Trust

green shadows I think about trust a lot. Trust of friends, family, lovers, animals, and especially trust of one’s self. I realized a long time ago that once damaged, trust takes a long time to heal. It’s like a house of cards. It takes time to build and can collapse in a second.

Some people grow up being confident and never learn to doubt themselves. I was one of them. For most of my life, everything went my way. But eventually I got duped in love and made enough mistakes in my life to really begin to wonder when the next mistake might occur. That’s the biggest mistake of all: fearing the next mistake. It snowballs into an iceberg of low self-esteem.

A few years back I went through a period of rabid self doubt. After R left me, I doubted everything about myself: my looks, my humor, my intelligence, my morals, everything. It eventually crept into my playing. I couldn’t just quit my job, but it was hell going to work. It didn’t help to practice. Because doubt can build up even more when something is carefully learned and then you still f*** it up. It’s a higher cliff to fall off.

So I just showed up, and sort of closed my eyes and dove in. The internal judgment was painful. I couldn’t do anything right. At least it felt that way. My colleagues assured me I sounded fine. Their generosity was part of my healing.

About that time I saw Spider Man 2. (I love that movie) In it he goes through a period of self doubt during which he loses his powers. His identity crisis consumes and weakens him. He recovers by finding his way back to himself through faith and trust. He learns to trust that he is loved and needed. He learns to have faith in his intrinsic value.

It took me a year to feel a normal trust again in my playing. I still don’t really know how I got it back. I built it up over time. I just kept breathing, kept falling into the next moment, noticing that I didn’t dissapear, no matter how bad I felt. Eventually the negative voices disappeared. Now I know I won’t lose it so easily again. I know how to nurture that fragile shell we all need.

The same kind of fragility exists in friendship. I once hurt the feelings of a close friend who might have become a lover. I didn’t know how much trust and closeness he felt for me. He moved away, both physically and emotionally. Love is a soft, fragile gift. Sometimes I’m careless with other’s love for me.

I know I’ve hurt many people in my life. It’s rarely intentional. I make choices which seem right for me, but which aren’t always right for those who care for me. For this reason I work on humility daily. I usually try to err in trusting too much rather than too little. This habit pays off. Trust comes back to me. It grows slowly, like thick, soft moss in a shady wooded glen, ready to cushion me should I fall.

On a trusting note, I met a blogger friend today in person for the first time. Kelly Bell attended a family concert I played in and came back stage to say hello. It was so cool to be able to hug the wonderful person who has shared many positive words with me here in the blogosphere. Her positive energy is even more vivid up close.

Let the trust grow.

Building

Lemoyne Star quilt, OrangesI like to build things.
houses of irony,
wings out of emptiness,
wealth with freedom,
freedom from desire,
passionate power
through humble fire.

I like to take things apart-
ego trips which hide a hurt child,
logic, with its webs of words
love, acid test for the heart
which burns to a fresh core,
TV, legal heroin-
(poetry now for why and WOW!)
Trix Cereal, to eat the just the marshmallows,
orchid flowers next to moth wings
because they both can fly in dreams,
light and dark shadows
which creep across the wall,
a new heartbeat, ba- dum, for each scene-
(purple crayons, into reds and blues, and violets, too),
purses, full of stories and things you need,
the layers of flavor in a slice of aged cheese,
the fruit hidden in a sip of wine
made from five different grapes,
from five lands far and wide-

as I listen to this ancient music,
this Bach, chugging across
the tracks of time,
rolling over my gaucherie
with wheedling words
loose and natural,
down these rocks,
purposeful, watchful,
timed entropy.

I build sand castles to watch
as the wind blows them away.

The quilt in the photo is from the Civil War era. The pattern is called Lemoyne Star, miniaturized to crib quilt scale. It comes from Kalamazoo, MI.

Dream Away the Cold Gray Day

Brugmansia

Freezing weather just returned to Columbus after a few weeks of milder temperatures. I scowled as I walked to do some errands earlier today, thinking the fresh air would do me good. A frosty breeze burned through my fleece jacket. My thoughts withered to basic survival. “Just get home!”

Upon returning home, I brought the mail in and noticed a flower catalog in the pile. I get lots of them. I’ve “outgrown” most of the choices they offer, and I have a good nursery nearby where I can choose healthy plants. But this catalog offered some unusual flowers and plants with colorful leaves. As I paged through it, I felt a warm, tingly hope. “Winter will end, winter will eventually end…”

I don’t indulge in dreams much, because I believe they interfere with awareness of the present. (that’s something I need to write more about here) But today, I felt the healing power of that little day dream.

I dreamed of warm weather and lazy days soaking in time, of bright chartreuse coleus and orange daylilies and purple petunias, which smell sultry sweet at night; of verdant glitter as the sun draws warm breezes through the trees. I dreamed of Brugmansia blooming on my back patio with its huge trumpets dangling insouciantly. It’s heady fragrance illuminated the gray day of my winter attitude.

A little dreaming once in awhile is like chicken soup for the soul.

How do you dream away a cold gray day?

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Exuberance

The laughing inside met the laughing outside. They rode together for days. Laughing became a rejoinder to being blessed. I’ve been feeling more trusting of the idea of being blessed. It’s scary; Trusting. For me at least.

