There was Thelonius

A baby bird hopping along the blistering sidewalks of New York City in July has, I'd reckon, about 5 or 10 minutes, tops.

So it didn't seem the largest crime to scoop up the ugly, unfeathered creature, and bring it upstairs to our home. I popped it into one of my ex-husband's many bird cages, gave it some water and a slice of multigrain bread.

Then I went online. What I learned was that I might have broken Federal Songbird protection laws by picking up a wild bird. I also learned it would need to be fed by eyedropper every two or three hours, or die.

Out of curiousity I chose the bird's care over consideration of Federal penalties. And sleep, as it would happen.

My ex-husband was fascinated and jumped into the project. He had kept a room full of Australian finches before I met him, and when the trio of zebra finches he bought me early in our relationship started reproducing excessively, he furthered his reputation as the local Bird Man by inviting children in our neighborhood to adopt the offspring.

As the bird matured, we learned it was a starling, a member of the mynah family, which meant at some point it would begin to imitate the sounds around it.

I was quite sure its first words would be to our dog: "Britta, get down!" But my ex had high hopes for the bird who got noisy and excited whenever he heard music by John Coltrane or Thelonius Monk. The bird was dubbed "Thelonius."

Somewhere there is a photo of Thelonius, nearing adult plumage, perched, head under wing, on my ex's laptop screen as he worked.

Thelonius imprinted on us during those eyedropper feedings, and we learned that starlings are not among the songbirds protected by any Federal or New York State law. Pigeons may be a different story, if you were wondering.

We also learned that in our care, Thelonius had not learned the socialization which would allow him (or her, since the plumage had not yet differentiated) to join the infinite number of starlings that grace the streets and parks of New York City.

My ex decided we'd keep Thelonius, and our second bedroom, an aerie with outrageous views over the Hudson and Palisades, quickly became the domain of bird poop, stray feathers, my ex-husband, and his paperwork.

My father has reminded me that I was forever bringing home strays as a child. But when I told a co-worker about Thelonius and he declared that he actually walked the sidewalks of New York looking for baby birds to rescue and raise, I exercised eminent domain and gave Thelonius a permanent home. For the record, my ex agreed, reluctantly, although I can't say he didn't hold it against me afterward.

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In Chinatown I Learned to Smile

It's 8 a.m. on Chrystie Street in Chinatown and I'm sitting on a bench in front of the Golden Age Center, a little teary.
The intense stare from a plain clothes cop, as his group roused a sleeping man from a park bench, collided, I think, with memories of being a whole lot younger ,and living in my first New York apartment just off Canal Street. I kept walking, but the tears were coming.
I think that's what happened. Maybe that and seven weeks of bronchitis and pneumonia which left me tired. And some raw blistered feet. And the beautiful elderly Chinese man moving through a tai chi soft form who shared the toddler's playground with me and my coffee a moment ago.
Tears go like that, I suppose.
What I remembered as I walked, after trying to smile at the cop, hoping he'd feel a little better about a difficult job, was that twenty years ago, the great lesson I learned right here in Chinatown was to smile at people.
Back in those days, New York grated on me like a new asphalt patch: smelly, sticky, and uneven. Chinatown, in particular was fast and dirty.
As epiphanies go, this one isn't going to open lilies, but it occurred to me one day that when I was out walking with my boyfriend, the merchants, no, entire sidewalks, it seemed, broadened in smiles. And when I was alone, they closed as quickly.
I resented the difference for a while, until I finally realized that for his many bad habits, he made me laugh, and the people around us smiled back. It was so simple.
I tested and proved my theory: the difference was me. In a city where *how many* languages are spoken, where the person standing next to me in line for green peanuts and bok choy may have left their childhood village in China about, say, a week ago and may be living in their first concrete jungle, a smile is everything.
It's small town and worldly at the same time; practical and the epitome of elegance, I've decided, as I've seen its different forms practiced around the planet.
That Tai Chi. The tough street kids who laughed and watched the Chinese guy's soft form, had no idea that it is the subtle strength and memory practice for a powerful street fight martial art that uses an aggressor's attack as its only weapon.
My own tai chi teacher answered the question once "So what's the difference between tai chi and yoga?" His answer "What are you going to do if someone knocks you off your yoga mat?"

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I Ching

It was more of an enormous flood than a wave really.

