Ms. Mary is my music teacher; she is pure genius. Julliard trained, many years ago, she has taught thousands to play stringed instruments. She has created a color coded score which creates learning by ear and then conveys to reading notes on printed page. She is truly amazing. Nearing eighty now, she teaches in her home, in her front parlor. Boxes of tapes and music sheets, markers, instruments and family photos. Royal red Persian rug, cozy quilted day bed, bay windows. We play. Arkansas Traveler, Old Joe Clark, Tender Shepherd, Silent Night, Cripple Creek and more. I began my once a week lessons this past Summer; Mary is an incredibly patient person. When I practice at home, both cats race to the front door and beg to be let outside, really.
Your fiddle is the woman, the bow is her man. She tells me. I blush. They are in love.
I have a bruised ego this morning, a friends hair color job went very awry the other day. It wasn't my first failure to make the right call with respect to the correct color formula to mix and it probably wont be my last (if I don't commit suicide that is), but my timing was just horrendous!
It's a long story, but she's a ballroom dancer, she and her husband of 40 years were throwing a huge ball and fund raiser the following evening. There was so much work to be done Friday, she thought she'd save time and come to me to touch up her hair color. I made a bad decision, and then a worse one. It is a story I do not want to tell. Anymore. So I won't.
It ends with me feeling sick to my stomach and mad a myself, depressed. I wish I could take those hours and decisions back. My ego is in the trash can. Dammit! to hell I say.
I feel like crying.
I dread getting out of bed. I know it will pass, but. . .sleeping is good.
On the first night, the Dali Lama appeared in the village; he was leading meditation dances and exercises.
My haircolor lady said I needed to learn to handle stress, and there he entered, the dream.
It was now my turn to work with him, (Oh yeah, he is not the current DL, he is very young and from the past. I do not know which one he is)I am very close and he is gazing into my eyes, pure love.
As we are doing this meditation together, my sweater enclosure or earring becomes entangled in his sweater. I pull away and the threads from his sweater begin to unravel. I am horrified and embarrassed. He laughs and hugs me. He tells me he loves me and I feel how much he does. He tells me I try so hard to create love, to try to make people love me while all the time I am love.
In the morning, I try to remember his words, the unspoken ones. I wear saffron orange shirts, to remember. It's hard though because I am really good at punishing myself.
And then, last night, Ms. Mary said to me, "I need to know what you are."
I tell her- I am an artist, and a poet (its a dream relax). I love to laugh and to dance. I pause and then say, I just wish I was smart.
You're smart OK she said.
Yep, that's me- smart.
Love Ms. Mary, love the Dali Lama.
Staying mad a myself, licking the ole bruised ego, not getting out of bed. Not today.