Colour Pages #4: Red like Joan

I hold Red in my mind and thoughts rise like bubbles. They’re not what I expect.

Water2

This decision is rooted in fear.

Windsheild2

I’m stuck in Repeat.

littleshoreWave

I’m bored.

Confined.  categorized, manipulated, abused, constricted, driven, exhausted, worried, overstressed, coping.

Aren’t we all to some extent.  And isn’t this an essential part of the story.

CurbPuddle

Then another thought rises (after a Mozart Requiem rehearsal):

Music changes everything.

Wave1detail

I offer this idea in honour of Joan Watson, master of the french horn and incredible human, who calls to us all from the far-off place where we can be anything and anyone we choose to be.  I was so privileged to meet and know her.

The horn solo at the end of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite is red. Red like freedom.

It will take an hour, so give yourself the time to listen to the entire piece.  Close your eyes and follow the journey until the end.  I weep without restraint, every time.  

WinterRose

Red is alive like fire, compelling and warm and dangerous.

It’s intense like passion and its right use requires skill and discernment, its expert use true maturity.

I offer that without Red we would have no change, no challenge.

Stillness in fire, thoughts like a river that moves both swift and slow

Without the red that changes everything, without challenge, life fades into monotone.

Joan, such an inspiration to so many, was not beige or grey.

Joan was, and is still, Red.

Storm-Stayed, 2014

The Blizzard’s Promise:  to bring us all closer.

BlizzardWindowEastNorth

We look out of snow-packed windows at white white nothing but white and wind and remember how wonder feels.  What warm is, what nourishment tastes like.

It tastes like time.  Like open, endless time.

BlizzardWindowNE

Time tastes a little like fever.

Now finally I can… and then I can… and then…

BlizzardWindowNW

Still the wind blows and blows and we peer out and still see Wonder.  The taste of nourishment is different, now.  More like Memory.  Like something you loved a long long time ago and just remembered….

Without even realizing you’ve moved your body to the table where your hands are now occupied with making something that reminds you of what that felt like and hours pass by ….

BlizzardWindowMidEast

We’re all alive, right now, with all the other people who are alive.

Thank God for that.  More, please.

Inside Winter

It’s the kind of snow there’s a constant More of.  The plows and trucks and blowers, out all night long are still going strong at 10am.  Cars slide gently sideways to stop signs. Kids and grown-ups both are thoroughly snow-suited, booted, winter-gloved and touqued as they kick & trudge through piled white, falling white, blowing  – white everywhere.  Dogs leap and dive in it; parked cars have long since disappeared, save for a stripe of colour along their sides.

Third-floor roof of the studio building.  Looking Southwest across the harbour
Third-floor roof of the studio building. Looking Southwest across the harbour

The coffee tastes better.  The blankets are warmer.  The books are more intriguing; the art more tantalizing now that there’s time to look deeply.  The music has such clean white space around it,  it’s almost visible.

PicnicTable_Dec2013

I’ve dug out my knitting projects.  I find myself puttering,  replacing buttons, fixing collars, darning holes in old sweaters.

Just heard the opening phrase of a new song:  3 cello voices, descending, one rising, to A minor; hold.  Then vocals…

Roof_doorDec2013

I’ve said this before, but it’s true enough to say twice:  I love what winter does to me.