And then be it, and be seen for it.
Today I was asked to perform at virtual festival as a “master artist.” And, of course, I am one. Twenty years ago (!) I took a storytelling class and promptly booked gigs for doing just that. I have loved Story my whole life, more, maybe, than anything else.
Another group asked if I’d sing at their event: my “name came up first.” It seems that everywhere I turn I see Music, ready, waiting, holding out a hand: the next dance partner I think I want to give myself to.
There’s a Who, me? to both of these moments, but unlike an age ago, it is said not in hushed panic of being found out, but in the surprised delight of being offered a present, of discovering the Universe has been quietly plotting my joy.
I talked to someone today who was my exact opposite in many demographics (age, gender, politics), and yet the familiar rage and despair never came to lift the drawbridge and protect me. My footing was solid and good. There was a connection, an exchange. There was wheat and chaff, both.
And tonight I dreamed aloud about climbing the big round bakes in the hay barn with ice climbing gear.
It’s all sifting, sorting, planting, harvesting, circling around and around. Maybe the straw is never spun to gold, but it smells so sweet, and the cows’ warm breath clouds the cold air, and the barn is cheeping with spring chicks under their lamp, and everything is here to be alive and tell the truth, and be brave enough to know it every moment that we can.