Laurel Massé

The moon on the crest

This art, a painting by Rockwell Kent, will look familar to many of you. I used it a year ago in this post, when I was still living in the city, and thought that kind of full moon unlikely to shine on me again.

Silly little mortal!

Last week, deep in the night before my birthday, the moon on the crest of the new fallen snow/gave the lustre of midday to objects below (thank you, Clement Moore). Mrs. Peel, silhouetted by the window, and I, curled under my feather quilt, watched for a while, and breathed blue light. The moon, pregnant round, near-term with hopes and dreams, sang us to sleep. The next day it snowed like white feathers drifting.

How is it that I am back in a place where the moon shines blue, and sings in the coldest nights? And that a year ago I had no idea I would be? or could be?

Gifts beyond measure, grace upon grace, spilled out, overflowing, and every once in a while one actually recognizes them. Was blind, doubtless will be blind again, but for a moment, can see.

 

Wing in a sling

 

I fell and broke my right arm on the 16th, and the degree of difficulty of everything has been temporarily increased. Typing is difficult. Driving is difficult. Can't walk through a door carrying anything, because I can't turn doorknobs - doorknobs I never really noticed until they became barriers. I managed a blog post a few days ago, but it will be a little while before the next one moves from heart through head and hands to hyperlink.

Being quiet is good. With Mrs. Peel on my lap, it's very good indeed. I love to read, she loves to purr, and we both stare, and think. Something's bound to come of it. In the meantime, if you would please pray for a speedy restoration to health (and some breaking up of a bureaucratic logjam), I would be very grateful. And fewer doorknobs.

And remember, it's still Christmas. The 12 days don't end on the 25th. They start there, and we're in them. Rejoice!

There's no place like home

Almost everything I own is now stacked in a storage unit in Dutchess County, NY, safely tucked behind a door like these. Mrs. Peel (my feline companion in all adventures) is with me with her necessaries, and I have a few things for the summer, clothes and music and such, as I planned. I also have a lone vacuum cleaner attachment, and a few other things I did not plan on keeping with me all summer, while somewhere in the unit is the tin of Yorkshire Gold loose tea that I wanted, nay, needed! to have with me. Clearly, there was some last-minute frenzied flinging from my hand into any open bin. But, as I am not settling into my own place till September, I will have forgotten all about that tea by the time I see it again. It will then be like unto a gift from the gods.

Even more like such a gift is the help given me by magnificent friends and family who hauled boxes, levitated a piano, and fit everything securely, first into the U-Haul truck, and then into the storage space. Nevertheless, the move was exhausting. Several days passed before I was able to walk upright and speak in complete sentences, although I was inspired to squeak a surprised "eek!" on the first night away from the city. That same inspiration brought Mrs. P-Stands-for-Predator snaking, bloody-minded, out from under the bed. The thing got away, for which we are truly grateful (well, maybe not Mrs. Peel), and sleep since then has been deep and dreamy. I'm feeling better now. We're both exploring the territory. She has a new cat toy, and I've got the Grail: a library card in a new town.

Honey, we're home.

SInging as we go

 

Moving Day today, blessed by the help of good friends, seen and unseen. Your prayers for successful loading, driving, and unloading, with merriment throughout, will be greatly appreciated.

Mrs. Peel has thoughts on packing

My knapsack on my back

 

 

By sundown this evening, I will have finished packing (as you can see above, some things pack themselves). The U-Haul truck is reserved for Wednesday, and if all goes well, Mrs. Peel and I should be elsewhere and ready to relax by teatime. I have moved a lot of times, packing, unpacking. The first task is collecting boxes. The last time I moved, I got rid of the used ones, because I wouldn't need them again. How endearingly optimistic! Then, all I have to do is fill them, number each box, and keep a list of what is in it. I was well into the high double digits a few days ago when I dissolved in tears over how much stuff was left to pack. Not, mind you, because I was tired of packing, but because I am not exactly travelin' light. 

Shortly after I came back to the city in 2006, a friend asked me for moving tips. I had one: get rid of stuff. I told her that my only regret was that I had brought so much with me that I could have sold or given away before the move. And yet, I do not take my own advice.

Not that I never cull my possessions. I do, often. Something shifts in my mind, and I can sort and discard quickly and efficiently. But if that mental shift doesn't happen, every decision takes a long time. Of course, sometimes I wish later that I had kept something, usually a book. It has been shocking to learn that there are books I used to own that even the much-vaunted New York Public Library apparently doesn't.

When Hurricane Irene was spiralling toward New York City, threatening (according to local media) to roar over the boroughs and destroy us, New Yorkers were encouraged to gather their most important items into "go bags", so as to be ready to evacuate if necessary. I came up with three bags full, to be used depending on whether I was on foot, on public transportation, or in my car.

