Critter Whisperer

Mother’s Day, 2017.

A concert  of Renaissance music, composed by women.

Scene: Intermission, obligatory bathroom break.

Dramatis personae: Portative Organist, Singer, Moth

One enters the restroom, embedded in the building of the campus. A beautiful big moth is fluttering there, having already entered by means of some slipstream of air, from outer to inner. One relieves an urgent call, washes and dries. Yet, the fluttery flapping continues.

One knows the beautiful moth will die if it continues to be trapped within the restroom.

The Portative Organist enters the restroom. Oh, gosh. One thought to try to capture the moth, but the presence of another person makes such a venture an Admission of Oddness.

One says to oneself, “Okay, just this once.”

And then, One's thought speaks to the Moth, “Let me catch you,” while waving wildly with One’s hands. Fortunately, the Portative Organist has entered a stall and shut the door. Maybe she won’t think you are a crazy nutcase.

“Come to me, Moth,” actually speaking the words aloud, while flailing your hands toward the creature, in “capture mode.”

Miracle! The Moth lands on your hand!!!!

“Stay,” One says, while slowly opening the door to the hall and slowly stepping down toward the exit to The Great Outdoors. "Stay." The small creature listens, perhaps...

But then, nerves intervene and worries, and the wings begin to beat.

“NO! Stay!!!” The tiny feet affix themselves once again, and a small tongue comes out to touch a caring and anxious flesh. “Stay!” The larger body hazards to step forward, slowly, followed by more steps to THE DOOR.

Slowly, One opens the door. (With recent days of high wind, One does not want the small charge to be blown back into the building.) One extends the hand bearing the small creature out into the sun shot air.

“Go, you are Free!”

But, the creature stays, fixed to One’s hand!

“Go, you are FREE!”

The tiny tongue comes out, offering another kiss, and the creature still clings.  But the intermission is coming to a close…

“Please, Dear, you must GO!” And, of course, the Portative Organist is leaving the restroom, but what is dignity?

One last kiss of the sweet and tiny tongue, and then, “You must, must go!” And I blow my small charge from my hand, into the breezy sunshine.

The moth flies to greet the afternoon.

One returns to the call of music, to the concert program.

But, a once trapped moth flies free.

Ode: Owing to Knowing Owen

            for Owen Orser on the occasion of his
                  80^th Birthday - March 19, 2017

Owing to Owen, what say we?
occupying a strand of paisley tapestry,
you’ve traversed the human condition;
each day is a trip across the boards,
be it filled with joys or woeful travesty-
but the play is all, a daily mission,
a practice born of keen observation,
a way toward, an attempt at perfection.

Flying on your golden thread
through the fabric of our gathered
storms and strays, camera at the ready
to find and stay moments rather
lovely, to store them in mind’s eye
for that future chance to set steady
a stage where magic might make
an appearance, for art’s sake.

The eyes of Owen,
the beauty of birds flown,
all the subtle bon mots, placed and sewn
into our shared space, loved and known,
a sheaf of programmes, artfully strown,
the screen, the drape, column and bench on loan,
for today’s lesson
on the question
of expression:
‘Tis not about the big impression,
but rather the interior exploration
coming to collation
in concentration
revealed by measured ration,
drawing into one
every eye and ear,
when all is said and done.
That is why we gather here,
Friends, what we lovingly cheer!
To proclaim our heartfelt renown
for that by which we are bound,

Owing to knowing Owen.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Post Post-Modern Dance

Mu-sick in phrases
            out of phase,
                        emergent from fog or haze;
Non-facing dances,
            gyrating prances,
                        flying glances;

Rapping, not rolling,
            less controlled, controlling,
                        some phone-strolling;
Grooving hive-mind,
            yet seemingly blind,
                        to others plying the grind;
Dysfunction junction,
            though yet to malfunction,
                        exhibiting sejunction;
Just looks like jerking,
            some call it twerking,
                        but they’re all just hurking.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Hurking is a made-up word I found in the Urban Dictionary. The assigned meaning for this neologism: “The act of doing, or participating in an event or activity, in which you have to participate to discover what it is.”

All About Making Waves

MYSTERY CYCLE
V. Making Waves

                   for Emily and Ian and their Dad – 20 October 2000

It’s your turn,
a heavenly voice said,
then a tremendous tickle ran out through the clouds,
followed by jiggling rolls escaping into snickers,
and pealing positively gales on gales of giggles
until, finally, there wasn’t anything for it,
and the clouds burst into laughter,
what you call rain.

