'creativity is not efficient. she has a different relationship to time than most of us. a minute can last a day and a day can last an hour. she loves all the seasons. she is on intimate terms with the sun and the moon. it is New Year's all year long at her house, what with celebrations for the Celtic, Hebrew, Tibetan, Chinese, Japanese, and other New Years too numerous to mention. creativity loves to gossip with the birds and put on her masks and beads and dance with the animals...

some people consider creativity selfish because she does what she wants. i have always found her to be gracious and most generous. she is certainly complex. if you have only met her in a serene mood, her flair for drama may offend you. she is not your aunt with the porcelain teapot who plays chamber music. if you are one of those people who only go to see her when she is starring in a major melodrama, you will not hear her rain songs. if you insist she is mad, you will never see how still her face is when she returns from a dream...

sometimes creativity disappears completely or wanders around the back alleys for weeks at a time. she has a strong need to be occasionally anonymous. if you run into her at the post office line during one of these periods, you will probably not recognize her. she is in a different place. it is almost as if her blood has slowed down. when the blank period is over, creativity brings her free self home with her. her skin is new. she is ready to work. 

more than anyone else, creativity understands the secret meanings of the months when nothing seems to get done...' 

-the book of qualities

bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone.

hit the center of the head. with the meat of the hand. bass.

the edge of the djembe with full fingers, no palm, no thumb. tone.

bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone.

three drummers. six hands. bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone.

keeping rhythm; letting the rhythm keep us. bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone.

think too hard, and it's lost. hesitate and you're 
stuck in the waiting.

jump in. let go. be loose. 

bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone.

sinewy arms, vibrant eyes, tapping feet, syncopated yips.

bass-bass-tone. bass-bass-tone.

dreaming. of healing spaces. and stimulating places. touching the unknown and the unexperienced...being unconstrained, autonomous, free...

a music box playing the same five notes in pattern...light, delicate, fragile. 

i'm a little girl spinning in my pink tutu on the beige carpet of my bedroom in illinois. ballet slippers snug on my small feet, purple legwarmers pulled over my heels and up to my knees. spinning, arms in the air. eyes gazing up at my white ceiling. turning, turning, turning... free...

the ache of the cello comes in slowly...deep, mournful, strong.

i close my eyes. inside my world, i feel things that have no words. a loneliness they'd say i'm too young to understand. a sadness that has no place in my happy room full of books and dress-ups and stickers and stuffed bears...a woefulness with no discernible cause; an inherent longing...

the tapping of a cowbell comes in quickly, lending order, rhythm, momentum....a synthesizer layers in with contrasting chaotic sounds. 

i'm spinning. spinning. looking out the window at the street and the houses on it. the humidity of the day heavy on me, covering me like a blanket. pushing through the thick air in my tornado spins, around and around...

fingers glide up and down guitar strings, the keyboard comes in, a ribbon of violet and fuchsia effortlessly flowing up and down, through and around the melody and rhythm...a beautiful mess of sound, texture, movement, momentum, flight.

i'm a woman now. the beat pumping through me, eyes closed and sitting on my vinyl chair, breathing in and out as the rhythm moves me. the little girl is here with me. i take her small hand in mine, and we spin together. i tell her i understand. that i sometimes feel the same way she does. but that i don't get scared anymore...i know i'm not alone, even when i am. she squeezes my hand...we both look up and close our eyes, breathing in the music, breathing in the sadness, and slowly, softly, smiling...spinning...

**as inspired by the hatchback dub version of 'questions' by dark captain light captain**

'Harmony doesn't seem extraordinary until you have known [her] for a while. [She] knows how to be gentle, and such gentleness is surprisingly powerful. The silence around [her] is lyrical. If I sit in [her] kitchen in the late afternoon and drink ginger tea, by the time I am ready to go home the contradictions inside my head are no longer shouting at me and trying to tear me apart. [She] gives me space to be my whole self.

