this week:

Stretch Appeal Dance
@NW Dance Project
Tuesday, 6/30/15
Thursday, 7/2/15
12:45 - 1:45
211 NE 10th Ave
@Davis St/EAST side of town
Phone: 503-421-7434
street parking is free
shoes/mat optional
$20 per class (cash or check only)
Open Class, no appointment needed, everyone is joyfully welcome!




I think truth is a layered phenomenon. There are many truths that accumulate and build up. I am trying to peel back and explore these rich layers of truth. All truths are difficult to reach.
~ Sally Mann


who is ibeyi:

important reminder:

Tomorrow's Stretch Appeal Dance practice will be at:
NW Dance Project
here's a photo of the space
Tuesday, 6/23/15
12:45 - 1:45
211 NE 10th Ave (at Davis St/EAST side of town) 
Portland97232 Phone: 503-421-7434
street parking is free
shoes/mat optional
$20 per class or $65 for a 4 class card special (cash or check only)
Open Class, no appointment needed, everyone is joyfully welcome!


Pain I Did Not
When my husband left, there was pain I did not
feel, which those who lose the one
who loves them feel. I was not driven
against the grate of a mortal life, but
just the slowly shut gate
of preference. At times I envied them -
what I saw as the honorable suffering
of one who is thrown against that iron
grille. I think he had come, in private, to
feel he was dying, with me, and if
he had what it took to rip his way out, with his
teeth, then he could be born. And so he went
into another world - this
world, where I do not see or hear him -
and my job is to eat the whole car
of my anger, part by part, some parts
ground down to steel-dust. I like best
the cloth seats, blue-grey, first
car we bought together, long since
marked with the scrubbed stains - drool,
tears, ice cream, no wounds, but only
the month's blood of release, and the letting
go when the water broke.
~ Sharon Olds





The steady eyes of the crow and the camera's candid eye
See as honestly as they know how, but they lie.
~ W.H. Auden



"I have tried to answer the questions that people ask me, about my religious and spiritual beliefs, about my philosophy of life, about why I have hope for the future. I have answered as honestly and candidly as I can. Indeed, I have laid bare a lot of my mind, heart, and soul. But there is one story as yet untold. To me, with my love of symbolism, it seems that this story may explain why I have done much of what I've done, lived as I have lived. And why I must continue to the bitter - or perhaps glorious - end.
It happened when I was less than a year old - before I could talk. I was in my pram outside the grocery store, guarded by Peggy, our white bull terrier. Nanny was shopping inside. A dragonfly began swooping around me, and I screamed - so a well-intended passerby hit the dragonfly to the ground with his newspaper, and crushed it with his foot. I continued to scream all the way home. In fact I became so hysterical that they called the doctor, who prescribed a sedative to calm me down. I heard this story for the first time about five years ago. Vanne was writing about my early life and asked if I could remember the incident at all - why had I been so terrified?
As I read what she had written, the sixty intervening years fell away and I was transported back in time. I remembered lying in my nursery. There was a lot of green, I thought - and Vanne said yes, green curtains and green linoleum. And I remember watching a big blue dragonfly which had come in through the window. I protested when Nanny chased it out, but she said it might sting me, and that it had a sting as long as it's "tail" (meaning, of course, it's abdomen). That is a long sting! No wonder I was scared when a dragonfly zoomed around my pram. But being afraid of something did not mean I wanted it killed. If I close my eyes I can see, with almost unbearable clarity, the glorious shimmering and still quivering wings, the blue "tail" gleaming in the sunlight, the head crushed on the sidewalk. Because of me it had died, perhaps in pain. I screamed in helpless outrage. And from a terrible sense of guilt.
Perhaps I have subconsciously lived my whole life trying to assuage that guilt. Perhaps the dragonfly was part of some plan, to bring a message to a little child, all those years ago. If so, all I can say to my God, is: "Message received and understood." I have tried to assuage some of the guilt, we all must feel, for our inhumanity to man and beast alike. And, with the support of all people of compassionate and loving heart, I shall go on trying until the end. And the end ... will be the beginning?"
~ Jane Goodall




sonnet 116: let me not to the marriage of true minds

By William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
     If this be error and upon me proved,
     I never writ, nor no man ever loved.



