If you are a musician and you have not checked out The Spot Studio in Winston-Salem, NC then you are missing something very cool and inspiring. Okay, I should also mention that if you are a musician AND you love trees and everything natural then....ditto all of the above. This week saw another piece of the collaborative puzzle, currently known as Common Threads, fall into place. Cara Hagan, my collaborator extraordinaire gifted me with some Spot Studio Time this week -- the results of which I find most pleasing. Imagine a sound (vocal) booth surrounded by beautiful woodwork, killer mics at multiple angles, the best coffee and the smell of cypress, pine and other woods gently wafting around you. I felt absolutely transported and that's what gets to me in most other studio settings -- the sterility. All of these beautiful "toys" and processors and cables and incredible programs of sound recording and manipulation, tons of talent, and then foam. Foam and panels as far as the eye can see and such a feeling of containment and being boxed in, so that you almost have to close your eyes or turn your imagination on overdrive. Not so at Spot. I felt like I had transported to some woodland retreat in the Pacific Northwest. Granted, I have been studying somatic body work as a means to unlocking greater creative expression and so to go to a place where smell is such an inspiring factor (for me at least, fresh wood is a happy trigger) -- wow.
Chris, our fabulous engineer, was great. Knowledgeable, creative, everything. And that's just it -- I felt like so much attention to creative detail had been crafted into that studio that it inspired notes in me. I'm telling you, it's well worth the trip to make music at this place. So check it out.
And stay posted for more on Common Threads, an artistic exploration and tribute to women's work, relationships, and experiences. We have a few installments now of this dance/music work -- so far all are a capella women's voices and we're thinking of keeping it that way. Cara has a piece called "Eve at the River," and another, "Our Quilt." I've gotten work done on "Georgia,"a tribute to my grandmother's life and legacy, with "Lilith" and "Letter Song" and "Sweet Femininity" mapped out and/or in process...but NOW that I know what a beautiful studio process awaits me, I am totally motivated to finish these pieces up and get a recording done by early November so that we can begin work on the CD.
Cara and I are workshopping a few threads or pieces of CT (Common Threads) at NC State this fall. We're looking forward to tightening our stitches, so to speak, but already the work is garnering positive feedback and excitement. There is talk of a US mini-tour of the work. Hopefully my hometown will be interested in hosting us for Piccolo Spoleto or some other artistic festival.
Meanwhile, it's back to the home studio...and the garden...and my trees!
Make the world your dance party!
MB Disco
Wednesday, August 11
Tuesday, July 6
New Summer, New Rhythms
Ah, Summer!
There is nothing like the dawn of a new decade and the rush of humidity to spur one to healthier habits....
For me, that means upping the thermostat (cutting it up, as I usually say but provide the former phrasing for the rest of the population), upping my veggie intake (and considering going veggie by the ol' birthday), and upping the physical regimen. I'm working up to daily yoga and in preparation for horseback riding in the fall and a probable birthday month trip to New York and aerial classes -- the old Britney Spears routine:
600 situps
50 pushups
15 pull ups
200 leg lifts (Each side)
150 brasilian butt blasters, each leg.
AND swimming and running alternate days 4 days a week.
I hope to wear the new brasilian bikini bottoms proudly in the decade to come...why not?!
In the past, increased physical discipline has strengthened both the outer (physical) and inner (emotional/spiritual) core. This has been one challenging year with the loss of one dear friend after another. Now with more changes in the near future, I thought some inner and outer bulking up was in order. I'll keep you posted as to the physicality of my new practice. Not coincidentally, I have been leaning towards the prepared piano repertoire...hmmm, interesting.
Cheers Ballers everywhere!
Go Germany!
MB Disco
There is nothing like the dawn of a new decade and the rush of humidity to spur one to healthier habits....
For me, that means upping the thermostat (cutting it up, as I usually say but provide the former phrasing for the rest of the population), upping my veggie intake (and considering going veggie by the ol' birthday), and upping the physical regimen. I'm working up to daily yoga and in preparation for horseback riding in the fall and a probable birthday month trip to New York and aerial classes -- the old Britney Spears routine:
600 situps
50 pushups
15 pull ups
200 leg lifts (Each side)
150 brasilian butt blasters, each leg.
AND swimming and running alternate days 4 days a week.
I hope to wear the new brasilian bikini bottoms proudly in the decade to come...why not?!