1. Walking list: Mrs. Peel (cat) in her carrier.

2. Public transportation list: Cat in carrier hanging from one shoulder. Bible, Riverside Shakespeare, current journal in a bag on the other. My little-girl charm bracelet on wrist.

3. Beat-up Toyota list: All of the preceding, plus all my diaries and dream journals, and Greenie, the rescued corn plant.

I actually live on a big hill, so I did not need that bag, but the thought process was interesting. What mattered to me? Mrs. Peel, plus stories. Nothing else.

Even though there has been no yard sale, and I only have time to pack and move, and must sort things out later, it's still basically Mrs. Peel, plus stories. The stories of all my books and bookshelves. The lineage of my piano. The mystery of the painting that has been hanging above it. My wicker chair has a great little tale to tell. Greenie has a ballad. Everything speaks. Once I have settled into a new place this fall, I will be glad to have these familiar things around me in a new setting. As a priest I knew used to say, "Period. Paragraph. Turn the page."

New chapter.

 

 

 

Rare bird sighting in Riverdale

                                                                                                        Photo by Chris Cafiero

I am singing a cabaret concert this Saturday, February 18th, at 7:30 PM, at Christ Church Riverdale, located at 5030  Henry Hudson Parkway, Bronx, NY 10471. Tickets are available at the door are $20 for adults, $15 for students and seniors, and light refreshments are included. Parking is usually easy in this neighborhood. For more information, go to [email protected] or call 718‐543‐1011.

Accompanied by Tex Arnold on piano (a very nice Steinway!) and Jon Burr on bass, I shall be a happy songbird indeed.

The "cabaret" designation for this concert brings up something that's been on my mind for a while. I know jazz singers who are quite scornful of cabaret. I know cabaret singers who feel the same about jazz. It's all silly really, as there is - or should be - considerable overlap in the genres. I think the performance styles that have become common in the two forms are the problems. Jazz seems to be all about the sound. Cabaret seems to be all about the sense. Some jazz singers seem to emphasize connection with the other musicians, with little attention left over for the audience. Some cabaret singers ditch musicality, connecting with the audience rather than the musicians.

I think either/or oppositions are largely false and fruitless. Ideally, a singer can pay attention to the musicians while connecting with the audience and singing in tune and in time, with intelligence and emotional honesty. One is always going to be better at one aspect of this than another, but I do believe it all can be learned and improved (if I didn't, there's be no point in teaching).

For presenters, though, the distinction lies in where you place the derrieres of the clientele. Cabaret (or nightclub) seating = on chairs grouped around tables. Concert (or theater) seating = on seats in rows, facing a stage, or at least facing an area. That's the only either/or that really does have to be one or t'other. And it's good news for those who may have been dreading church pews.

You'll hear quite a few tunes from my soon-to-be-released CD, and something a capella, and perhaps we'll all sing to Mrs. Peel, on the occasion of her first birthday, a stirring, purring rendition of That Blasted Song, in Ailurin.

Please note: the concert is in Riverdale, not Rivendell. That booking is still pending.

 

 

 

I love the book of you, the lure of you...

Recently I noticed that the blogs I read most faithfully are the work of writers. Book writers, I mean, not (for the most part) Facebook posters. I don't know how I initially found some of these blogs. I'll start chatting with Mr. Google about something I want to know, and end up learning something utterly else. Perhaps I have been picking up some feline traits from Mrs. Peel. No sooner have I spotted and pounced on a falling leaf, than, hey! there's another one, further away. Pounce! But wait! Something's rustling over there! Pounce!

I'm like that in the library, too. Yes, yes, of course I go in with something specific in mind, some single book. But when I emerge an hour or two later, dazed and blinky-eyed, my arms are full of books, most of which are not at all related to the one I came in to capture. You know. The one I have forgotten about.

When I come back to the apartment, I greet Mrs. Peel, put on the kettle, and start to look at my literary plunder, hoping, hoping. If I am lucky, if I have chosen well, one of the books will be as good a portal as the book in this video. and that will be very, very good indeed.

Because this is what a real book can do.

 

 

(For those whose French is rusty, the subtitles say more or less this:

At the beginning:

Adult: So kids, again with that book?

Child, reading book: You who read these lines will discover the mystery of Georgian legends...

At the end:

Adult: Let's go, kids. Finish playing with the book. Time to eat).

Must-haves

We are born into wanting. The breast, the cuddle, the warm and dry and safe. As we grow up, and older, the wants multiply and become confusing. "Give me what I want!" morphs into "what do I really want? what should I want?  what do I think I can get?"

The answers are elusive; even when captured, they change.