It may be hard to believe it now, but there was a time when Harmony was afraid to leave [her] house. I am not sure about the whole story. In college [she] was an outstanding athlete, and [she] won many prizes. One summer when [she] was training intensively, [she] became dissatisfied with the whole set-up. Torn apart inside, [she] could no longer keep [her] balance. [She] alienated many of [her] friends with [her] tirades about hypocrisy and ugliness. Frustrated with people, [she] took long walks in the neighboring countryside. [She] found sanity in the geometry of old buildings and started dreaming about how to organize spaces in which [she] could feel more comfortable, thus, stumbling into the profession of architecture through a back door. [She] has learned how to design rooms which evoke different aspects of ourselves. Although [she] is a meticulous architect, she is no longer fussy and alienated. [She] can go anywhere now. Simply by being [herself], [she] alters the current in the field around [her].'

appreciating when unison falls into harmony...when energies constructively interfere (image on left)...ephemeral highs and fleeting lows, yes...but above all, movement, dynamism...
 learning to love it all...the interaction with all the life waves around me...

the 6:00 a.m alarm vibrates me awake. wearily, i perch my glasses on my nose and wobble to the bathroom. a few groans and grunts as i turn on the shower. 'no, no, no, no, noooo!' i whimper. as the water heats, i scurry into the kitchen and turn on the front burner, set the frying pan down atop it, throw in a pad of butter and let it sizzle. then - 'crick, crick, crack!' - i pour an egg into the sizzling fat and let it fry. sprinkle with a little seasoning, reduce the heat to low and run into the bathroom for a two minute shower. scrub, scrub, lather, brush (my teeth), then-  'squeeeeak!' - turn off the water and wrap a towel around me and drip as i jog into the kitchen to turn off the stove. then i toast a muffin, pull on whatever clothing is clean and acceptable enough to work in, work some product into my growing hair, pack my food up, grab my tote bag and run out the door. i turn on the car, do my eight point turnabout to get out of my parking lot, and when i finally hit Grand Avenue, i lay the pedal to the metal and begin my treacherous drive to work. on 880, mattresses are flying off trucks, people are swerving into different lanes, big rigs are barreling past on-ramps in the right lane...my blood pressure immediately skyrockets. the calming voices on NPR do a little to calm me, but by the time i get to work (having had the windows down the entire time to dry my hair) and screech into my parking spot at 6:59 am, i'm shaking ever so slightly. and that's just the beginning. more often than not, there's at least 3-4 more hours of driving on 880 and 101 and 116 and 12 and 580 and 24 and 980 during the day, 10-20 phone calls, too many texts to count, at least 50 emails, thousands of hungry kids feasting on hot lunches, harried administrators, overwhelmed teachers, picky parents...all in the name of getting health(ier) meals into little, growing bodies. sometimes i miss my little eight raised bed garden at my last job, teaching the little ones how to sow radish seeds and harvest arugula, making crafts out of recycled items and reading stories about food markets around the world. but i'm glad to have seen the system from this vantage point as well. and i'm excited for all the momentum that's building in the general public's eye for school lunch reform. a few years ago, california wanted a garden in every school. next stop: a kitchen (that's being used as such) in every school :)

today, feeling a growing appreciation for those in my life who are honest, forthright; feeling strong in my willingness to hear difficult things from others and caring enough to say them to others when the time calls. i don't fear the hurt that honesty can cause; i welcome it when it intermittently punctuates a connection...i feel safe in trusting that, then, to be a real, dependable connection that's based truly in compassion and not need nor opportunism. too often, in this game of life, an anemic honesty is sidelined so that a hefty self-interest can run onto the field and play...i'm learning that my team of emotions and qualities don't play well with teams that are stacked with such dissimilar players and teams that don't give all their members equal opportunity to play the field.

each step i take, my legs become stronger, my gaze softer and more centered, my breathing more controlled. going forward on faith. nothing pulling me; no promises being made, just going...


'Compassion wears Saturn's rings on the fingers of her left hand. she is intimate with the life force. she understands the meaning of sacrifice. she is not afraid to die. there is nothing you cannot tell her. Compassion speaks with a slight accent. she was a vulnerable child, miserable in school, cold, shy, alert to the pain in the eyes of her sturdier classmates. the other kids teased her about being too sentimental, and for a long time she believed them. in the ninth grade, she was befriended by Courage. Courage lent Compassion bright sweaters, explained the slang, showed her how to play volleyball, taught her you can love people and not care about what they think about you. in many ways Compassion is still the stranger, neither wonderful, nor terrible, herself, utterly, always.'