In the past, increased physical discipline has strengthened both the outer (physical) and inner (emotional/spiritual) core. This has been one challenging year with the loss of one dear friend after another. Now with more changes in the near future, I thought some inner and outer bulking up was in order. I'll keep you posted as to the physicality of my new practice. Not coincidentally, I have been leaning towards the prepared piano repertoire...hmmm, interesting.
Cheers Ballers everywhere!
Go Germany!
MB Disco
Thursday, May 6
Intended Poems
Here is my horoscope for this week according to Free Will Astrology -- which I love, like an addiction. Can you love an addiction? I think so...
LIBRA:
When a girl is born, her ovaries already contain all the eggs she will ever have. What this means, of course, is that a part of you was in your grandmother's womb as well as in your mother's. Now would be an excellent time to celebrate that primal fact. Your connection with your mother's mother is especially important these days. I suggest you meditate on what gifts and liabilities you received from her (genetic and otherwise), and how you might be able to make better use of the gifts even as you take steps to outwit the liabilities.
I have been reading the poetry of Sharon Olds and Mary Harjo. I have also been spending time contemplating the memory of my maternal grandmother. I do not contemplate my paternal grandmother as often and I rationalize this based on a lack of closeness due to a propensity for precociousness as a small child. Nevertheless, this horoscope hit home hard enough to trigger a poem. My creation lies below.
As a brief explanation, I have spent my entire life answering this question incorrectly:
"Are there other artists or musicians in your family?"
"No. I'm just a hiccup (or some other numbskull response)".
Let me try a less bonehead answer...
"Are there other artists or musicans in your family?"
"Why yes! I come from a line of prolific artists. My grandmother Ball is a master gardener, decorator and cook. My grandma Johnston is an amazing seamstress. She masterminds her own recipes and designs. She can make anything -- especially a mean pot of coffee. As a nurse, she fixes people. You won't find better stitches or bedside manner in at least three counties!"
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers in my life.
LINEAGE
I come from a line of artists.
My father’s mother— My mother’s mother:
SHE is an artist.
Her hands form garden beds,
pinch sucker buds from leafy green tips,
nurture supple stems
and break up angry root balls.
Her knees ache from the weight of her body,
Her strong back buckles under the sun’s fierce heat
And yet she toils on
And on creating beauty out of dirt and shit.
Where there was an empty canvas of earth,
She leaves a spread of foliage and flower,
A blanket of nature’s bounty spread out before her –
an organic quilt of her life’s work.
My other mother sews.
Her hands, once nimble,
Now old and arthritic, grip the needles,
one knit two, pearl one , drop 2
the patterns run through her mind
now riddled with the holes of memories
forgotten.
Handstitched quilts,
Crocheted afghans,
Christmas booties,
Bathing suits and cover-ups,
Suits and socks
She made them all
Out of love and labor.
She labors now to breath
And walk
And eat
And shit.
My mother nurses the nurse
Who cannot remember my name
Or who I am
Although I swear her eyes light up when I smile
A flicker of ghostly recognition
Skimming across icy blue eyes.
A moment of clarity pulled
from the chaos and confusion.
I come from HER womb
HER eggs,
My heritage.
We hold each other
In tummies stretched from childbirth,
Sluggish from aging digestion
Soft from years of loving.
And pregnant with the possibilities
Of future generations
Of women
Of artists.
Artful living running in my blood
Coursing through me in monthly cycles.
Now I plant, I gather, I sew in story
Line and line again
I recreate the cycle of my Mothers.
I live the work of HER hands:
Wrapping myself in love-made quilts
Digging my hands into dirt, burying myself elbow deep
In my soiled canvas—
Shit becomes Splendor,
Work begets Joy
And Art abounds in All things
Created by HER Hands.
We are Creator.
We are Artists.
We are Women.
LIBRA:
When a girl is born, her ovaries already contain all the eggs she will ever have. What this means, of course, is that a part of you was in your grandmother's womb as well as in your mother's. Now would be an excellent time to celebrate that primal fact. Your connection with your mother's mother is especially important these days. I suggest you meditate on what gifts and liabilities you received from her (genetic and otherwise), and how you might be able to make better use of the gifts even as you take steps to outwit the liabilities.
I have been reading the poetry of Sharon Olds and Mary Harjo. I have also been spending time contemplating the memory of my maternal grandmother. I do not contemplate my paternal grandmother as often and I rationalize this based on a lack of closeness due to a propensity for precociousness as a small child. Nevertheless, this horoscope hit home hard enough to trigger a poem. My creation lies below.
As a brief explanation, I have spent my entire life answering this question incorrectly:
"Are there other artists or musicians in your family?"
