Showing posts with label singing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label singing. Show all posts

Monday, April 3, 2023

Of Palms and Palimpsests

 


To dream is not an evasion,
nor a waste of time or energy,
even if dreams fly
beyond the arc
of human consciousness.


To dream is to be in continual free-fall
to the unexpected, unanticipated next;
dreaming requires no notion or plan
—all is suspense, all is in suspension,
a readiness in unreadiness
or the scratching of a quill
over the sheet of foolscap—
archaic,
but only in the sense
that one might lack the ink
or the penmanship
in the non-present now.


There, we might glance
at our lively page
to find nothing written there, at all;
but the paper has been folded and eared,
screwed up and tossed,
retrieved and smoothed,
folded neatly, then unfolded,
creased in differing directions,
only to be undone back to flat,
worn, now and limp,
lacking enough integrity, perhaps,
for aerodynamic flight.


And all for a lack of direction,
a longing for flight
fighting reticence to height,
so that the dipped reed might record
a thought or trace a silhouette
—or otherwise leave a mark,
even if a splotchy blot


—Ultimately, the run-on sentence
is the avoidance of endings,
especially for those who
can’t figure out how to make a start,
or maybe it is all continuous starting,
without end,
Amen.

While wrapped in these ponderings,
in this landscape of dreaming,
there approached a form
drawing slowly up from a distance,
and soon there appeared a man,
riding an onager.


His gaze was steady and warm,
laugh-lines were in evidence,
and he greeted me like a friend.


Seeing the creased and blank sheet,
he said,


We embody the world we see,

an unfathomable array of beauty
punctuated by experiential pain.


Life is good, so we are taught,
and we can find ourselves

in this goodness as existential truth

even when the willow bends to breaking.


Don’t leave the canvas blank, my friend,
make your mark.

Don’t be afraid to create yourself,
be in the being;
as you have folded
and unfolded,
so all your markings
continue to amend and change.


Simultaneously, we each
know and do not know
where we are and why;
doing is all,
we invent as we go.


The words we utter,
and later record,
live on, even down to the dust
that is carried on the wind;
don’t die with your song trapped inside
sing out, in full voice.


I’m making my mark, see?
he said,
touching his forehead, his lips, his heart,
don’t hesitate to make yours,
even if you don’t understand the significance
the run-on sentence is the doing,
not the avoidance;
you can write and overwrite,
paint over and write some more

it’s all continuous starting,
continuous writing,
without end,
Amen. 


He reached out and took my hand,
and held it for a moment, smiling,
before letting go,
but, as an after-thought,
reached out and touched my forehead.


Then, handing me a palm frond,
while good naturedly
slapping the onager’s flank,
forward and off on their page they went.


Looking down,
I saw that my page was full,
and that words were even running,
puddling in the creases,
accumulating in pools,
to run off the page
across the wadi,
or fly off the page,
up into the sky.


Both knowing and not knowing,
continuously starting,
we run, we fly, and we sing
without end,

Amen



© 2023 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen & songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Friday, September 27, 2013

Is it a flu? Is it a cold? No, it’s Hystamine Overload!


Since I was a small child, living in the country, and unto the present day, I have been allergic to many seasonal pollens. My fate was somewhat sealed by a bout of pneumonia at about age 3. I remember that summer illness: the doctor and the shot he gave me (he wore a suit and came to the house); the heat; the cool evening breeze blowing through the curtains, my grandmother (on a rare visit) singing me a lullaby. My respiratory system was always somewhat weak after that. Windy conditions always brought sore throats, and many times, that would turn into a bad chest cold.

When I grew up, as things turned out, I became, of all things, a trained singer.

I cannot remember when it was, exactly (15 or even 20 years ago?), that I noticed a distinct pattern to each illness that would threaten my ability to sing. They unfolded in exactly the same way each time, although the durations was not always the same. Severe swollen glands, severe rhinitis, fluid streaming down the back of my throat into my bronchial tubes. The menu always included severe congestion that decongestants could not tame. I at certain times of the year, I thought I was catching bugs from people, and I might have been.

At some point, I realized that with flu and real colds, there was temperature elevation, as distinguished from the “allergy bronchitis”, which did not.

