters, then ten and fourteen, that I was doing some healing work, and that it wouldn’t last forever, and that all would be well. 

My daughter told me it was useful role modeling for how to deal with what life hands us. Again, I’m grateful… both that I had the resources to heal, and that I think it’s the best thing to model for our children... that there is nothing so big that we cannot face it together, and that healing is possible.

The fact that one of these ladies whose lives we celebrated over the weekend smoked for many years of her life and still lived to a ripe old age, is reassuring. Of course, neither of them grew up in Los Angeles, Valley of Many Smokes, which, I’ve been told is tantamount to smoking a pack a day. Oy! I’d better work on my legacy... I might not have as long as I think!

Journey

Arriving at Amanda’s early, I sit in her garden, while she completes preparations. The oaks surrounding her Topanga hide-out rustle in the twilight breezes and scatter the last rays of the sun.

She beckons me in, and motions me to sit on the couch. She perches comfortably in her chair, and points to water in a purple plastic tumbler on the table in front of me. She asks me what I want to focus on for this Shamanic Journey-Work session. I know exactly what I want. 

1. To share the songs I’ve written so they can be of use. 
2. For my writing to be shared and to be of use. 
3. I want to coalesce any still fragmented pieces of my soul so I can complete the above jobs which I seem to have come into this life to do.
4. Find the best possible home for the next leg of our/my journey in the bay area.
5. Easy downsizing and easy move.

Amanda has me lie down on the couch, and explains that she will be moving around, using rattles and other instruments. I might hear a drumming tape. She might touch me, is that OK. Yes, of course.

She puts an eye shade over my eyes, explaining it can be deluxe as it is when she places it on my eyes... Kleenex first, bandana over that, and a flax-seed bag scented with lavender for the final layer, or pared down to only one or two layers. I ask for the deluxe. The weight and coolness feel soothing, and I sigh deeply, releasing the tension of driving the long, steep, and twisty roads to get here.

She does a simple “breathe into your heart” guided visualization with me. I am relaxing with every breath and see my heart like a circle picture of a cozy campfire... only about 3/4 of the vision is incomplete. About 1/4 is clear, and I can see the fire, a couple of chairs,and something cooking over the fire. Later the picture begins to come completely into focus… a satisfying gestalt. I tell her later it looks like one of the circle paintings on an old box of Celestial Seasonings Roastaroma Tea, circa 1972.

As she begins to whistle, chant, and whisk me with feathers, I smell sage burning. Pretty quickly, I see a huge lion’s face - big nose, mane and mouth, soft eyes. I know this guy. He’s long been a familiar to me. His smell is a comfort to me. His face morphs into the face of an old Indian man with a single braid.

Pretty soon, gray-green underwater canyons appear. The foliage of spiky leaves of gray- green morphs into other faces. Mostly the visions are in color, except for twice - this underwater gray-green underwater canyon scene with occasional faces in the foliage. I smell something sweet… lavender-like… but not quite.

One of the finishing touches is a refreshing sprinkling of water over my body from toes to crown. I stretch and feel HAPPY as I lift the eye shade, roll to my side, and sit up slowly. Blinking in the dim light, I reach for my notebook to jot some ideas and visions.

As I gulp down the water in the purple cup, Amanda tells me, “This was very clear. It’s good to work with some one who has done so much work already. There were three soul parts. Two came together, accompanied by a big lion who’s been their protector for a long time.” 

I get goose bumps of recognition. 

“As soon as he knew that’s why I was there, he turned over the two year old and the six year old. It was not difficult. As long as they were together... there was a deep bond with the lion and between the two girls - the older protecting the younger one. You’ve already done the work, Melinda, making the connection with them energetically...

“In the enforced promise of secrecy, was another soul part - stashed away.” Amanda continues, “I sensed that I met your father. He took me to where the other part was. He knew there were no more secrets. She was nine, ten, or maybe eleven years old.” 

Amanda got my older soul part, thanked Howard, and brought her back to one of HER (Amanda’s) teachers called “Gran’ma.” Gran’ma works with women. She put some healing salve all over me, wrapped me up, rocked me in her arms, then put me in a cave to rest. I rested a long time. When she came to get me, Gran’ma washed me and set me near the fire to warm up. (I think it was her sweetness I smelled during the journey.) While I was with Gran’ma, Amanda traveled to another spirit - a male who resides in a temple like building. Skeletons were dancing around a fire outside. They took off their head dresses. They were laughing and talking. There was a cleansing pool in front of the temple. In one room a wise elder receives people. He doesn’t usually do healing, per se. He is a teacher. He has me lie down and some kind of visions are being imparted to me by him. Amanda doesn’t know what they are; she cannot see them. I get up and go to a wall where the visions are… a visual representation of what he’s imparted to me. It’s not a soul part. But if I connect again with my heart space, she assures me, the visions are there. I have everything I need to know, Amanda emphasizes. I laugh with joy, until tears come. 