"No. I'm just a hiccup (or some other numbskull response)".
Let me try a less bonehead answer...
"Are there other artists or musicans in your family?"
"Why yes! I come from a line of prolific artists. My grandmother Ball is a master gardener, decorator and cook. My grandma Johnston is an amazing seamstress. She masterminds her own recipes and designs. She can make anything -- especially a mean pot of coffee. As a nurse, she fixes people. You won't find better stitches or bedside manner in at least three counties!"
Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers in my life.
LINEAGE
I come from a line of artists.
My father’s mother— My mother’s mother:
SHE is an artist.
Her hands form garden beds,
pinch sucker buds from leafy green tips,
nurture supple stems
and break up angry root balls.
Her knees ache from the weight of her body,
Her strong back buckles under the sun’s fierce heat
And yet she toils on
And on creating beauty out of dirt and shit.
Where there was an empty canvas of earth,
She leaves a spread of foliage and flower,
A blanket of nature’s bounty spread out before her –
an organic quilt of her life’s work.
My other mother sews.
Her hands, once nimble,
Now old and arthritic, grip the needles,
one knit two, pearl one , drop 2
the patterns run through her mind
now riddled with the holes of memories
forgotten.
Handstitched quilts,
Crocheted afghans,
Christmas booties,
Bathing suits and cover-ups,
Suits and socks
She made them all
Out of love and labor.
She labors now to breath
And walk
And eat
And shit.
My mother nurses the nurse
Who cannot remember my name
Or who I am
Although I swear her eyes light up when I smile
A flicker of ghostly recognition
Skimming across icy blue eyes.
A moment of clarity pulled
from the chaos and confusion.
I come from HER womb
HER eggs,
My heritage.
We hold each other
In tummies stretched from childbirth,
Sluggish from aging digestion
Soft from years of loving.
And pregnant with the possibilities
Of future generations
Of women
Of artists.
Artful living running in my blood
Coursing through me in monthly cycles.
Now I plant, I gather, I sew in story
Line and line again
I recreate the cycle of my Mothers.
I live the work of HER hands:
Wrapping myself in love-made quilts
Digging my hands into dirt, burying myself elbow deep
In my soiled canvas—
Shit becomes Splendor,
Work begets Joy
And Art abounds in All things
Created by HER Hands.
We are Creator.
We are Artists.
We are Women.
Thursday, April 29
Daily Intention
I really need a Tahitian hangover vacation.
I need a glass in my hand, the sand in my feet
and the wind in my hair.
I don't care how, I don't care when
Just get me there.
MB Disco.
Hmmm, I wonder how that intention will surface into a song...
Meanwhile, Time to write more playbook songs. I had my students turn their lunch duty blues into songs. Some funny stuff came out, including one of my own about sitting in spilt milk.
Try it -- for whatever in life ails ya', there's some healin lyrics and a song to be written that will turn your grimace into giggles.
I need a glass in my hand, the sand in my feet
and the wind in my hair.
I don't care how, I don't care when
Just get me there.
MB Disco.
Hmmm, I wonder how that intention will surface into a song...
Meanwhile, Time to write more playbook songs. I had my students turn their lunch duty blues into songs. Some funny stuff came out, including one of my own about sitting in spilt milk.
Try it -- for whatever in life ails ya', there's some healin lyrics and a song to be written that will turn your grimace into giggles.
Wednesday, April 28
The Play Book
I began composing my Playbook Song Cycle this past packet period. Past packet. Ha. I like it. Nothing like beginning with the digression.
My first attempts at "play writing" involve card games. This whole --- chapter?, if you will -- is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. I say her memory because that is what has gone missing. We all mourn the loss of her mind, particularly my mother who is her devoted and tireless caretaker. So far I have composed War, Solitaire and Pyramid. Next up are Hearts and Spades. I may write specific motifs as to the hands of Poker...and other ideas like that. So far I am shocked at the quantity of math and formula with which I am imbuing my work. It is as if my verbal and math mind are merging into one. I like that aspect of the works and hope to experience the recording and realization of the pieces this summer.
On another note, I am beginning my work with the Stoning of Soraya M. project. This weekend I hope to have thru-composed the first two movements of the piece as well as a skeletal draft of the remaining movements. I am including some poetry I have written called "Fairies" in the set and hope to include poetry and quotes of other women survivors of abuse, neglect and violence in my work. I am currently seeking those contributions.
