Balance

Posted on August 7, 2015 by kconstantine

bird (5)

I once worked with a very wise woman who said to me, eyes closed and hand over her heart, “Always protect your flame.” We both had demanding, multi-tasking jobs, and I was frequently frazzled. I thought what she said was powerful, that it could change my life and help me find that work/life balance I’d heard about. The problem was I never figured out how to do it.

Looking back, I think I was focusing too much on the flame. “Oops I got distracted and forgot about my flame,” or “Yikes! It’s going out!” or “Flame? What flame?” I think I might have done better if I focused on protecting instead. When I think “protect,” I feel strong and up to the very important task. I intuitively know how to protect: shield, put an arm around, offer the most comfortable chair out of the weather and make a cup of tea.

Learning to roller skate was also difficult for me, until another wise person told me to find my balance point. First I had to realize there was such a thing as a balance point, and then learn to feel where it was. I think these two bits of wisdom are related.

Writers talk about the importance of making time every day to write, and we all know how easy it is to do just about anything else. Sometimes we blame our circumstances, but the truth is it’s up to us to guard our dreams. The flame is internal and no one else can help us protect it. We have to take charge, find the balance point in our particular situation and protect what’s important.

There’s that flame. A little air. A little fuel. Feel it getting warmer?

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Viennese Inspiration

Posted on July 28, 2015 by kconstantine

Mozart 2

I feel the music behind Mozart’s eyes in this portrait: long scale runs intensifying his gaze, trills creating a little arch to his brow. Mozart was born in Salzburg, but Vienna is where he flourished, where he composed the Sonata in C Major I so loved to play as a piano student. Known as the center of the classical music world and nurturing not only Mozart but also Haydn and Beethoven (a good third of the complement of little composer statues I earned taking those piano lessons), Vienna deserves our attention.

What made Vienna so inspiring? A few possibilities:

  • Culture. Thanks to the Danube, Vienna has been a cultural crossroads for thousands of years, providing all that diversity and creating a demand for entertainment.
  • Coffee. Apparently the Turks invaded Vienna and left behind a bunch of coffee beans in the 1600’s and ever since Viennese people have gathered in the kaffeehaus, listening to music and discussing ideas over creamy cups of kaffee.
  • Support. Vienna was the capital of the Hapsburg royal family who were music-lovers and players as well as patrons.
  • Magic. Foehn, or dry, warm winds blow down the mountainsides of the Alps and change the atmosphere, sometimes making people sick and even a little crazy. Ill winds—literally.

Also, I think you can’t underestimate the value of having all that talent in one place. Hanging out with folks who are good at what you aspire to do may seem like it would be discouraging, make you feel like you can never measure up. It provides motivation however, respect and ideas; it triggers sparks, illuminates, expands.

I picture Papa Haydn welcoming Mozart to Vienna and then a young Beethoven coming later with hopes of taking lessons from Mozart. I imagine how they learned from each other’s music. I can just see them there, working on their compositions, gazing out beyond the Viennese Woods up the Northern Limestone Alps, breathing in the magical foehn winds and going a little crazy.

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Hot Off the Press

Posted on July 16, 2015 by kconstantine

stock-photo-17745858-publish-word-in-letterpress-typeI am very excited to have a piece published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal Issue #15. You can read it online at: http://www.vineleavesliteraryjournal.com/issue-15-jul-2015.html                    “Nothing Can Be Something,” my little story of death and its weird mysteries is on page 10.

I’ve been known to spend more than my share of time on the dark side, but if you hang out there long enough, you can find the cracks and see that light does get through. It’s like when you bump your head and you rub it to bring blood to the damaged part. It hurts at first but it speeds up the healing process.

Issue #15 is full of intriguing prose, poetry, art and photography. Check it out!