Five or six years ago, I studied about herbs. I discovered supplements and concocted home remedies that were successful in ways my allopathic doctor could not. Newly armed, I have since had fewer illnesses to deal with, and was able to recover more quickly.

However, every once in a while, an ill wind doth blow, and while my new knowledge of herbs has served me well, the “allergy bronchitis” does pop up now and again, threatening my ability to sing.

Meanwhile, I had moved from learning about herbs to dealing with issues of diet, in order to help with a cholesterol issue experienced by my husband. Having added to the wellness toolkit, we have modified our diet recently, with good results.

Then, my son who wakes up with a clogged nose everyday, came home from school on a windy day, glassy-eyed and sneezing. Uh-oh. Not good. You see, he is going camping with his scout troupe this weekend.

I wouldn’t worry, if it had not been the case that he was hospitalized four years ago with an “asthmatic episode.” My son does not have asthma, mind you, but he had to be hospitalized because he was unable to breathe, owing to severe swelling of all his sinuses, throat tissues and bronchial area. Scary! And, upon his release, we were sent home with steroid inhalers and had to closely monitor his recovery. If it should happen again, the doctor told us, we might have to enroll him in an asthma clinic and have tests taken…

On Sunday evening, just before the third week of school, my son was changing for bed. He came running into the living room. “Mom, Dad! I have this rash!” Sure enough, he had a rash covering his entire trunk and upper thighs!

The squeaky wheels of my mind got to work. Benadryl, the answer popped out. My husband thought he needed to be taken to the emergency room, the rash was so extensive, and now starting to really itch. I drove to the emergency room. By the time we got checked in and seen by a physician, the Benadryl had done quite a lot to clear up the horrific looking rash. We were sent home. By morning, the rash was completely gone. The doctor, after asking us a number of questions, could really offer no explanation for why there could have been such an outbreak.

As we were driving home, because the squeaky I asked my son how many glasses of milk he had drunk that day. I knew I had seen him drink two glasses, at different times in the afternoon. He confessed to having had four, that he could remember, maybe five glasses of milk. Hmmmm… I told him to drink no more than two glasses of milk in a day, and to drink more water. “Milk is a food.” I said, “You need to think more about hydration with water. It could be that your rash was caused by too many histamines in your system.”

Last week, I had drunk a glass of wine with dinner. I took another glass with me as I cleaned up in the kitchen. I found myself scratching my arm several times. Looking at the location of the itch, there was a raised bump, but it was not red. A spider bite? I wondered.

Then next morning, I had a number of cups of coffee. The wind was howling outside, threatening to cancel the America’s Cup races. Uh-oh. This time of year, ragweed, elm, chenopods, every weedy thing in the world is blowing around at 30 mph. The arm was still itching. And then my nose started to water, and my eyes, by the afternoon, I was in trouble, with concerts coming up in the following week.

The squeaky wheels started turning again. I knew this was no cold. I knew this was an allergy attack, but what if there was more to it than just exposure to pollens?

A kaleidoscope of images over the years came flooding to mind: my daughter waking up with “spider bites”, my son wheezing in the hospital, both kids getting clogged sinuses while visiting at a friend’s house (I figured that one out: The friend was using detergent on her sheets that had “timed-release freshness particles”); my son’s rash; my itching arm while drinking a glass of wine.

Histamine overload. Obviously, that was it. But the histamines accumulated in our systems were not just due to airborne particulate allergies and detergent/chemical reactions. Histamine overload due to dietary considerations, that had to be a huge piece of this puzzle!

I started looking around on the internet. Turns out, there is not a whole lot of information in this country about “histamine overload”, but I did find information available on European sites. HIT (Histamine Intolerance) is what people are calling this. The real culprit in this situation is a lack of DAO (Diamine oxidase, an enzyme involved in the metabolism of histamine.

When you look at the list of that trigger, build or bring histamines to your system, you get an idea why doctors here don’t want to deal with this issue: the list of foods is endless; and your favorite snack items and cereals are at the top of this huge list.

The list of foods that don’t trigger histamine release is about a paragraph long. The list of natural antihistamines is extremely short. Here are three from that short list: apples, Vitamin C, quercetin.

Taking the short list of antihistamines, I have mostly recovered from my overload, just in time for the concerts.