Drop upon drop,
from small to large, both young and old,
they all fell down akimbo,
tumbling from the sky,
collecting, drunkenly you might say,
in puddles to pools to rivulets to streams,
finally running like great silver ribbons to the sea.

I can’t remember,
One asked an-Other, still giggling the tickle,
I say, what was the joke?
but Any-one would have been too wet to answer,
though really No-one heard clearly enough to say,
and Every-one was wondering what would happen next,
so, if there was a reply, who could say if it was made,
and whether by Which-one,
or not?

But Some-one was able to hold the thought long enough
and, floating up through the lovely bubbles to the surface,
called out to friend Sky for the answer.

A, Darling, did they not tell you long ago?
It’s your turn to have fun!

They gather you all up into their arms,
lulling you with sweetest windsongs
from all the Four Corners of existence,
and when it is your time,
they shake you loose
to join the great throng,
so you can be free.

But what shall we do?
asked the littlest drop.

Moon shimmered a silken answer:
Dearest, anything you do will make me smile,
but why don’t you make me some waves?

So, laughing and shoving all the more,
fumbling and recklessly tumbling,
all heels over heads toward the shores
and to the utter delight of all,
they did.

Reprinted from
“Songs of A Soul Journey” by Elisabeth T. Eliassen © 2002 all rights reserved.

It has been a rainy year, and so, on this anniversary of the birth of my twins, Emily and Ian, I bring you the message that life is wild, wet, wooly, weird and wonderful. Punctuated by hard times, yes; but even so, still the best game in town.

I, who declared at the age of 12 or so that I would never have children, gave birth to twins on this day, 17 years ago -- which is to say that one can make all the bold pronouncements one likes, but the cosmos has other ideas... 

From wombmates to roommates to housemates, they have shared so much with us and each other… 

So, to Emily and Ian, (and to all of you) I say:

Keep jiggling the rolls and giggling the tickles, 

because it’s your turn to have fun;

it's all about making waves!

~ love,

Mom

Spindrift

Thoughts, braided like a tangle of seaweed, litter the shore of my mind,
along with disordered piles of stony shingle, briny spray opined;
my tread briefly marks the sand with my small journey to find
whatever peace may be encountered at the shore strand.

The ever-present howling of wind is like the thousand tongues raised
to the infinite powers of nature, exposed before all, praised
beyond the buoys’ gong; even the depths be upraised,
where all the naked truths are bursting to expand.

Turning these eyes out to the light that over watery depths coldly burns,
blinded am I, humbled to the core of a soul that still boldly yearns
to skim the distant calms with the great heron and least terns,
flowing through airstreams, released over water and land.

Love is like this, I ken; the crashing of angry waves, an outpoured release
of all the turbulence and strain, that all that is pained, pent and part surcease,
giving way, capitulating to completions, resolutions, stillness and peace,
while yet must continuous dilate and contract on demand.

Though mountains have moved and prophecies've been spent, parts hallowed
into whole and dismissed to a moment of reflection and rest, even wallowed,
by the momentary bubbly delight of spindrift spun and shadows followed,
even so, still and stillness is not completion, merely cessation unplanned.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Slumber Song - A Christmas Reflection

Sleep, my baby, sleep
Beneath the stars of night;
Slumber sweet and slumber deep,
dream ‘neath their beauteous light.

Refrain:

Are ye born to be a pauper;
Are ye born to be a king?
Ye’re born to teach us, proper,
How to love and give and sing.

Shepherds, they rejoice;
the beasts in their stalls
—even angels send a voice
throughout the heavenly halls!

Refrain

Joseph stands by me
—now, we dare not sleep;
Having been blest to raise thee,
the Lord’s own son shall we keep.

Refrain

Innocent from sin,
and, too, all other harms,
all we, who watch over him,
long to hold him in our arms.

Refrain

Sleep, my baby, sleep
Beneath the stars of night;
Slumber sweet and slumber deep,
sheltered by their glowing light.

Refrain

© by Elisabeth T. Eliassen,
October 5, 2016; Set to music by
Angela Kraft Cross for the
San Francisco Renaissance Voices,
Katherine McKee, Director

I woke up from a dream with the refrain in my head, and that is how this carol text came about.

I have been an ardent student of biblical and other sacred texts for over thirty years and a musician for much of my life. While I cannot say that I am a scholar in these matters, I know that a few things that most people who practice Christianity don’t know or realize.