"Potentially disastrous filling of yang energy" is the way the I Ching desribed it. A great cleansing and renewal when the waters are back down.

I'm fine. Just sitting here in my little boat.

I have pictures:

That's me: Driving along the reservoir road. Sunroof open. Hair - big and beachy. I think I may be singing but with the engine noise I can't tell what.

And that's a feather I found in the deep shade of a pine tree. There's a hawk above me and it has dropped a long wing feather into the pachysandra. I can't see the hawk through the dense branches, but I can feel a whisper and I take the feather. That was beside the old churchhouse on the hill.

And that angel sits behind me in asana practice. I can see my shadow on the wall ahead in Sun Salutation and always wonder whether, if I raise my arms in true prayer, I will fly up like an angel and see you.

And that's you on a streetcorner. There are noisy mopeds behind you. Do you see how bright the sun is on your face?

And there am I again, ducking under the wisp of a cherry tree newly planted on my labyrinth. It is really beautiful this time of year

Here's a picture of Nicholas singing in Oslo, and one of Julie in Zurich. They are helping me triangulate to Stockholm. Maybe sometime soon. Like everything, it will depend on the winds.

Another one of me, happily collecting shells and beach glass on the little island beach.

Here's one of me in a playground in Chinatown. The little boy is the son of friends and he is very sweet but a little disconcerted at his afternoon with someone other than his mom or dad. He has the most darling smile and loves to be hugged. He also loves trucks. A lot.

And that's me on Bowery, threading my way through pedestrians to go meditate with the dharma punx. They are transcendent and I love their peacefulness.

You would enjoy these all, I know. But for the time being I am happy to send you postcards, happy to know you are following your path. And I hope to see you soon.

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a little healing

In a Trauma Healing workshop with Nadine Hoover not too long ago, I learned a lovely technique for reducing stress by massaging the facial muscles where we hold so much of it. She said it stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system which is the body's internal Rx for stress. I'll combine it with a little of the centering practice from Integral Yoga.

Begin by sitting comfortably and start to deepen your breath, letting your belly relax with each inhale. Close your eyes and just let those deep relaxed belly breaths happen.

Then bring your palms together in front of your heart and say a little prayer for yourself.

Now rub your palms together until you have generated some heat in your hands. Gently cup your hands over the eye sockets, with your fingers on your forehead.

Let the heat sink into the eyes, and the prayer be absorbed into your mind.

When the heat has dissipated, bring your fingertips to the browbone between your eyes, and draw them along the browbone to the far corners of the bone. Repeat this massage a few times, nicely, slowly.

Now place the fingertips on the lower eye sockets near the nose, and again, in a slow movement draw the fingers along the lower bone to the outside edge of the eyes. Repeat this a few times.

Bring the fingers to the place on your jaw where the jaw joins the skull. With circular motion massage that joint.

Bring the fingertips back to the middle of the brow bone and this time massage upwards along the middle of the forehead to the scalp and following the center line of your skull with the fingers of both hands, massage over the crown of the head to the base of the skull.

Spend some time massaging the base of the skull, first in the center of the neck and then giving attention to the muscles that connect the back of the head to the neck.

A nice place to continue might be along the shoulders, or maybe bringing your palms back together in front of your heart with thanks to the healing power within.

Seemed like a nice thing to share. If your lower back is where you carry stress, I'd highly recommend Alexander Technique. Its not the first thing people think of for spine issues, but 2 or 3 lessons to learn how to elongate your spine - mostly by carrying the head at a natural location - are incredibly beneficial longterm. xo

Sacred Spaces

I bought the first piece of furniture for my yurt today: a bright red butt board for sliding down hills in the snow. Practical, transportable. Maybe a little out of season in mid-March, but on Friday I got great news on the flashing frostbite in my fingers, and felt like celebrating.

It's actually called a Rocko Flake Sled and it's from Sweden. Cool design and I couldn't leave the Cooper Hewitt today without one of my own and some plans for felting a yurt. The yurt they have installed in the gazebo looks like a chupa. I think it's beautiful. Mongols have rules about creating harmony while they are felting: "While among others, check your tongue, while alone, check your mind."

Lots of sacred spaces this week and happenstance encounters with dear friends. The Greenman showed up at the Riverside Church event with Archbishop Desmond Tutu. He made me smile: I'm having such a good time, JB. I wake up, take my Ritalin, and go spend the day playing with children with learning disabilities.

