The Enthusiast

I forget myself. I have made promises that now fall to other people to keep. I am deeply grateful. It is a kind of salvation, a lifejacket that keeps my head above the water while I work out my ineptitude. While I decide whether to tread water or to swim.

I am an enthusiast, you see. I love people. I really, really LIKE them. I rejoice in connection: creative, mental, verbal, literal, emotional, physical. These connections fill me with elation, with a kind of bliss. Ecstatic, I forget myself - like a child engrossed in an imaginary game. I leave the world behind. I am happy, interested, electric, alive. I act. I turn, spinning and spinning until I fall down. Dizzy, overexcited.

It's only when I wake from the dream that the embarrassment kicks in. A sense of shame. It confuses me. Embarrassed for having been who I truly am for a little while? For letting that secret self into the world? Or is it for having made choices that prohibit my true self from being fully present? Embarrassment?! I could weep for the lack of joy in it.

I try to stand brave in my shoes, chin up, with a bold gaze. You only get one life. I am an enthusiast. I walk the line. I have done nothing, I confess everything not done. I don't kill (not even mosquitos!), I don't steal, I don't lie. I confess the stupid things (I drank, I smoked, I kissed, I danced) - even when it costs me.

And yet there is an embarrassment. Because (it seems to me) I am too enthusiastic. Because I have too many words. Because I want. Because I act. Because I spin and fall down. Because I find it so very difficult to be myself in the world. So very difficult to stand brave in these shoes.

Horse Shoes and Hand Grenades

For once, there was no confusion. Heart, body, and mind aligned with a resounding "Yes!". If something interesting was happening, if some life was going down - all of me wanted in. How rare! How completely, helplessly in love with the moment. Laughing for the absurdity, the joy of breath and heartbeats, sweat and mosquito bites, chipped nail polish, hair, hands, sternum (oh sternum!), spine, hips, leg bones. The impossible tickle and texture of grass covered in morning dew. The siren song of smell, taste, touch. (ah, smell!). This is not all there is, it is not even the most important. But for a lovely, loved moment, it was enough.

Morning. A morning when the sand has already run through the hourglass. When forces are not gathering - not trembling on the potent verge - but dispersing with a "whoosh!" to the four corners of the earth. A morning like this is no time for beginning.

Possibility remains. A hidden land. The voluptuous, undisclosed country of the imagination. It is a secret joy. An inner talisman I hold against difficult times, boredom, sadness. Friendship remains. Art remains. Happiness remains. Creativity remains. Memory (oh yes, thank God, memory!)... remains.

And having so much, I open up my arms, I spread my palms to whatever is coming. I laugh and count myself lucky. Something amazing almost happened! Maybe something amazing did happen. Almost... only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades - so the saying goes. But no matter what angle I look from, I call it a ringer.

Es Ist Schön

Music, language I have known my whole life. Vibration of cells, rhythm of the very heart. As a child, I used to listen to my pulse beating against my pillow, the oceanic hum of my breath. The strum of my Dad's guitar, the twang of his voice, "Hey Jude!" as I played with dolls on the living room rug. Hymns sailing over my head as I stood tiny and bold in my dress shoes at church. Chewing the half stick of peppermint gum my Grandmother offered, I listened to my Grandfather's booming, imperfect voice "Oh the land of cloudless day! Oh the land of an unclouded day!". A consolation to Sunday boredom.

And suddenly (it seems) I am 38 years old and onstage in Germany. Mature with the joy of eyes, vivid electric connection, sonic shapeliness, sensuality of sweat, vitality of breath and motion. I can hear you breathing next to me! Ecstasy of hearing! Brain lighting up like a thousand fireflies, playing together, playing apart. Here comes my favorite bit....right....now! We leap into it together, full heartedly and my heart is...full.
We are wicked and polished. Daredevils! The Red Baron in a streaming scarf and goggles. We are barn storming and everyone knows it. They laugh, applaud and wriggle in their seats. They..... enjoy, we enjoy!

Screw all jadedness! All sad sap gigging. All sighing and humpfing and dragging of feet. Smile....rejoice with me a little. These are people who really know how to play music. They give and give and give. It's not so easy when you breathe life into every damn note. When you pay attention to what is going on around you. When you make a decision, a solid determination to be awake, aware, alive....every moment. That is the effort, the gift.

These are people who really know how to play music. It makes me happy, grateful. Proprioception - extend awareness outward - ears, body, mind, heart. And we become something so much bigger than ourselves alone. I will never forget the last chord of the tour - Emlyn you rolled it! I heard you.

History of Flight

The strange stasis of transatlantic flight. At 35,000 feet, I lack imagination. The world below does not exist. I am everywhere and nowhere, a caesura, a blip on the screen between realities. What about the lanky man in 24 C, the woman with a toddler in 26A? I cannot foresee the beautiful fiance waiting in Amsterdam, the anxious grandmother in Berlin. We are a world unto ourselves, a little silver realm without connection. For these few hours, for this brief flight, this is all there is. We watch movies to distract ourselves from the uncomfortable, pervasive question.... do we even exist?

I am running away from something. Home? I leave behind... people, belongings, the vestiges of language. Airports delight me, they throw me into despair. A paradox. Cathedrals of transit - arches of energy, crossing, dancing, bubbling over, never stopping. There is not one thread to grasp. The ephemera of life shifts and shimmers in the terminals. It is a diaphanous glow, forever cresting and waning in the wake of bedraggled travelers.

Nothing really happens in airports. Planes land, people eat, change diapers, meet, buy duty free, use the restroom, collect baggage, make their connecting flights, planes depart. We all stride purposefully, nervously, looking straight ahead. Do not smile, do not make eye contact, do not leave your baggage unattended, report all suspicious activity. I want to place a warm, crushing kiss on the businessman sitting across from me -to knock over his briefcase - to taste the coffee and hand rolled cigarettes on his lips - to grab handfuls of his wavy hair - to astonish him, astonish myself - to prove that we are really here.

In the hotel, I pace. I am vaguely fearful of the cleanliness of the room. I long for connection, context. A fingerprint on the bathroom mirror, a crumpled taxi receipt behind the door. Tangible evidence that someone was here before me, proof that I am here now. I brush my teeth, spit in the sink. I open the window, close it again. I sit on the tidy bed, resolutely muss the covers. I hear birdsong in the courtyard. I am running away from something.

Vestiges of language. Music is the language of the feeling heart? But I don't feel anymore. Not until the bow hits the string. Not until I can hear what I am saying: bold, delicate, shapely, sensual. Music is a language I can understand. First language. There is no ambiguity in it, no precision of meaning. A paradox. Music.... and the language of the body. My heart beats, my palms sweat. I am really here.

Music is the language of the body. See how our eyes meet? A look potent with connection. I smile. A knowing smile. I know what you are going to do, even before you do it. I know exactly how it will sound.