I’ve felt comfortable in my skin recently. Exuberant. Sometimes I can see myself in all my bumbling truth and just go with it, just notice. And if I let the noticing rest, it takes on a sweet life of its own. I float a bit lighter. I imagine my life as it is. No walls.

On my way to Bethesda last Wednesday I floated down the highway in my white bullet Volvo S60 T5. My butterfly tank, the Swedish SchmetterLink. I listened to the new Niel Young, “Prarie Wind”, the new Bonnie Raitt, “Souls Alike”, which is excellent, Cecelia Bartoli doing Italian love songs, the fantastically talented and sexy blond clarinetist Martin Fröst, who plays opera inspired music so sensually, and Steve Reich, which is hypnotic “phase” music, perhaps best described as acoustic sound textures. I love listening to music while I drive long distance. I do some of my best listening that way, as a captive audience.

A few hours after I arrived, we sat to a simple feast of steamed lobster and steak, surf and turf. Sipping a glass of wine, I chatted with Mom and Sis and her husband, Bill. Bill is a grand spirit, whose scope of observation is wide and inclusive. I believe his 1/32 portion of Native American blood affords him a deep, peaceful perspective on any subject. (Note to self. Date more Native Americans.) His tall, lanky body seems to bounce with generosity of spirit. He’s a professional gardener. Yup. He cares for a small, wealthy private estate in NW DC. He works hard, and knows the value of relaxation. He’s a boon to the Thomas family nervousness.

At some point in our bubbly conversation, I mentioned my stiffness from the drive and that I needed to do some yoga. Bill asked if I could do the plow, a pose where, while lying on the back, you bring the legs and hips up over the head and touch the toes over the head. Exuberantly, I jumped up to demonstrate. The half folded sofa bed looked like a good thing to lie on and demonstrate my limberness. I flopped my legs up over my head. I did it with such energy that the sofa bed folded up, swallowing my head and shoulders, while my legs flailed in the air. It must have looked cartoonish, the big sofa mouth with lanky legs flopping about. I wasn’t really stuck, but I couldn’t bring my weight down without bringing the whole couch with me, so I just stayed there, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe, while the family tried to rescue me. They were seriously concerned, which made me laugh even harder for some reason. I haven’t laughed that deeply and completely in many years. As I wiped away the tears, we returned to our meal. Laughing at myself feels so good.

Sonya the Platinum Princess (Mom’s Papillon) is a perfect match for Platinum Glamor (Mom). But for some reason, she has closed membership to her private club with only two members, Platinum Glamor and me. (who could perhaps be called Platinum Glitter) My sister and her husband are not included. (we’re working on that) So the Platinum Sisters have their little parties, and no one else is invited.

Sonya is particularly happy when the three of us go outside so she can do her duty. We saunter across the front lawn while she sniffs around. Mom’s life is finely tuned to the delicate, intricate life of her personal angel, Sonya. I knew this for sure when as we spoke, Sonya spiraled in a smaller and smaller circle, and then, just before she stopped and squatted to pee, Mom uttered, “She’ll pee right…now.” And then, a few minutes later, it was pointed out that she would poop “now”, and, pointing the flashlight at it, noted how firm and healthy it was. Now that’s intimacy! Seriously, a pet schedule is healing to the human soul. Sonya’s exuberance is healing for Mom.

Among other things, the Platinum Sisters made Welshcakes, which are cookies cooked like pancakes on a griddle. It’s more fun with someone, so one can roll the batter and the other can flip each cookie. The Welshcake is a light, cakey butter cookie, with currants and a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg which goes great with tea. The recipe is my grandmother’s, from my father’s side. Though it’s a common cookie in Wales, my grandmother’s recipe is particularly yummy. I cook them every year in memory of Gramom, and send a few dozen to Dad.

While Mom and I cooked, Sonya pranced around, danced to her own electricity. If Mom’s moving, she’s dancing. She never rests unless Mom does. She looks so busy, twirling and pacing behind and around us, one wonders what she’s doing. There seemed to be a dozen or so cookies missing soon after we finished. There’s NO way Mom and I could have eaten them.

I connected with Sis Amy better than ever. I’m finally grown up enough to let down my “big brother” hair and just be her friend and fellow musician. I have great respect for my dear sister, who teaches 40 students a week privately, and freelances, managing her own flute and harp duo, plus plays principal flute and manages all the personnel of a small orchestra. She quit smoking over a year ago, after 25 years. Go Sis! I’m in awe of her sometimes. She is more efficient and organized than I’ll ever be.

On the way back to Columbus, I listened to the same CD set as on the way out. But I felt the music even deeper. As the beautiful rolling hills of Western Maryland uncoiled before me, I rejoiced at my good fortune. A bellow of life sprang from me unimpeded as the white bellies of snowy hills presented themselves to me with such perfect gullibility, trusting me, because I trust them.

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Happy New Year

I just spent a few days with family in Betesda, MD. I had a blast. I can’t imagine a better way to wind down the old year. For the most part, I’m happier than I have ever been. I have lots to write, but I need to catch up on chores and get ready for going back to work this week. I’ll post in a day or so. Thanks for your well wishes.