And in case you missed it, Archbishop Tutu, the father of restorative justice in a land that once held so much violence, danced, he danced down the aisle to a resounding spiritual processional that night. And then gave a benediction in his own language. It was beautiful. Violence does pass; goodness does win, in part because meanness is just too labor intensive and exhausting. This was on the full moon night of Holi - the Hindu celebration of good over evil.

On Friday Carla sang Brazilian Jazz at a local burger joint. And Saturday afternoon I spent learning about light and space with Agnes Martin at Dia:Beacon, after finding Judy pulled over with a flat on 287. Sunday - St. Pat's, the Temple of Dendur and that felted yurt. I am really so blessed.

The best part is that much of it was field study for work! Maybe not the butt board, but still.

Here's something I learned. Judy sat for an hour on the shoulder of 287. She'd left her phone at home and had a blow-out on 2-week old tires. A couple of state patrols drove by her. Didn't stop. Lots and lots of cars drove by. Nobody stopped. She told me that eventually she was really wondering what she ought to do since she didn't know how to change the tire.

So she decided to pray. That's when I drove by. Now. I'm not saying I'm the answer to anybody's prayers. That's not my point. But what I learned from this is that we do hear each other's prayers. And God does. And prayers are answered: I had my cell phone and she called AAA.

Maybe we don't recognize when our prayers are being answered. It occurred to me today, as I walked by a playground in Central Park, that I sorely miss having a husband, a home, a dog, and plans for having a family. I've prayed that he would have a son, or two or three. I've also prayed that he would not be a flash in the pants, or pan, or whatever.

And I really believe my prayers will be answered. Like the elephants of Sri Lanka, I can feel that big wave coming. Instead of running for the hills, though, I've been learning to navigate my little craft, checking the wind and adding plenty of ballast, because it's going to be a great ride. And I'm looking forward to it. Point being there's now a pretty strong little boat called me.

And the yurt, I figure, will stow nicely until landfall.

Among...

the gardens of the seaside park, I'll sit in a little chair. I'll bring water-based oil paints and watch very carefully the shaking stamen of a flower. Or learn about blue in the shadows of sails. It's a nice way to be quiet.

It's too cold to sit in that park today, so to begin simply, maybe I'll study the sunlit browns of the window shades. Or the purples of silk pillows among bed linens.

I'm not sure I want to spend time examining my bed linens, though: 7 pillows, 6 blankets, 2 cats and a buckwheat neckwarmer all remind me of the long, tall, 235 pound bed warmer I'd rather have in place.

Last week a client brought me an artist's rendition of the 55th Psalm. She said it speaks to the biblical promise that we will find a path in the wilderness. That's not my reading of the Psalm, but her faith is more interesting than anyone's dogma.

I'm not always clear how to know a true path, even in the quiet. But I believe our bodies know more than our minds. I discovered this in a surprising way at the driving range: thinking about this particular man who otherwise agitated me, also caused my neck to lengthen, shoulders to drop, and golf balls to fly effortlessly and accurately off my 9-iron blade. It was statistically measurable, and I named my golf swing for him. I may end up naming a brush stroke or color for him, too.

In the meantime, there's a contra dance tonight at a nearby church. My friend, Margaret, and her beloved are going and invited me along. I'd rather not be a third wheel on Valentine's Day, and I'm not wild about dancing with strangers. But my friends are great, and I may go for the happy music.

A hot bath would also be wonderful.

Here...

was something about a butterfly along the back of his neck while he slept. I worried I'd wake him.

On my last day in the little garret studio on the harbor, I walked up to Tiffany's and exchanged a birthday present. What I brought home and wore for my move, and since, was Frank Gehry's fish ring. It reminds me of the bulge and slice of a fish at the surface of water; or of a whale maybe, pressing through the deepest parts of the ocean.

I wonder if a whale is ever homesick, or if it just swims, enjoying only the shape and contour of it's skin within a current. Does it ever turn around, looking for the familiar in the depths of it's passage?

Is it my turn?

Mostly I just follow along, catching shadows here and there, someone else's voice drumming down the quiet.

I will hear the quiet again. Maybe soon. In the garden outside my kitchen door. Among trees and rocks. I'll grow carrots, beans, and rosemary. The Sound is a sweet walk away.

It will be warm and light breezes will exchange small gifts.

Every year I believe that.