A new experience presented itself within a community to celebrate positive energy. This was most of the group’s first time being together. The hour started with rhythmic drum beats mimicking the heart’s life force.
There were 15 of us, each with a drum and another percussion instrument. This video is the third of four sets, each naturally lasting between 12-13 minutes. The group leaders did little to manipulate each interval of creative expression. They flowed as swiftly and gently, or vigorously and bountifully, as the Nashua River, deep in the Valley of Oxbow.
As the hour progressed, a golden hue encompassed us. We said farewell to the sun. Then to each other. Look forward to another drum circle September 12.
Only way to survive the insanity is to turn up the volume. Dance! See you on the other side of the Moon…
“Little Red Corvette” Prince
“She’s Strange” Cameo
“She Works Hard for Her Money” Donna Summer
“Whip It” Devo
“Nasty Girl” Vanity 6
“Maniac” Michael Sembello
“Love is a Stranger” Eurythmics
“Sunglasses at Night” Corey Hart
“She Blinded Me with Science” Thomas Dolby
“Love is a Battlefield” Pat Benator
If these songs can’t dissipate the fog? What gives?
Training to walk 18 miles for American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP) on June 16, 2018 in Philadelphia PA. Brotherly love John!
I am infatuated with my depression and craziness,
I understand Sylvia’s expression.
I have been at the edge,
thoughts of death in my head.
Reality slips in,
thoughts of those who care,
keeps me here.
When I was younger,
the prime of my youth,
dreams were dashed.I had no reason to live.
Invisible, told I was beyond repair.
I feared I would never be found.
Silence spoken charges the soul.
Beauty moves the wind,
landing on the lips of a rose.
I was given an invitation to be part of The Nutcracker production in third grade and told no by my mother. I still dream of dancing. There is nothing in this world to replace those wings. Within, I still mourn when I go to a Ballet.
I hid in my room to practice, dreaming of making it in New York. Nothing was too daunting. I would rise on my toes, piroutte, with splendor, rigorously demanding more of myself. The music rousing emotions. I flew and noticed nothing but the music. No one existed in my world.
I try to write with as much passion. I certainly would rather dance than speak. I feel exposed writing and unable to remove myself from people’s stares. Self-confidence lacking unless I’m part of the atmosphere.
I have been in therapy for a long time and that experience has loosened the chains that bound me in fear. The rope around my neck, the taunts of my voices. It is a brave experience to lay bare my vulnerability. My dance. When thought in that way I am free, it washes over me. Resurrects, a broken girl made whole. A clay pot repaired with gold, as precious as any applause. Actually I refrain from the applause, not because I am not grateful, rather the sadness it invokes. The lost dreams, a reminder of what could have been. The infatuation with my depression exists. The craziness rising, energy to keep going. To never give up.
We may not understand someone’s journey, poetry or faith, but bloggers can appreciate those who stop by and spend time looking at our posts. A sign of camaraderie. We learn from each other, fall in love with works of art but also find objection and feel deep opinions. Gratitude reminds us we are alive. Life’s music, our heart beating as a drum; clearing thoughts, expanding horizons, seeing hidden perspectives we might not otherwise contemplate. This is life-long learning at its best. Wisdom derived from walking in someone’s shoes.
follow: to move forward along a road, path, river or sea
Life is a dance. Whether you glide over discouragement or stub your toes and scrape your knees, we celebrate how far we have come and know we will make it to the finish line. Still. Moving. Forward. What better gift is that? Encouragement to be yourself and love.
You may see beauty in photography, paintings, poetry, quilting, dance or other writings. You are far above the crowd who struggle in boots that do not fit. They have not found out where they belong. We all have purpose and perhaps our art is to serve others. Vincent van Gogh had a beautiful understanding of life. Yet he did not belong. A tragic Shakespearean play. The end of Van Gogh’s story was not to be but to be in future minds and hearts. A visionary? He knew color would be accepted and plowed forth in confidence. We understood a little too late but understand just the same. We pray for those struggling.
my favorite painting on exhibit.
i even bought the poster.
it spoke to me
in silence i heard
Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well.
Love is the greatest gift we give. His art was not appreciated until he was gone. I challenge each of us to love today. Do not let another chance disappear to smile and say hello.
I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.
I recently attended the Art Institute of Chicago’s exhibit “Van Gogh’s bedrooms”. His paintings up close do his work justice. Brushstrokes exemplifying life. Vivid colors to cheer a depressed world. A tragedy that his love went unnoticed. He continues to influence art lover’s with passion.
the last flow of coffee
drips white cream
circling rings unfolding
of fable and tales
of “used to be hope”
the impossible bricks
standing against our world
a last surface
the probability comes: the “us” ends.
The bird’s skulls
I have never participated in a writing prompt but thought it could be fun to see what I concoct as well as others. Intriguing.
Sunday morning poetry. Church: words spoken to me, shared lovingly with you.
My second chance to shape my faith every Sunday for a year.
I stand at the center
of a world gone awry
surrounded by words
of despondent grief
cells of skin
until the acrid tears
travel down this desolate road
secrets held close
best withheld to keep peace.
I live in a world of death.
believe their story.
My life’s stream
my gift to You,
God. Throwing my words
I am a broken pot
shards of clay
thrown down to mold.
Isaiah 64:7 There is no one who calls on Your name, Who arouses himself to take hold of You; For You have hidden Your face from us And have delivered us into the power of our iniquities. 8 But now, O LORD, You are our Father, We are the clay, and You our potter; And all of us are the work of Your hand.9Do not be angry beyond measure, O LORD, Nor remember iniquity forever; Behold, look now, all of us are Your people.…
Job 10:3 Does it please you to oppress me, to spurn the work of your hands, while you smile on the plans of the wicked?
Jeremiah 31:9 They will come with weeping; they will pray as I bring them back. I will lead them beside streams of water on a level path where they will not stumble…