My emotional journal has morphed in practice to a book of daily intentions -- like the daily prayers in a Catholic church but these are my smallest intentions set to improvisational music and voice. Only a few senteces each -- although I suspect a few diatribes are in my near future-- these give me the satisfaction and daily exercise of composing. I find as I incorporate more writing into my daily practice that I am more drawn to practices involving immersion in the moment -- particularly dance and yoga. I am starting back my dance and yoga practice on Thursdays. I cannot wait.
Hope the world is treating everyone swell,
MB Disco
My first attempts at "play writing" involve card games. This whole --- chapter?, if you will -- is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother. I say her memory because that is what has gone missing. We all mourn the loss of her mind, particularly my mother who is her devoted and tireless caretaker. So far I have composed War, Solitaire and Pyramid. Next up are Hearts and Spades. I may write specific motifs as to the hands of Poker...and other ideas like that. So far I am shocked at the quantity of math and formula with which I am imbuing my work. It is as if my verbal and math mind are merging into one. I like that aspect of the works and hope to experience the recording and realization of the pieces this summer.
On another note, I am beginning my work with the Stoning of Soraya M. project. This weekend I hope to have thru-composed the first two movements of the piece as well as a skeletal draft of the remaining movements. I am including some poetry I have written called "Fairies" in the set and hope to include poetry and quotes of other women survivors of abuse, neglect and violence in my work. I am currently seeking those contributions.
My emotional journal has morphed in practice to a book of daily intentions -- like the daily prayers in a Catholic church but these are my smallest intentions set to improvisational music and voice. Only a few senteces each -- although I suspect a few diatribes are in my near future-- these give me the satisfaction and daily exercise of composing. I find as I incorporate more writing into my daily practice that I am more drawn to practices involving immersion in the moment -- particularly dance and yoga. I am starting back my dance and yoga practice on Thursdays. I cannot wait.
Hope the world is treating everyone swell,
MB Disco
Thursday, April 22
Play Books
So I come from a family of sportaholics. The only part I inherited is the stubborn variety of the perseverence gene. I can run, I can play raquet sports fairly well -- I have a wicked backhand that will take you by surprise -- softball, horshoes, swimming, horseback riding, water polo...
I've tried on sports like most people try on jeans; and I've never found the right fit. Racquet sports come pretty close though.
I always took to music and poetry. I would write the most horrible stuff about this tree that I could see outside the window of my English classes. Each English classroom had a different view of the tree -- they were all spread across the left hand side of the second floor annex. I think the tree is gone now -- bulldozed when the high school sold its property to the college for the building of a bigger, badder library. And now all that is left of that tree is the fuzzy faded pencil lines of iambic pentameter.
Speaking of poetry, I have rediscovered the delight and joy I once found in the art form. The delicacy of line, the originality of thought in verse form...epic! Today I discovered a way that is most beneficial for me to capture the voice of my poems through chord cluster choral settings of my text. In a somewhat minimalist Arvo Part meets Eric Whitacre style, I am approaching my poems from the standpoint of a musical impressionist -- using chord clusters to suggest or embody *(emsound?)* the mood and memory of the work. I am going for less movement and more continual suggestive atmosphere through the use of sustained fourths and major second intervals within the clusters that never resolve. In theory, the "mood" of the poem or memory is not something that yearns for resolution -- it simply "is." Artistically, I see no need nor feel the desire to contradict this "is-ness" of mood in the text through musical resolution of the chord. The memory moves me, but the memory itself has little if any motion. From a compositional perspective, this makes the writing part much simpler and draws on my theater background to determine and choose the precise moments in the work which call for movement or a slight musical progression. Is it even correct, though, to use the word "progression" when the movement does not have an end goal? It is not functioning in a progressive manner so I am more inclined to call it a ripple in the sound pool I am creating through the five part voices. I can hear it all in my head -- 2 men and 3 women. It will be gorgeous and I just may be able to grab a quick recording of it in the next two weeks. It would complete my chlidhood set for this semester.
Amazing to me is the progression (regression actually in a psychological sense but progressive in that I am moving not backwards but forwards in my understanding of self) from exploring my own inner ecology and emotional landscape to the rediscovery of childhood. All of my work is very much based in the encounters with my inner child. I suspect my dreaming is reflecting this as well, although I have done a terrible job of keeping up with dream documentation and analysis. I think there is a deep rooted reason for this which I have decided to explore in the next two weeks -- my dreaming frustration, that is.
Alas, dear reader, I fear I may be approaching the level of boring you to death with my own inner constructs and journeys. Stay tuned for more sonnets, songbooks, and sonic maps and imagery.