First of all, Christmas is an entirely manufactured holiday. Jesus had a birthday, of course, but it was most likely in the springtime of the year. Somewhere around the year 200 C.E., Clement of Alexandria is likely the first person to have recorded his guesses about the birth date of Jesus—none of which occur anywhere near the winter solstice. The commemorative mass could have been placed in the winter for several reasons; one of many theories is that overlaying a preexisting pagan holiday with the birth of Jesus might have been done as an means to make pagans be less suspicious of Christianity, or even entice them to join the faith. It isn’t until the 4^th century C.E. that the birth of Jesus can be found listed in a Roman almanac—the date affixed at during this time is either December 25^th in the Roman Church or January 6^th (Epiphany Day) in the Eastern Church. 

Secondly, carols are not hymns. There is a great deal more complexity to the explanation than what I have time to write about here, but, essentially, hymns are derived from chants of the psalms and other portions of scripture, and an occasional “inspired” text, first by the church Fathers, later by others, also known as a “spiritual song.” Carols are festive, religiously themed songs that can be sung in or out of church. The word “carol” is derived from the French carole, the word for a circle dance that was accompanied reed pipes and other instruments, but also by singing. While hymns are more liturgical in nature and always appropriate for the praise of God in church, carols are the festive music of the people during any holiday season celebration, be it Advent, Christmas, Easter, or some other festive season, not necessarily to be done in church.

Thirdly, only two of the canonical gospels (those that “made the cut” into the sanctioned liturgical library we call “the Bible”) record anything like the familiar Christmas story, and these two very different (sometimes contradictory) accounts are conflated into one single story. The earliest gospel, the Gospel of Mark, doesn’t record anything about the birth of Jesus. The latest of the four gospels, the Gospel of John, reflects abstractly and poetically on the presence of the Messiah as the Word before all worlds. The middle two gospels, Matthew and Luke, are where we get our bits of the birth story, and then our minds take all the bits and put them together into The Traditional Holiday Pageant Play.

So, for me, if we really need to have a credible “reason for the season,” it has to be all about the child. This story is not at all about the radical rabbi who was crucified. This is about the mother whose child came a bit early to seem legitimate; about the family who couldn’t find shelter when the mother went into labor; really, most of all, about the baby who appeared in the midst of chaos. There is chaos, as well as hope and expectation, surrounding the birth of each child. Who knows if this child will survive to adulthood, or what sort of future lies ahead. Will this child attain royalty, or will this child live a life of poverty? Only time will tell the tale. This is the story of unknown potential, like the fallow winter awaiting springtime growth.

(If I was either a seer or a theologian, I’d to say that this child will grow to be both a king and a pauper. But I'm not, and this is talking out of season.)

The best of parents will tell you that bringing children into the world and nurturing them is one of the toughest and extended lessons of humility and grace that a person can undergo. “Choice” is not a word that pops up frequently in the parental vocabulary—often, you do what you must, with what you have to hand. Sometimes the lessons that get delivered are sketchy or cranky.

No matter what religion or holiday you celebrate, inherent in all should be a simple truth: All babies are proof of the Divine Miracle of Life. All babies are born innocent; it is up to parents and community to teach and encourage, to facilitate the very best for every growing child. This is a lesson all cultures must recognize and act upon. I mention it because so many children worldwide are in grave need, right now.

But at this moment, in this story, Mary’s attention, and the attention of all who happen to be there, is on the sleeping child, illuminated by the glow of starlight.

This is meant to be a quiet celebration. It's not about angels or saviors or martyrs or gifts. It's not about loud singing and dancing or lavish meals. This story is all about a baby.

Let the baby sleep.

There’s time enough for all the rest.

This Moment For Thanks

This moment,
just this moment—
to take this moment away
from the ballyhoo and sway,
the wind and weather fray
that seems to increasingly mark each day—

To recognize the beauty of this life,
so replete with challenges and strife,
yet manages still to overflow with vibrant
music, colors, movement and words,
and the magnificence of simple gestures,
such as light rising out of dark shadows,
called forth by throngs of singsong birds—

To remember all the many faces,
the far-flung and beautiful places
where senses were bathed in graces
formed by so many generations past,
built, with lavished, crafted care, to last,
and also remind—

To feel fully in my body and free,
even to revel in the mundane task
that could so often vex, one day in three—

To meet around the bountiful table,
with expectations and pleasurable
gusto, to bare and share as we are able,
proves a central truth: We need one another—

To be reminded all that is good
requires due diligence without fraction;
anything less threatens contraction,
and this is a humbling thought
to release from its abstraction:
Gratitude is a call to action—

This moment,
just this moment,
I’ll take this moment away,
to take in a deep breath and say,
marking the beauty of this day;
whether you, my loved ones,
being either near or far,
wherever you are,
thank you, oh, thank you, most indeed,
for bringing your life-giving beauty
to this world, to my life,
to this moment.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen