All sorts of corny things I could write about: God, I love theatre. Cool summer evenings. Talk. Friendship. Being authentic, like it or not. New bugs. Breaking the mold. Avocados, eggs, bare feet, dancing, singing, gratitude. Being young, being older, being out there, being quiet.
Self-conscious subjective bloggery. Or a quiet celebration.
Some days seem extra sweet. The air is clear, liquid, lapping, like cool water against bare skin. It smells of herbs, dusty, dry, tangy, and everything truthful, even what is painful, is seasoned with juniper and basil. Gifts given are reflected back, and others' joy becomes my wisdom, their choices, my peace.
My friend Pat and I had a discussion tonight about scattering our husband's ashes, about what we supposed we could make it mean and about the gritty practical reality that makes this a hard task to accomplish with dignity. You wait till just the right time, when you need to remember the person, or forget the person, move on or look back. In the week after scattering Lon's ashes, I was haunted by his presence, what he would have thought, what he would have said, though he had not thought or said those things for years. How could a bag of grit, emptied under a tree, bring him back into my imagination that way? How could it not?
Even things without substance are something.
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5 comments:
are oboe players snobs?
is your sister an oboe player?
Oh, my. Do I now have to recant everything I ever said about oboists? (Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise. Oboe players are snobs.) Or should I just say that oboe players, whose ranks must surely include Anonymous above, are natural snobs because they are such superior people (imagine! a double reed!) who can create such air pressure with their ombuchure that the oxygen backs up into their brains, so that they grow brains cells and neural connections that much faster, yada, yada, yada. They're better dancers, too, though that would not be true of my sister (who may actually read this one day). Somehow the tone of this blog has taken a dive. Choices.
It is our embouchure (not ombuchure) that keeps all that oxygen backed up into our brains. (Ok, so your's was a good attempt at spelling and I did have to look it up.) To quote the Oboe Specialist web site "Oboe playing is primarily about control. Playing the Oboe is a very physical exercise and you do need to achieve a good level of fitness to control the muscles that control your breathing from your diaphragm." I guess all that control just carries into all aspects of our lives, thus we appear to be snobs to those whose lives and vibratos are out of control. You know most band teachers will not start a fourth grader on oboe - they start them on flute or clarinet and then gauge personalities (control, confidence, and independence) to decide who gets to move to oboe.
Oh, great. The oboe players are taking over my blog. (Or do they prefer to be called oboists? Or Oboe Specialists?) (And darn it, I knew ombouchure--whatever!--didn't look right.) It's all about control for them--everybody else has to tune to their version of A/440. Loosen up. Live a little.
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