you died 37 years ago, how is that possible.
i am grateful you are my mother.
i have always felt your guardian spirit watching over me.
oh how i miss you!
always wonder what my life would feel like if you were still in it ...
today when i danced to Astral Weeks, you were there.
thank you.
i love you.


who is mary ellen mark:

Mary Ellen Mark
March 20, 1940 - May 25, 2015
"You could not be around Mary Ellen and not learn how to see things as she saw them," said American novelist John Irving
As an entire industry now mourns Mark’s death, come winter her absence will, for many, take on another form. Every year, she would invite friends and strangers alike with their dogs for her legendary canine Christmas parties. “People lined up to have her photograph their dogs and to witness her enthusiasm behind the lens,” said Laub. “She loved dogs the way she loved the people she photographed. She brought out the humanity in all.”




I saw this performance last night.
Highly recommend ...
An amazing meditation of sight, sound and spirit.


who is alana davis:

maria popova ~ wow cool, smart, innovative ~ thank you for this feature:

The Heart and the Bottle: A Tender Illustrated Fable of What Happens When We Deny Our Difficult Emotions

by A gentle reminder of what we stand to lose when we lock away loss.
“Children … are the most attentive, curious, eager, observant, sensitive, quick, and generally congenial readers on earth,” E.B. White famously asserted in an interview, admonishing: “Anyone who writes down to children is simply wasting his time. You have to write up, not down.” And yet down we write still, deaf to White’s wisdom and to Tolkien’s insistence that there is no such thing as writing “for children” and to Gaiman’s crusade against the spiritual disservice of shielding children from difficult emotions.
Nowhere is this disservice clearer than in how we address children’s experience of life’s darkest moments, as evidenced by the minuscule the pool of intelligent and imaginative books that help kids make sense of death and loss. And nowhere is there more heartening an antidote than in The Heart and the Bottle(public library) by the inimitable Oliver Jeffers.
Jeffers tells the story of a little girl, “much like any other,” whose expansive and exuberant curiosity her father fuels by reading to her all sorts of fascinating books about the sea and the stars and the wonders of our world.
We witness the duo’s blissful explorations until, one day, we realize that the father is gone — the little girl finds herself facing the empty chair.
With exquisite subtlety and economy of words, Jeffers — whose mastery of the interplay between darkness and light extends as much to the paintbrush as it does to the psyche — silently uncorks the outpour of hollowing emotions engendered by loss.
But if grief is so disorienting and crushing an emotion for adults, how are unprepared little hearts expected to handle its weight? The little girl cannot, and so she doesn’t.
Feeling unsure, the girl thought the best thing was to put her heart in a safe place.
Just for the time being.
So she put it in a bottle and hung it around her neck.
And that seemed to fix things … at first.
But as Simone Weil knew when she considered how resisting our suffering splits the psyche asunder, and as Rilke knew when he wrote that “death is our friend precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love,” the little girl soon finds out that locking away the pain also locks away her capacity for love and aliveness.
Although, in truth, nothing was the same.
She forgot about the stars… and stopped taking notice of the sea.
She was no longer filled with all the curiosities of the world and didn’t take much notice of anything…
One day, while walking on the beach where she had once strolled blissfully with her father, the “girl” — now a grown woman — encounters another girl still little and still filled with the boundless and buoyant curiosity that had once been hers. Suddenly, she is reminded of all she lost when she locked away loss.
So she sets out to liberate her heart from its glassy prison — but the bottle has been fortified by years of self-protection.
The bottle couldn’t be broken. It just bounced and bounced … right down to the sea.
But there, it occurred to someone smaller and still curious about the world that she might know a way.
The heart was put back where it came from. And the chair wasn’t so empty anymore.