Grow up and old enough, though, and things start to simplify again. Some desires go away because they are no longer possible. I will never write the great American novel before I am twenty, for instance. I will not have the children I dreamed. 

Other wishes withdraw because one has had a taste of them, and it was enough. Working in a stable caring for 22 horses taught me that I didn't really want the 250 horses I wished for as a child. Traveling with a band all the time suggested to me that I might not want to travel with a band all the time.

I'm a Capricorn, and we can be both socially conscious - a fine attribute -  and socially self-conscious, which is not fine at all. Some of us tend to ignore our magnetic-north certainty, and to follow other people's directions instead. I have taken a lot of advice in my career, and striven to do what it seemed other experienced folks felt was the right thing for me to do: go here, do that, climb this mountain, not the other one, sing this genre above all others, all good, sensible things. It is taking me a very long time to recover from all that advice.

I sang my first unaccompanied vocal program in 1993. It was the first time I set foot onstage unplugged and unframed, the second state far more important than the first. Unplugged's easy, at least in my family. Open your mouth, and sing. But unframed? No one else up there shaping the onstage me? No arrangements, no staging? Nothing but made-up songs, some poems, and a story or two? I was advised that it would be too weird. When I was about to record Feather and Bone, I was told I wasn't ready, that I needed to plan out the music more. And, of course, I was foolish to move to the Adirondacks, mad to stay there so long, and first wasting my time by going back to college, and then nuts to leave graduate school. All true. But not the only true, as it turned out, and each of those things worked out beyond my imaginings. Though I will admit that it was a little... hmmm... curious to live in a tent for six months in the Adirondacks; still, even that was a priceless learning experience.

To the extent that I know who I am, I know it because of the stories my experiences have given me. Opposable thumbs are nice, but stories are better. So it should be no surprise that, when wondering what to take should I ever have to evacuate, the answer came quickly. Mrs. Peel, of course, above all else (though she is not a what but a who). And after her, if there's time? My Bible, my Riverside Shakespeare, my tarot deck, and my charm bracelet. What are they? Stories. Collections of stories. Which, among other things, is what we all are.

What do I want? A really good story, someone to share it with (a cat, for instance), and unending curiosity about the next chapter.

(The art above is by Mary Engelbreit, whose paintings and sense of humor have delighted me for years. You can see - and buy - more of her work at www.maryengelbreit.com)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her gentle hand

Why have I not written? I ran out of steam for a bit, or rather, the steam was otherwise engaged.

A big question came my way, demanding an immediate response. I asked for a little bit of time, then dove deep into silence and dreams, and came back up a few days later with my answer. I breathed it out to the closest of friends, and then gave it to the asker: "Regretfully, no."

It was not well-received. Sharp words flew at me for a couple of days.

Wow.

What a gift!

Gift, because second thoughts that might have arisen were tucked in and laid to rest.

Gift, because I was given the opportunity to decide, several times, how to respond to what was coming at me, and I did not respond in kind. The soft word turneth away wrath, though not as quickly as one might hope. In case you've ever wondered about that.

Still, wow. I was exhausted. But I had the best of care, from my sister, my parents, my dear Mrs. Peel, and my friends, and from trees and birds and the broad rolling river. Even here! In the city!

Not far from where I am living, there is a spectacular old beech tree that has a lot to say about holding firm. Just down the hill, there's a city park that, transected by highways, is incredibly noisy. But I saw a beaver in a bit of wetland there, bold and patient, gnawing on a branch in front of God and everybody. In an old grove in another, quieter park, I saw two Great Horned Owls harassed by a pair of Red-Tailed Hawks. The hawks screeched extravagant flaming insults - better than anything that had come at me! - and flew at the owls, who stayed put, and simply repeated themselves ("Who. Who. Who.") until the hawks flew away.

February has begun gently. These first few days are the season of St. Brigid's Day, Imbolc, Candlemas, a time that probably has other names, too, names I don't know. But it is all about the return of the light, of fertility, of what Hopkins called "the dearest freshness deep down things". Of transformations. Years ago, I recorded a piece I titled Radiant Flame of Gold (on my CD Feather and Bone), invoking the protection of the great Irish Goddess/Saint Brigid. Under her care are poetry, healing, midwifery, metallurgy, and those who practice them; all of these, as Patricia Monaghan has pointed out, involve transformation. Strangely, sometimes one does not realize a transformation has taken place until something tests an old, once-broken place, and finds it fully healed. I have been thinking of Brigid, with gratitude.

And, because I also think of you all with gratitude, here is the CD track (my vocal, with Layne Redmond and Tommy Brunjes on frame drums). May we all be under the shielding of good Brigid.

Radiant Flame of Gold - Laurel Massé

And if any of you know who made the glorious quilt in the photo, please tell me, so I can give all the credit that is so richly due to the maker.