A flute player told me women were not allowed to play the flute back in time. They weren’t allowed any instruments played by a mouth. Too sensual, it was thought, or so they said. They were ok with women playing keyboards or the harp.
I wondered about whistling. I am a compulsive whistler. Whistling, according to some psychologists “reinforces the whistler's belief that they are alive. It also helps self-orientation.” When I whistle I am calmer and melodious and yes, somehow more oriented in my situation, bouncing notes off of my surroundings.
Women were not supposed to whistle either.
I do whatever I can to orient myself, to find me and others in all of it.
During the Quaker meeting last Sunday I suddenly imagined myself breaking out into song, “Glory Glory Hallelujah!” I thought it was kind of funny, mainly because this was my song to sing visiting adults in our home when I was so young I wasn’t shy yet about performing.
Minutes later, a man opened his mouth and sang a few bars of “Glory Glory Hallelujah.” A woman wrote this song who was an abolitionist. That was the point of the song, slavery is bad. I didn’t know this until very recently.
I could write a list of reasons of why countries fell to fascism, in fact I did. Here it is: 1. I’d rather watch TV. 2. Huh? 3. I like pick-ups. 4. Why is everything about politics?
She said, but how do I know if I make a difference? I really need to know before committing, as my energy is limited!
I told her, “we probably can’t know if we make a difference before we do something.”
We bring our energy to what we do- it’s energy work is how I experience it.
We can’t all be Joan of Arc though I’d like to be.
Someone told me today I was a little woo-woo but not too much.
Then tonight I came home after work and spent 30 minutes outside.
I was pulling out old tomatoes from their cages in my garden when a swift silent bluish color flew low and just off and over my right shoulder past and under the tree and to the other side of the street. Some kind of hawk. 15 minutes later a couple came up and asked about Spice, my cat, where was she? I had to tell them she died and they were sweet and kind and said so many people walked this way just to see her. We talked a while as the light started to change to evening and they walked home up the alley.
A few weeks back Ace Dog was looking for her too. Ace Dog is a guy who ran for mayor a few times. About Spice, he said with a smile, “I used to pick her up and pet her and then she’d bite my hand.”
I finished piling up dried vines for the night and thought about the hawk. It made me think of Spice. She’d make a great hawk.
This morning I wrote a letter on paper to a friend that I didn’t mail. This friend knows me so well that just the act of writing to them helps me hear my own voice.
One part was about students from Iran facing disruption here and at home. One wondered what we can do locally. It’s federal so what can I do? Aside from standing on a corner with a sign.
I probably need to be juicing meals, walking barefoot carrying a club, doing qigong instead of stuffing face with sugar and carbs… but I am still studying warrior pose from a distance.
Looking toward the future, I plan to visit a donkey sanctuary in August. It was the first open slot. A great way to gather people is to keep rescue donkeys in a field. They currently have nineteen.
A weekly new thing is doing a sauna on Friday nights. The last time I took mental notes. It was restorative even if not zen.
The sauna has no secrets. There were gasps groans sighs and moans. Slaps cracks hums. Tongue clicks, wiggles and fidgets. Tales of being fatally wounded but somehow living. Finally to finish things off after doing some downward dogs, a man did an air drum solo.
The whole thing somehow was a group ensemble collective, one I didn’t realize I was joining.
Still it’s orienting to be briefly disoriented, to be in the middle or edge of the familiar and the unusual. We bring our energy to what we do- it’s all energy work, regardless of woo-woo levels.