Now, I will explore the longer campaign of diet issues, so that I can help my family avoid major problems in the future. This will be the hard part. All of what I have read, so far, tells me that elimination of trigger foods is not the way; rather, one needs to rotate the foods one eats, and realize that nutrition, and also enjoyment, can be the better choice.

And, of course, “moderation in all things, including moderation!”

I may report in on this later, but suffice it to say, the whole family is in for additional dietary changes, including the old adage, “an apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Amazing, that this mystery has taken my entire life to unravel! I hope you will wish me good fortune as I continue with my family on the path toward better health, living with allergies and HIT. 

Sunday, July 28, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: IV. Dias Quatro




Mi título al nacer puso en mi cuna,
El sol que al cielo consagró mi frente.
Yo sólo sé de amor. ~ José Martí, from “Vino de Chianti”

The maracas bird
and the electric one, as well,
rattled the sleepers awake,
but no rush, this morning,
just mission:
writings of José Martí.

Verses simple and complex,
exploring the human connection;
Annette and I had planned,
already, for months,
this excursion,
though we did not know
what being here would be like.

No hurry, this morning;
time for breakfast,
time for coffee,
a decent cup—
I’ve got it covered;
I’ll make my own,
with help from
Our Lady of Seattle.

First, however,
to the cadeca queue,
for old world monetary transactions
in silver fiats:
heroes are moneda nacional
;
monuments are for the touristas.

No credit, no cheques,
it is cash, cash, cash.

The lines start before opening,
 and the guard lets each in
one at a time;
if you are lucky, the cadeca
is on the shady side of the street
—even so, the ladies
have their fans out,
beating them furiously.

Cool inside;
a long day for tells,
even with the long lunch break.

Once at the counter,
I present Canadian Dollars,
much better in exchange
than the taxed American.

I ask for Convertible Pesos,
then, further, for moneda nacional;
the teller smiles,
thinking perhaps:
la yuma,
she will spread her money
among The People.

Traveler’s alert:
count and organize your money
while still inside the cadeca;
safely stow it away before you leave.

We (Annette, Michael and I)
make our way along Obispo
toward the sea,
stopping at the guayabera shops
and bookstores,
but the stores do not yield Martí,
at least, not in the forms we desire.

We continue forward,
to Plaza de Armas;
nestled in the shade of the trees,
the portrait artist wanders,
tracing the image of Michael
across a clean white page,
and it is then we discover Martí.

Ah, Martí,
no mere revolutionary;
the vision and memory,
the myth, even,
of a romantic man
who saw the truth,
that was all around to be seen—
the corruption, the inequity,
the prices paid, and by whom
—and felt as powerless
as any patriot might
at the old world’s stranglehold
on the new.

Martí,
the revolutionary of love—
before learning and liberty,
the greatest of these is love,
amor con amor se paga,
love must precede and supercede
all action that love,
like the sun,
inspires and sustains.

Martí,
the friend
who laid down his life
for his friends,
but those three bullets
did not end the revolution;
the seemingly unfinished monument
can only testify to your continuing legacy,
as do the books we carry away.

We cut across to
Plaza de la Catedral,
to see the music cast into stone,
and to pray in air-conditioned chapel
for reconciliation,
for healing,
and for peace
among the nations.

Chicken sandwiches,
with beer and coffee
at nearby El Patio,
are surprisingly good,
though the service is slow
—we are there at the sleepy time of day.

After paying la cuenta,
we retrace our steps,
picking our way over the cobblestones,
dug up and piled everywhere,
making way for new cable
to modernize and expand
the ancient electrics,
returning to Hotel Plaza,
quickly passing through
the district of fortune tellers,
casting cards or cowries;
our immediate future
is already known:
we must quickly prepare
for our first concert.

We assemble in the lobby,
then the bus appears on cue
to take us to
Teatro Nacional de Cuba,
where we meet Ensemble Vocal Luna
to launch our mutual life’s blood:
love by way of song.

We sang apart and together,
braiding our vibrations,
sending them out
over
Plaza de la Revolución,
to meet the memory of Martí,
honored in his monument,
bringing one circle to a close
with the sharing of Guantanamera.


Later, under a full moon,
standing at the parapet of
la Cabaña,
as the canon is fired,
seeing the skyline of Habana
beyond el
Malecón,
I am reminded
that beauty can be found
everywhere
we are willing
to make the effort
to see it,
to engage it,
and to be inseparable from it.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: I. Dias Uno


Sharing gum on the plane,
preparing for sweetness,
drinking Fanta in the sky.

Applause erupts
as the wheels touch down;
“Thank-you for flying Sky King”,
Welcome to Habana.

The Chinese made tram,
carrying us from tarmac to terminal,
is new and smooth,
the Aeropuerto Nacional
is old and worn.

One guard only
scans the luggage
and shrink-wrapped goods,
but two guards
mind the spaniels on duty;
maybe petting is not allowed,
although they seem friendly.

At the Hotel Plaza,
mojitos await at the counter,
but the rooms are not ready
until after four o’clock.

A walking tour ensues
over La Habana vieja,
footsteps treading over footsteps
in this place bursting with sound
and with color
in the fluid heat.

Opulence interrupted,
nonetheless,
this city has been alive;
though the faces and facades are worn,
vital blood and sugar still flow,
likewise the rum,
sold through open window shops.

The staccato of the tongues
and car horns
is like the beat of ageless drums;
this old town is kept new
by the child
beating on the drum
for our pleasure,
corazón of our corazón.

Lunch at Hotel Inglettera
incurs petty robbery loss,
while the salsa plays
and the Buccanero flows;
opportunities overflow
even in the most crowded room.

Transports from other ages
race all over town;
the racket and the fumes,
with the heat and humidity,
they roll over one,
as they settle on each edifice
and make their mark.

More to see,
more to do,
more to say,
but first to sing,
in this place
of unending song.



© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Birdsong


The bird sang,
singing to the beauty of day and light,
from the afternoon through the night,
and this sweet music was the very last,
the most utterly sweetest collection of sounds of all,
and why Jesus wept.

Hearing the sweet song,
he remembered the time before time,
he remembered the Artist forming time
and all being, and being formed within and from it all
—and though he knew that the bird could not know this,
he and the bird and the song would meet in Paradise.

And thus it was that,
on the third day,
the sun rose,
and the bird sang for joy,
and the bird’s song was heard
both in this world and all the others.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Courage


                       -inspired by Lorraine H. L.

breathe!
o Breathe, my soul,
as the atmosphere caresses you,
molding to the shape of your true self.

breathe!
expand and let the universe
feel the you-ness that is yours;
pour that essence through the chalices of time.

breathe!
o Breathe the now
that is fully all of this and more,
a you-infused gift to anoint us all.

breathe!
o Breathe, my soul,
taste, see and feel your place
in the vastness of your possibility.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

There is a place where singing and love and divine union each feel like swimming in an ocean whose sole purpose is to utterly and completely support you, rising and falling of your phrases, climaxing and subsiding to rest, within and outside you. This is creation and renewal in one motion, rare to apprehend, rarer still to consciously experience. Even at the brink, as we make our song, Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, life abounds within and all around us, over and above us. Breathe and phrase and be who you are.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Singing


Breath upon breath,
a weaving of breath
into an air.

Words on words,
enfolding, flowing,
take wing.

Sound and silence,
earth, wind, fire and water,
given voice,

Entitles
all that sounds imply,
on all that dreams may rely.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Voice Lesson


Breathe in,
breathe out.

Vibrations come from the heart,
Strength rises up from the earth
through the feet and legs,
supporting the ball of energy
just below the diaphragm.

The supported diaphragm
meets the vibrations of the heart
with loving intensity.

Part the lips,
freely, easily;
let the jaw hang,
be open.

Breathe in,
engage support,
sing out.

Once this mastered,
shape the tone,
then shape the words
then shape the phrase,
then shape the song,
then shape your being,
then shape your life.

Singing is
a practice
not a perfect;
not a destination,
but an exploration
of God’s creation
via sonic expression.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Thursday, December 16, 2010

A Seasonal Cinquain: Salt

Salt:
flavors soup;
clears the throat
when mixed with water
gargled.

//

For all my singer friends out there, slaving (as we all are) over holiday music.


© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Monday, December 6, 2010

Singing

Walking,
forward motion,
a gathering of energy.

Halting,
a planting of feet,
rooting deep into the earth.

Reaching,
deep within the soul,
to the farthest interior places.

Breathing,
all the way down,
filling the roots to earth’s core.

Opening,
with skill and intent,
awaiting an optimal cue.

Releasing
the voice into waiting space,
words floating on waves of song.

Singing:
defying rooted gravity
to soul-fly with the birds of the sky.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Singing Your Way To Health


I got my flu shot this week, and what do you know, but I have a cold!

So, what did I do last night? Instead of lying about in bed, I went to a rehearsal, to SING. And I came home tired, but feeling good.

Crazy? Well, I might be a little wacky, but not because of that.

Back in August, I was invited to present a vocal workshop to a church choir. The emphasis was to be on vocal technique, but as I was thinking about how to make a presentation on the technical aspects of breathing and making sound, due to the particular circumstances of certain people I know, I could not help but also think about singing from a healing perspective.

I said to the assembled choristers that our times in worship are about regrouping, re-centering and renewal, a turning and returning to being in tune with the Divine. Whether we celebrate in churches, synagogues or mosques, we are meeting the Divine from our grounding as individuals, as well as from within the harmony of our larger fellowship community or our greater culture. The shared element between each of person and the Divine could be described as unity of spirit--a vibratory exchange resulting in a sense of well being or peace.

Outlandish? New Age? Hippy-dippy?

Not so, not so!

Everything in the universe vibrates. Even seemingly solid stone mass vibrates. Children hiking through a dark forest hum and sing songs to themselves. How could it not be so that humming, toning, chant and song are an individual’s innate vibrational self-healing tool, a built-in coping mechanism? As physical beings, we are music; everywhere we go, we carry our song with us.  That famous line from T.S. Eliot’s Dry Salvages says it all: “You are the music, while the music lasts.”  This is a truth that is not new; this is timeless wisdom.

The great Sufi teacher to West, Hazrat Inayat Khan offers this, on the power of sound:

The physical effect of sound has also a great influence upon the human body. The whole mechanism, the muscles, the blood circulation, the nerves, are all moved by the power of vibration. As there is a resonance for every sound, so the human body is a living resonator for sound. Although by one sound one can produce a resonance in all substances, such as brass and copper, the there is no greater and more living resonator of sound than the human body. The effect of sound is upon each atom of the body, for each atom resounds; on all glands, on the circulation of the blood and on the pulsation sound has its effect. (Khan, 1992)
How many times have you gone to a concert hall feeling stressed from a long day at work, and exited feeling refreshed. Moreover, everyone around you seems to feel the same things you do about the performance you just heard. What is this? It is called entrainment, a synchronization of patterns, whether they are brain wave patterns, attitudinal patterns, emotional patterns. The Wiki definition of entrainment from a pure physics perspective is given:
The process whereby two interacting oscillating systems assume the same period. (Wikipedia, 2009)
More recently, the science of entrainment is being applied in different areas, such as music for therapeutic use, in the clinical setting, as treatment for everything from depression to personality disorders to cancer.
Sound enters the healing equation from several directions: It may alter cellular functions through energetic effects; it may entrain biological systems to function more homeostatically; it may calm the mind and therefore the body; or it may have emotional effects, which influence neurotransmitters and neuropeptides, which in turn help to regulate the immune system--the healer within. (Gaynor, 1999)
Singing is an activity in which both hemispheres of the brain are simultaneously activated, coordinating and cooperating to get all the right muscles to work together to gather the breath, form the words and  sounds, find the pitches and control the air flow that results in the song. Research shows that neither side of the brain dominates in music making (Gates & Bradshaw, 1977). When you sing, or engage in any music making, it could be said that you are single of mind, because your brain hemispheres are working together toward a single outcome.

I personally know singers who have sung and instrumentalists who have played through major health crises, coming out the other side, not merely healed, but transformed.

So, whether you have a cold today (like I do) or not, help yourself to a mantra or hum a little tune, or, heck, just belt out that cool, jazzy song you love in the shower.

You'll feel better. I guarantee it.

AUM.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gates, Anne and Bradshaw, John L. Brain and Language, Vol. 4, Issue 3. Elsevier, Inc., 1977. Pp. 401-431: "The Role of the Cerebral Hemispheres in Music".
Gaynor, Mitchell L. Sounds of Healing, Broadway Books, 1999, P, 134.
Khan, Hazrat Inayat. The Mysticism of Sound and Magic, Element Books, 1992. Pp.261, 263.
Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Entrainment, 2009.