February always feels forgotten, some brief too-fast blur of daffodils and ice and mud. It’s gone again and overnight the cherry and plum trees have burst their blossoms, exploded with pale pinks and whites, delicate and fragrant. The oaks still stand nude, small leaf buds on the tips of branches a bare hint of sap stirring.
Saturday morning I taught veilwork in my dance class. Not everyone likes veils; it can be a measure of patience. It takes time to figure out how the fabric moves, and not only how it moves, but how it moves to best please the eye. It also takes arm and shoulder strength, which is something many women past a certain age tend to neglect. I love watching all the swirling colors, and I thoroughly enjoy seeing my students experimenting with turns and flares, finding their comfort level to simply play with the veils. It is a sort of silliness, playing with a big piece of cloth, but it is also a form of artistic expression. We had a good time and I cut the lesson short because I had a class to attend.
I went with one of my students to a workshop with a dance historian and ethnologist. Her emphasis is on Ottoman Greek folk dances. We learned some wonderful stepwork, and danced while playing our finger cymbals to a 9/8 rhythm. I can’t explain all I learned without hearing the music or being able to perform the steps or at least clap the rhythm. It did fascinate me, and I want to learn more.
Later that afternoon, S & I went hiking with JJ in the woods, and found ourselves in a section that had burned during the summer’s fire season. It was very Hemingway of us, stumping through the black trees and scorched ground and bare brambles. We made our way to the creek side, and the thick lush woods that escaped the fire’s ravaging blaze closed around us. We were enthralled by the sword ferns that stood as high as our heads, and the myriad of mosses and lichens and ferns of as many different shades of green as can be imagined, growing on the ground, on tree branches, rocks, down to the water’s edge. The bare branches of maples wore their pale green mossy beards, and lungwort hung with its chunky deliberateness from the oaks. The moss covering the branches forms a symbiotic relationship; the trees extend aerial roots into the moss, and benefit from the trapped moisture.
The contours of the land are a jumble, rising and falling from some volcanic upthrust eons ago, and the trail switched back and climbed or descended along the course of the rocky wild creek. In places the water was shallow and tumbled with white rapids, and elsewhere it spread into deep dark green pools suitable for diving and swimming. We crossed two bridges over small burbling tributaries cascading from some high spring above us in the rocky cliffs. We felt awe as the sunlight splashed against the water and dappled the world with shadows from the big firs and maples. The air was heady and crystalline, and we all felt euphoric, quiet in our thoughts, relaxed and happy. JJ and I galloped on imaginary horses and the dogs coursed ahead, traveling to some imaginary kingdom. S took photos of the light and shadows and the colors green.
After our hike, we returned home for dinner with JJ & Shellybelly came to eat and laugh. We danced and joked and drank red wine while S barbequed kabobs with steak, mushrooms, onions, and tomatoes. We gorged ourselves on cheese and crackers. We listened to the blues and to techno and to gypsy music and talked about God and culture and the most beautiful woman in the world. JJ is the funniest woman in the world, and Shell is the so-sassiest. I think I must be the happiest.
Sunday I slept.
Saturday morning I taught veilwork in my dance class. Not everyone likes veils; it can be a measure of patience. It takes time to figure out how the fabric moves, and not only how it moves, but how it moves to best please the eye. It also takes arm and shoulder strength, which is something many women past a certain age tend to neglect. I love watching all the swirling colors, and I thoroughly enjoy seeing my students experimenting with turns and flares, finding their comfort level to simply play with the veils. It is a sort of silliness, playing with a big piece of cloth, but it is also a form of artistic expression. We had a good time and I cut the lesson short because I had a class to attend.
I went with one of my students to a workshop with a dance historian and ethnologist. Her emphasis is on Ottoman Greek folk dances. We learned some wonderful stepwork, and danced while playing our finger cymbals to a 9/8 rhythm. I can’t explain all I learned without hearing the music or being able to perform the steps or at least clap the rhythm. It did fascinate me, and I want to learn more.
Later that afternoon, S & I went hiking with JJ in the woods, and found ourselves in a section that had burned during the summer’s fire season. It was very Hemingway of us, stumping through the black trees and scorched ground and bare brambles. We made our way to the creek side, and the thick lush woods that escaped the fire’s ravaging blaze closed around us. We were enthralled by the sword ferns that stood as high as our heads, and the myriad of mosses and lichens and ferns of as many different shades of green as can be imagined, growing on the ground, on tree branches, rocks, down to the water’s edge. The bare branches of maples wore their pale green mossy beards, and lungwort hung with its chunky deliberateness from the oaks. The moss covering the branches forms a symbiotic relationship; the trees extend aerial roots into the moss, and benefit from the trapped moisture.
The contours of the land are a jumble, rising and falling from some volcanic upthrust eons ago, and the trail switched back and climbed or descended along the course of the rocky wild creek. In places the water was shallow and tumbled with white rapids, and elsewhere it spread into deep dark green pools suitable for diving and swimming. We crossed two bridges over small burbling tributaries cascading from some high spring above us in the rocky cliffs. We felt awe as the sunlight splashed against the water and dappled the world with shadows from the big firs and maples. The air was heady and crystalline, and we all felt euphoric, quiet in our thoughts, relaxed and happy. JJ and I galloped on imaginary horses and the dogs coursed ahead, traveling to some imaginary kingdom. S took photos of the light and shadows and the colors green.
After our hike, we returned home for dinner with JJ & Shellybelly came to eat and laugh. We danced and joked and drank red wine while S barbequed kabobs with steak, mushrooms, onions, and tomatoes. We gorged ourselves on cheese and crackers. We listened to the blues and to techno and to gypsy music and talked about God and culture and the most beautiful woman in the world. JJ is the funniest woman in the world, and Shell is the so-sassiest. I think I must be the happiest.
Sunday I slept.
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