Red wine and Lamictal do not a happy LEAFer make.
A yoga mat, when sadly not used for its primary purpose, makes a nice place to take a nap. (I have neglected practice since Friday. Getting up this morning was apparently Not In The Stars.)
Yungchen Lhamo doesn’t sing so much as channel emotion through her body. Sacred music – a voice that slices right through your defenses, soaring phrases that don’t ever seem to end, a distinctly non-Western tonality, dark notes of longing, tears and frustration, lifted by the hope of a clear, bright rainbow of sound. She reminds me that I am letting my own voice go to waste by not sharing it.
I missed my daughter somethin’ fierce.
Fifteen minutes of massage, when applied by a talented masseuse, can be just the right amount of bliss. Happens that my yoga instructor was there, and she’s opening her own studio in Asheville soon. She’s the one with the hands.
Lúnasa kicks ass. So do Will’s boiled peanuts.
I can still contra dance. Brian’s contra days appear to be over, at least until we can figure out what the hell is wrong with his hips.
It takes genius in the hands to work a kora. From a distance, it sounded like a piano or a harpsichord, but not quite. It’s a lot like a harp, except… not. Hard to explain. I got to watch Mamadou Diabate from five feet away, me hanging onto the front of the stage, trying to close my mouth lest I look too much like a five-year-old. He’s enormous, and so is his kora (npi.) When he played, his fingers were a blur on the strings. I’m sure I wasn’t the only person in the audience wondering what else he could do with those fingers.
There were little enclaves of music everywhere – mostly impromptu drum circles and Appalachian jams.
I still wish I could play the fiddle.