Julia and I, timid souls that we are to venture out by ourselves without Laura's capable driving and navigating, went into the "big city" last night to see "Lord of the Dance". I was so thrilled with the video and the soundtrack, I thought it would be an extraordinary experience. I thought it would create memories that would leap about in my mind for years to come with the color and heat of passion. Oh, there is no doubt the dancing feet were fleet and capable. The lighting effects were electrifying. Or would have been if only I could have seen them better.

We were so far away! There were two large television screens which captured a close view of the dancers nimble footwork, and their faces. I enjoyed it, but the great distance really was a barrier. I thought with the great expense of these tickets, 35 dollars a piece, that surely we should have close enough to see them sweat. They made sure we heard their footwork by amplifying the floors so that they were a thundering herd. The bass tones coming from the vast sound system reverberated through our flesh. Oh, granted, it was better than the soundtrack sounds on my small home stereo. But where was the reality of the musicians? It was all 'canned' except for two violinists and a singer. It was the exact same CD soundtrack except for those three people. Julia thought even the violinists were canned and the two women were just moving their bows to and fro without any strings on it. For thirty five dollars a piece, we should have had a live orchestra!

So it did not come quite close to my expectations. We had a similar experience with a big name play that was touring the country a couple of years ago. Angels in America also was held in a staggeringly huge auditorium. If it were not for the binoculars Laura thought to bring, we would have had no idea of what the performers looked like. The ticket price was similarly bloated. Only the lucky few who were rich enough and fast enough to capture the first twenty rows of seats really had a show. Oh, the voices were sufficiently amplified so we had the full idea of the plot, but so much of what brings people for a live performance was lacking.

In the future, we'll be wiser. We'll wait for the videotape or a showing on PBS. I thought these media were the 'poor' peoples way to experience the great culture. Alas, except for the very few who get close seating, you are better to view it on your TV screen. You will imagine a live orchestra. You will imagine everything done in the heat of the electric moment. Perhaps for the taping of the video, the performers will even stretch themselves to give their utmost best. The woman who sang "Suil a ruin" and the other two songs had a lovely, lustrous voice, the same as what the CD captured. But there was a slight tinge of weariness to her voice. She had sung it so many times, it seemed like she was just going through the sound - motions.

We have had vastly different experiences at other concerts we've gone to. These folk singers weren't 'big name' artists. The tickets cost under ten bucks, so that anyone who likes their music could come. The auditoriums were never bigger than a standard church auditorium. We were close enough to see their real sweat. They sang as if the MUSIC MATTERED. They sang as if the message of their songs were more important than how perfectly they hit the notes. They sang as though they were singing to each and every person in the auditorium. Each person in each row was a vital part of the experience. They knew that without them, they could just as while be singing alone, at home.

(Singing alone, at home, I have had more moving experiences than I had last night. I was the only person dancing. I was both performer and audience. Yet this fresh, wild intimacy with myself was more exhilarating...)

Surely the performer should be 'better' than me. And in those performances in which the singer believes passionately in her song, it is. They sing as if the MUSIC MATTERS, because it does.

They know music can have a power to change lives. They ARE "singing for our lives." How electric the concert was when I heard Holly Near sing those lyrics nearly twenty years ago. It wasn't just my raw youth making it more intense. She sang those lyrics with the power of willing a spell. She called up the mighty mystery that comes from beyond ego. She called it up through her and sent it to each person there listening to her. This passion, (and the fact we all were close enough to see the expressions of her face) made it a profoundly intimate experience. Orson Scott Card, author of Ender's Game wrote in his introduction:

The story of Ender's Game is not this book, though it has that title emblazoned on it. The story is the one that you and I will construct together in your memory. If the story means anything to you at all, then when you remember it afterward, think of it, not as something I created, but rather as SOMETHING THAT WE MADE TOGETHER.

And we were!

I know, for her music has given me that courage. When I stood up for what I value, against my Gramma who insisted I go to her church which told me I was evil, I could hear Holly's empowering music through the headphones set down beside me. Could I have done it without her inspiration? I'm not sure. Maybe I could have, but I would have felt so very much more alone, and it would have been so very much harder.