 

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Finger Painting

Posted on July 10, 2015 by kconstantine

I made a comment recently that writing feels a bit like finger painting to me, like pure and simple play. I even recognize the childish glint in my eye after finishing a piece, as if to say, “I know you look at this as a scribbled mess, but I can see the worlds inside. See? No? Here. (Rip off and toss aside the easel paper.) I’ll try another one!”

Writers are like the kids in preschool who never get tired of finger painting. You see them at the easel every day. It’s just so much fun moving the paint around and seeing what you come up with.

Some finger painting rules apply to writing as well. You should put on a smock because you have to be willing to make a mess. When you mix canary with crimson and just a touch of cerulean, you could come up with something that’s never been seen before. But not everything you create is worthy of going on the fridge.

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Delphi

Posted on July 1, 2015 by kconstantine

Delphi 001 (3)

Years ago I visited Delphi, the navel of the world, the prehistoric site in mainland Greece where ancient people worshipped mother earth or Gaia and later Apollo, whose instructions they heard from the Oracle through the priestess Pythia. Apollo was God of the sun, but also thought to be in charge of truth, light, and poetry, among other things, and leader of the muses.

The bus ride from Athens was long and hot, and the scenery a dull grey-green sea of olive trees and brush, except for the scatterings of stunning bright red poppies. The road took us through the town of Delphi and we stopped for lunch before going on to the site. I remember being surprised that people actually lived there, bought groceries and hardware so close to such a sacred place. I was glad they did though because of the spaghetti. For lunch we had spaghetti pan-fried in olive oil. All these years later my mouth waters when I think of it.

The museum was fascinating and the temple ruins breathtaking, but for me, Delphi will always bring to mind poetry and priestesses, poppies and pan fried spaghetti. Thank you Gaia.

 

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Eternal Springer

Posted on June 30, 2015 by kconstantine

Earlier this year I took my first ever poetry writing class: How Writers Write Poetry, through the wonderful University of Iowa. This is from an exercise calling for a prose poem.

Eternal Springer

It was Springtime when my Springer Spaniel sprung. For every Spring there is a Fall and he did. His disk fell out of place, rubbing on his spinal cord, leaving his back legs to drag behind him. Before that Spring it was Winter and it was glorious to watch him spring for shovels full of snow, piercing an elevation where he didn’t belong, level with our heads, ruffling ears standing on end. When he could no longer spring, you could see that in his mind he still sprang because dogs are hopeful that way. Spring is eternal. Like the way that Fall knows Spring is coming or does it just know the Spring that was? No matter. It knows and it is and it exists always, like my Springer’s spring. And Spring springs just like my Springer, sprouting and bursting with life, shooting into the air, glorious to see, just like him. Spring springs even though it knows the Fall is coming. Would you want the leaves to stay in the bud just because soon enough they’ll be mulch? The leaves spring and my Springer sprang and it’s glorious and it lasts forever.

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Daydreams

Posted on June 28, 2015 by kconstantine

Daydreaming has long been one of my favorite pastimes, perhaps because I come from a solitude-loving family, a family of individuals who each needed our space, our alone-time, time to read and think and dream. I’m so grateful for that.

Not that we didn’t have plenty of togetherness—too much of it on those long summer car trips when my father combined business with our family vacation. I recall long periods of desolate scenery, being told we had to wait to go to the bathroom, that the leftover roast beef sandwich was what you were getting whether you wanted it or not, that the motel did not have a swimming pool and we wouldn’t be there for another 10 hours anyway. I took to watching the white line of the highway through the back seat window, imagining detailed sagas of families that lived on the passing hillsides, little girls who ran barefoot through the golden weeds that waved in the breeze as we sped by.

 I still daydream all the time. Sometimes I can get myself to look at life a certain way, and see that dreams are coming true, floating up around me like bubbles. They may pop. But if they do, more are bubbling, floating up all the time. Right now, the dream I’ve had for as long as I can remember, the dream that I could be a writer … look, it’s a fragile bubble floating right up in the air, catching the light, drifting higher and higher.

bubbles

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