Teaching Dance

Daylight lingers long--sultry summer sun an early moon roosted high watches, waits for sun’s egress yet, she lingers on Charlotte sits on the porch, rocking in a simple chair of solid maple, rocking forward, creaking back rocking forward, creaking back in a faded sundress that hangs loose at her hips, clings limply to sunken shoulders Stray, wild strands from ginger hair, lightened by age, bunched and plopped atop her head, tickle and cool her neck, rocking forward, creaking back on weakened floor boards, a wrap-around porch with cracked paint railings and splintered steps Horseflies buzz in air thick with dandelion seeds, hay, manure, Charlotte rocking forward, creaking back snaps heads and tails from green beans, snap, snap, drop, toss nimble fingers, gently old quickly jerk, break off ends, release crisp, green aroma, snap, snap, drop, toss Sometimes takes one raw bean in her mouth, tastes its leafy, earthy sweetness, its fuzzy coat and seeping cent...

“In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert's mind there are few.” ~ Shunryu Suzuki This is the time of year when my schedule slows down and I get to be a dilettante again. Being a dilettante used to be a good thing. It meant that you were trying something new and being open to exploration. In today’s common usage, it is mostly derogatory, referring to someone who is an amateurish dabbler. dil-et-tante (n): somebody who is interested in an art or a specialized field of knowledge who has only a superficial understanding of it When it comes to photography and poetry, I am a dilettante (feel free to reference my prior blogs as proof). I admit my understanding of those subjects is superficial. And I embrace that. I embrace that purposefully. That was not always easy for me to do. When I first moved to New York City in 1993, I was so concerned with not looking like I stepped straight out of the cornfields of Ohio that I wouldn't stop and ask f...

Three inches of brown precede six inches of blonde hair hanging, framing her face, a smoke-hardened complexion camouflaged by a factor of maximum nonchalance. Glances, not to be obvious, turn to stares in the window's reflection. He pulls out Robert Frost, skipping to the end of a book he’s never read, smiling as if the sole heir to the author’s intent. Glances, not to be obvious, turn to stares at the woman fussing at her reflection. “You don't need to look in the mirror You look beautiful,”  he says as he puffs his chest And flexes Frost. A laugh of irritation purges “Thanks” as she turns away And glances, not to be obvious.