Part I of two parts:

Here’s a poem by Kabir:

“I said to the wanting-creature inside me:

What is this river you want to cross?

There are no travelers on the river-road, and no road.

Do you see anyone moving about on that bank, or resting?

There is no river at all, and no boat, and no boatman.

There is no towrope either, and no one to pull it.

There is no ground, no sky, no time, no bank, no ford!

 

And there is no body, and no mind!

Do you believe there is some place that will make the soul less thirsty?

In that great absence you will find nothing.

 

Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet.

Think about it carefully!

Don’t go off somewhere else!

 

Kabir says this: just throw away all thoughts of imaginary things,

   and stand firm in that which you are.”

~ Kabir, 15th Century Indian mystic, as translated by Robert Bly

 

[Disclosure: I’m using a prompt from the website of Laura Davis, writing coach.]

Sometimes I feel that there is an unfulfilled vastness in my being.

I don’t know exactly what to do about it, if anything.

I made a song of that poem forty years ago, in a recitativo style, and my music teacher was unimpressed with it. In those days I valued his opinion more than my own, so I can only remember the first two lines of melody. I agree, though, that it was not a song you’d recall in its entirety. But the poem spoke to me then, and it does still.

As a child, I used to create little shows that the neighbor kids and I would act out on our huge front porch in the Sacramento Valley small town where I grew up. These were mostly peppered with songs I made up, but sometimes skits or what we thought was comedy—to no audience. We never got them to the point of presentation. But I did think as a child that I was destined for the stage: a movie star, or at least a singer (that last one, at least, was partially realized).

The stage, or film, was a rather lofty aspiration, especially given I had this paralyzed leg from polio, and eventually, in high school, when my tallest lifetime height became five feet one inch, my limp would reach the two-inch difference I sustained for the rest of my life. Think: a bizarre gait reminding me a little of the hunchback of Notre Dame (though friends tell me it’s not that unattractive); an acquaintance who’s had spina bifida walks somewhat as I do. When I walk, the landscape appears to be bobbing up and down from my vantage point, and passing my reflection in a window has always jarred me out of the illusion that I am normal. So not exactly your leading lady graceful entrance.

I did sing, occasionally soloing, and did write real songs as an adult. I performed with or for friends and sang with some choruses and small choirs (classical, jazz and soft rock) which performed for audiences, sometimes for money. I had to quit because standing and especially moving around on the stage became extremely exhausting by the time I was fifty. Lifelong disability takes a toll on the body. I have chastised myself for not finding a singing group in which I could sit.

I was an art major in college; this was a decision I made in high school partly because I loved to draw and partly because my mother thought it was a good profession for a person who needs to be seated most of the time, and also because she was creative and just liked the idea. I think she may have daydreamed about being a professional artist if she’d had the chance to go to college, so as many parents do, she may have superimposed her fantasy upon her child.

What we didn’t see coming was that art is a difficult profession, competitive; you must be outstanding to sell your art, and I wasn’t, really. I was particularly good at figure drawing, but not outstanding; I was very good at photography, but not outstanding, and I was pretty good at oil painting. I was not so hot at watercolors but got better… but not to the point of being able to sell them. Additionally, I didn’t have the connections some of the rich kids in art school had. Knowing how to put a gallery show together or having a parent who was familiar with that was clearly an advantage. Our family didn’t have that kind of lifestyle; my dad was a milkman, and my mother had been a baker. I was the first in our family to go to college; my niece was the first to graduate.

What we also didn’t realize was that artists have to live in cities to support themselves. I am not really a city girl. I like to visit them; I like to drink up their culture and eat their food but living in them…it’s not for me. I lived in Oakland while going to art school for nine or ten months and that was all I could handle. I need to be surrounded by peace and quiet and foliage, especially trees. So I finished college in an uninspiring major which supported me for over forty years.

More to come, tomorrow.