Over and out,
MB Disco
I've tried on sports like most people try on jeans; and I've never found the right fit. Racquet sports come pretty close though.
I always took to music and poetry. I would write the most horrible stuff about this tree that I could see outside the window of my English classes. Each English classroom had a different view of the tree -- they were all spread across the left hand side of the second floor annex. I think the tree is gone now -- bulldozed when the high school sold its property to the college for the building of a bigger, badder library. And now all that is left of that tree is the fuzzy faded pencil lines of iambic pentameter.
Speaking of poetry, I have rediscovered the delight and joy I once found in the art form. The delicacy of line, the originality of thought in verse form...epic! Today I discovered a way that is most beneficial for me to capture the voice of my poems through chord cluster choral settings of my text. In a somewhat minimalist Arvo Part meets Eric Whitacre style, I am approaching my poems from the standpoint of a musical impressionist -- using chord clusters to suggest or embody *(emsound?)* the mood and memory of the work. I am going for less movement and more continual suggestive atmosphere through the use of sustained fourths and major second intervals within the clusters that never resolve. In theory, the "mood" of the poem or memory is not something that yearns for resolution -- it simply "is." Artistically, I see no need nor feel the desire to contradict this "is-ness" of mood in the text through musical resolution of the chord. The memory moves me, but the memory itself has little if any motion. From a compositional perspective, this makes the writing part much simpler and draws on my theater background to determine and choose the precise moments in the work which call for movement or a slight musical progression. Is it even correct, though, to use the word "progression" when the movement does not have an end goal? It is not functioning in a progressive manner so I am more inclined to call it a ripple in the sound pool I am creating through the five part voices. I can hear it all in my head -- 2 men and 3 women. It will be gorgeous and I just may be able to grab a quick recording of it in the next two weeks. It would complete my chlidhood set for this semester.
Amazing to me is the progression (regression actually in a psychological sense but progressive in that I am moving not backwards but forwards in my understanding of self) from exploring my own inner ecology and emotional landscape to the rediscovery of childhood. All of my work is very much based in the encounters with my inner child. I suspect my dreaming is reflecting this as well, although I have done a terrible job of keeping up with dream documentation and analysis. I think there is a deep rooted reason for this which I have decided to explore in the next two weeks -- my dreaming frustration, that is.
Alas, dear reader, I fear I may be approaching the level of boring you to death with my own inner constructs and journeys. Stay tuned for more sonnets, songbooks, and sonic maps and imagery.
Over and out,
MB Disco
Thursday, April 15
signposts and metaphors
Dear reader, self and sympathetic universe,
What a week this has been?! Countless self-discoveries, great boons and gifts balanced with difficulties and challenges. I am still far ahead in the balance of the positive so I am not one to complain. Life is still beautiful and one day I hope that someone else will walk under my window and greet me with a warm "bon giorno,m principesa!"
Until then, I will list some blessings:
new friends
new opportunities
more chances to concertize
new successes
valuable failures
renewed connections
travel to expand awareness and abilities
forged art practices
new growth in the garden
continual personal and practical weeding
And now on to the Signs and Metaphors...
The back story is that for a period of a decade now I have been in an active process of personal discernment. I feel that this is coming to fruition in this turning over from my twentieth decade to my thirtieth and ushering in a new wave of dedication, energy and artistic pursuit. I want to -- have wanted to honor this in some way for a time. Some kind of cultural ornamentation came to mind -- but whether a piercing, scar or tatoo...I was on the fence for over 10 years now. Until a month ago --
The tatoo found me. I was drawn to the bearer as well but there was a message in the tatoo. Unfortunately, the symbol only spoke Greek so I was S.O.L. for over a month trying to decipher the message. The symbol also was sneaky, so by the time I translated the message, it took another week to recognize that the message was an inversion. I was further perplexed as I misinterpreted the reference point of the tatoo. The original, symbol says, literally "brothers" whereas the message to me was the compliment -- sisters. But then that started me thinking about my sister and my friend "sisters" and other frames of reference. It was only today that it dawned on me that the universe wanted me to remember my forgotten sisterhood -- a group of women joined in intention, path, and artistry. In my isolation from the fraternity, I had forgotten so much. I had forgotten beautiful ceremonies, idea-clad women, and songs of idealistic triumph and unity. I had forgotten, in my loneliness and trials, that I am not alone -- that others share my convictions and drive for beauty and truth. And then I knew what I had to get -- my symbol speaks greek as well -- to keep these sisters closer to me and more present in my awareness. What better to mark my thirtieth year than a symbol to remind me of my sisterhood, etched into my brain, more or less.