“You will make & tell stories. You will write. You will write more songs and sing them. When you move north, you’ll have time you don’t have now,” she tells me

I will have the time and energy to do what I need to do?

Amanda’s teacher tells her... “Tell her don’t worry. There are no blocks, no problems... just go do your work.  Songs... book...”

The final piece is this: A deer presents itself to Amanda. Mama deer and her fawn are my allies. They walk with me in my life. Journal with her.  Journey with her. 

Another of Amanda’s teachers washes me with water. This is what I feel at the end of the session - that refreshing sprinkling.

I lie still for a few minutes and get up and we share our experiences. I feel so happy. I am laughing and laughing... especially about the writing part. There are no blockages. There will be time in the new home to write. I won’t have the encumbrances I’ve created for myself here... too many commitments, too many tasks, too much energy expenditure. 

Amanda gives me a citrine crystalline rock formation. Calcium white with goldish orange crystals protruding from one end like a little island city floating in a white sea. To me, the crystals form a face. She says it’s a goddess stone. Before I leave for Oakland, I tuck it into a small hang-around-my-neck beaded pouch someone gave me years ago. The goddess seems happy there. I like wearing her close to my newly re-formed - reunited with my lost parts - HEART. Plus, the beaded pouch necklace is gold & black and goes well with my traveling outfit  as I head north to see my daughter, grandie, and meet with realtors at 4:00 to look at houses here. I’ve come for a week long workshop in Berkeley, and to house-hunt.

Nearly a week later, I still feel the difference of having my soul parts back. There’s a settled, at ease feeling, and much less... well... less of a sense of being fragmented and scattered. I FEEL coalesced... as if an afterimage has come into focus with my body. I feel like smiling just because I’m home.

The Breath of LIfe

On a flat sheet of embryonic cells, a ripple is barely visible - as if an exhaled breath has blown across it - disturbing the surface and creating a shallow valley. The Breath of Life moves, and the movement stirs the flat sheet such that the cells begin to coalesce around the imprint of that ripple.

The trough deepens; the top edges meet to form a tube. This is the neural groove which becomes the rudimentary spinal cord for the new human forming inside his mama’s dark and quiet. She doesn’t yet know she’s become a vessel for new life to flow through her. But life has begun and it moves.

Mother moves; conceptus moves. Her dark and quiet is anything but still. Her breath, her  belly gurgles, and her walking gyrations keep the embryo in constant motion. The exponential growth of rapidly multiplying cells has a movement all its own. 

Life is Movement; movement is life. 

Soon, a heart pulse begins - too faint yet to be heard, but it’s there, lub-dubbing away. With luck, that ticker will last a hundred years or more!

Life is a dance. 

Mama rocks her baby; daddy swings him up in the air so blue. Before long, he’s running and sliding, and skating, and swimming, and swinging on ropes, and dancing, and dancing, and dancing.

I was lucky to figure out at a very young age, that dance kept me sane. Angelika and I were two years old when we met. Her parents and mine loved fine music. We lived across the way from one another, and choreographed intricate routines to Franz Liszt’s Rhapsodies, which included running at each other from across the room, and virtually flying, as hooking our arms stopped our forward momentum hurling us skyward. Perhaps each of us had a masochistic streak, but it was great fun to move all out - as fast and hard as we could play or dance.

When Angelika and I weren’t dancing, we were climbing trees, roller skating on our Eucalyptus pod littered patio, sliding down Echo Park’s steep and weedy hills, or riding bikes in Elysian Park. We were always on the move. 

How fortunate we were to keep the rhythm of life moving within us.

The stagnation of bodies in this digital and virtual world is worrisome. What doesn’t move cannot be fully alive.

How wonderful that my mom and dad allowed me to take dance lessons - first ballet at age nine, with Carmelita Maracci, and later, at twelve, modern dance with Anne Barlin.

By the time I was sixteen and my father had died, I went back to study ballet in earnest with Carmelita. She was the one my dad had chosen, and I felt some weird loyalty to his pick. She was a tough cookie, but I stayed with it - attending five classes a week and two on Saturdays. I learned quite a lot about the joy of movement, the lyric line of the foot just so in arabesque, and the discipline it takes to be a ballerina. I didn’t have the discipline, but I loved to dance. 

At eighteen, I added Classical Spanish Dance to my repertoire of learning. Digging into the earth with zapateado (foot work), while simultaneously reaching for the stars with crown and breast bone created a pleasurable lengthening of the spine, as castañuelas clacked a contrapuntal rhythm to the clattering of my 1920’s red Capezio Spanish heels.

On our hard-wood dining room floor, if you look closely, you’ll see the faint impressions of those breath-of-life red shoe’s exhalation having disturbed the surface of the flat wood, and curling my lips into a distinct smile of contentment and utter JOY.