All those in the arts should realize the power that is theirs if they but wield it.

Because the fast, repetitive hand motions needed to play computer games may be injuring my wrists, I am no longer playing hours and hours of such games to 'escape'. I am instead reading more books. Besides the sheer escapism, it might do me good in other ways. I always remember the words of my philosophy teacher:

"You have the makings of a brisk and lively style of writing. Work on it. Pay attention to the style of others and imitate what you find pleasing".

Non-fiction mostly intrigues me. I like to read about real people and places. I like to think, too, that my own journalistic efforts may be improved by these writer's examples. I recently finished Rick Bragg's book "All Over but the Shoutin", and found the tale of his growing up in a poor family in Alabama a most satisfying read. He had a way of making it come alive in my mind. He never left me "hungry" or "stuffed", never dwelling too much on a topic, or leaving me still with nagging questions.

After I finished my earlier writing this morning, Laura was keen to pick up a book she'd ordered from Barnes & Noble that had just come in. She wanted to hurry, as later she has a 2:00 dental appointment. We headed up to the B & N off of Ray Road, in Ahwahtukee, south of Phoenix. Perplexing mystery, that was not the store she had called to order the book. Now she is calling all sorts of stores to find where in the heck the book is waiting for her.

But I made use of the visit. The name William Least Heat-Moon stood out in the rack of books today. I remember his words in the National Geographic about a remote desert area in southeast Oregon. How they moved me so, I quoted two paragraphs last July 21th. So I picked up "PrairyErth". His first words were drawing me in. It is about a real place in Kansas. "KANSAS?", you think "WhatEVER could be interesting in Kansas?" A reviewer quoted on the back cover says "PrairyErth is the Moby Dick of American history...the deepest map anyone ever made of an American place." It certainly has had its accolades.

What could be interesting about Kansas? I want to find out. Perhaps this was Heat-Moon's challenge: "Let's take the dullest place on earth and try to make it interesting". I admire a writer who takes on a challenge like this. And so, for the length of this book, I will vacation in Kansas. I will sojourn a while, and see what I can learn here. I suspect I will be richer for the trip.

The catchy tune that accompanies these lyrics makes me want to "join the parade" she is singing about. But perhaps, as the seagull in Jonathan Livingston Seagull learned, "The best way to arrive at a place is by knowing you've already arrived." (Paraphrased from memory...)

Laura paid me a neat compliment yesterday evening. She poked her head in the sewing room, and asked:" Who is that singing?" The sudden curiosity about my music startled me. I stammered "Karen Matheson of Capercaillie.

"Your voice sounds a lot like hers!"

Yes, that's right. There are people who have craggy mountainous spirit lives. Then there are people whose temperaments are as level as one imagines Kansas to be. One may seem to be "boring" and one may seem to be "exhausting". But that is in relation to the average people who have mildly hilly terrain.

Can one have a "scenic" soul versus a "plain" soul? The person who thinks relatively uncomplicated thoughts is a "plain" soul. On another path, a person may have thoughts so complex, they have built for themselves an intricate maze, like those green garden mazes, or a jungle of brambles and weeds. Depending on their own temperament, others may find these people a delightful or an irritating challenge.

What of farming the land of the soul? This region of sacred space can be quite fragile. Soil can be poisoned. It can be so polluted with hazardous substances, it will never recover. Sadly so, the human soul can be likewise destroyed. We put "fences" around these people and stay far away.

But with tender nurturing, most landscapes, either earthly or spiritual, do quite well. There are the rocky soils, in which seeds do not take well. Like the tough caliche earth here in Casa Grande, these people can have a rugged beauty all their own. There are the souls of rich deep loam in which everything flourishes. If carefully tended, most will produce fruit. Rest is important as well. The over-used land becomes infertile. We are like that too. We can become sucked dry. We need rest, air, sunlight, water, nutrients and love. We earthy, soily, fragile beings; from us can spring such growing wonders. The variety of our inner landscapes is good.