The new year is always predictable with its forced variations on the routine: the end-of-term rush of student evaluations, early meetings and final rehearsals.
Piecing together a devised production is like designing a quilt using everyone’s talents. It’s a joy and a privilege, and a sometimes-overwhelming responsibility that keeps me awake nights.
January is never a good time for beginnings. It brings a crescendo of sorts, and it requires an effort to notice one’s footing. And to keep up.
In the dark I hear the rustle of wings in the treetops: on Wednesday, E. commented on the quiet, the crows having already flown north to start their day. Then the rustle again, and a call of a bird of prey. A hawk maybe? The dog doesn’t even look up, but keeps the steady pace of “Gå pent” on the morning run. We’ve discussed renaming him Pacer.
Stuck in traffic last week and late for work, I had time to look around and over the fields. Now brown and flooded in places – edged with ice, and mostly empty. A hawk was perched on a fence post right next to motorway. Still and beautiful in the sunrise, he was like an exclamation point highlighting the exceptional.
The serenity prayer hovered on the edge of my thoughts, like an echo of the image. The same hawk?
All this unease: let it be.
Seasons change.
The dog grazes his wet snout on my arm. He’s ready for a run.
Leave a Reply