In my life, I never thought to scar my pristine skin with any kind of permanent mark -- heck! earrings even give me trouble on occasion. However, other things and people have taken great liberty in leaving permanent marks burned into my psche. This is a mark of my choosing. That act for me is powerfully symbolic, liberating and healing. How poetically ironic -- using a scar to heal. I don't want to forget any part of my story. But I see this as stamping a chapter closed and sealing within its pages a load of pain, hurt and injustice. This book can go up on the shelf because I'm writing the next chapter now and I want to physicalize my moving on through this permanent sign. The permanence reminds me that while I cannot erase parts of my story, no matter how painful, I can absorb them and I have taken these into the fabric of my being...and I am still beautiful, still whole, and simply more complex.
And so on Friday, I will go and make my mark, or rather, bear theirs, to signify that I am part of a greater chain. There will be a place I can physically touch -- a visual touchstone -- when I am lonely, afraid, faltering, or ashamed and from it will flow the strength and courage of women over a thousand strong: my sisters. It will bear our colors and our sign. I have never felt more sure of something in my life...and never more excited to bust out a true confession at the next family holiday gathering!
What a week this has been?! Countless self-discoveries, great boons and gifts balanced with difficulties and challenges. I am still far ahead in the balance of the positive so I am not one to complain. Life is still beautiful and one day I hope that someone else will walk under my window and greet me with a warm "bon giorno,m principesa!"
Until then, I will list some blessings:
new friends
new opportunities
more chances to concertize
new successes
valuable failures
renewed connections
travel to expand awareness and abilities
forged art practices
new growth in the garden
continual personal and practical weeding
And now on to the Signs and Metaphors...
The back story is that for a period of a decade now I have been in an active process of personal discernment. I feel that this is coming to fruition in this turning over from my twentieth decade to my thirtieth and ushering in a new wave of dedication, energy and artistic pursuit. I want to -- have wanted to honor this in some way for a time. Some kind of cultural ornamentation came to mind -- but whether a piercing, scar or tatoo...I was on the fence for over 10 years now. Until a month ago --
The tatoo found me. I was drawn to the bearer as well but there was a message in the tatoo. Unfortunately, the symbol only spoke Greek so I was S.O.L. for over a month trying to decipher the message. The symbol also was sneaky, so by the time I translated the message, it took another week to recognize that the message was an inversion. I was further perplexed as I misinterpreted the reference point of the tatoo. The original, symbol says, literally "brothers" whereas the message to me was the compliment -- sisters. But then that started me thinking about my sister and my friend "sisters" and other frames of reference. It was only today that it dawned on me that the universe wanted me to remember my forgotten sisterhood -- a group of women joined in intention, path, and artistry. In my isolation from the fraternity, I had forgotten so much. I had forgotten beautiful ceremonies, idea-clad women, and songs of idealistic triumph and unity. I had forgotten, in my loneliness and trials, that I am not alone -- that others share my convictions and drive for beauty and truth. And then I knew what I had to get -- my symbol speaks greek as well -- to keep these sisters closer to me and more present in my awareness. What better to mark my thirtieth year than a symbol to remind me of my sisterhood, etched into my brain, more or less.
In my life, I never thought to scar my pristine skin with any kind of permanent mark -- heck! earrings even give me trouble on occasion. However, other things and people have taken great liberty in leaving permanent marks burned into my psche. This is a mark of my choosing. That act for me is powerfully symbolic, liberating and healing. How poetically ironic -- using a scar to heal. I don't want to forget any part of my story. But I see this as stamping a chapter closed and sealing within its pages a load of pain, hurt and injustice. This book can go up on the shelf because I'm writing the next chapter now and I want to physicalize my moving on through this permanent sign. The permanence reminds me that while I cannot erase parts of my story, no matter how painful, I can absorb them and I have taken these into the fabric of my being...and I am still beautiful, still whole, and simply more complex.
And so on Friday, I will go and make my mark, or rather, bear theirs, to signify that I am part of a greater chain. There will be a place I can physically touch -- a visual touchstone -- when I am lonely, afraid, faltering, or ashamed and from it will flow the strength and courage of women over a thousand strong: my sisters. It will bear our colors and our sign. I have never felt more sure of something in my life...and never more excited to bust out a true confession at the next family holiday gathering!
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