Shirley Horn

When I watch videos of Shirley Horn, I see power. A very quiet, strong power.

Lately, I've been watching people I admire - I mean, really watching them, so I don't just listen to them, and I don't just look at them, but I try to feel what it might be like to be them.

And as much as I respect them for their technique and skill - their intonation, perfect pacing, the grace in their movement - that is not what inspires me, and I've known this for a long time. But only through this exercise have I been able to finally grasp why some people move me: It's their power of being. It's a live energy, a strong will, a current inside their body that is so deep and so real. They are strong from their heart, their gut, or, as they say in Hawaiian, their na`au. It's a kernel of power that over time they have managed to grow into something that, when you encounter it, takes your breath away. It's not what they do - it's who they are. You are simply experiencing who they are through what they are doing.

I'm certain this intensity of being, this live energy, is what makes a woman become amazing at anything she chooses. It is this strong being that propels her to hone her skills, so when in life she is called upon to express herself, she can honor that expression with the refinement necessary to make that expression true. Becoming skillful is not the end, but simply a means. Indeed, many go through a lifetime pursuing refinement in their chosen craft and never move those who hear and see them. With this in mind, I'm certain if Shirley Horn decided at a young age that fixing cars was her thing, she'd be a beautiful auto mechanic. I've come to understand that even though the world may venerate you for the contribution you've made to a specific field, for the role you've played, you should not allow your identity to be wrapped up in what you do; the real imprint lies in the power of your being, in who you are.

I have yet to unlock the mystery of what makes this live energy grow strong inside of you. Perhaps if I am able to see this power, the next step for me is to be this power, to give in when emotions well up inside of me - perhaps emotions are the center from which this begins? This is what I want to be mindful of as I become the Ruth I was meant to become.

This is just the beginning ...

Wax Puddle

Photo by Ruth Shiroma Foster

A couple months ago, I woke up in tears. My breath was heavy, and my chest was filled with sadness and pain. I had a strange nightmare, and I thought I should record it before it evaporates from my memory, then from existence.

I dreamed that Naomi and I were attending a high school in Manoa, near the McDonald's at Manoa Marketplace. Oddly, it was a school that was governed according to the strictest of Sharia law, the kind of terror factor you read about in the news. It was nestled in the rainforest, with school houses constructed of wood and with floors that made quaint sounds when you walked on them. In some ways, the school felt like a treehouse school because you had to walk up a wooden flight of stairs that led you into classrooms shaded by banyan trees.

One day, a school administrator approached me and said that Naomi had broken one of the laws, perhaps a law that was easy to break by modern standards, though I can't remember which law it was. The administrator told me that by just cause, Naomi was to be put to death. I gasped. I was filled with rage. I spent the whole day trying to cajole the administrator to change her mind. I tried charm; I tried brashness. I begged with unabashed desperation. Nothing worked.

Then, in a moment of weariness, I gave up.

And at the end of the school day, they told me she had been executed. They told me her body and her things were in one of two "closets" near the exit. The school exit was at the top of a wooden flight of stairs, and from there, you could see the tar pavement of the Manoa Marketplace, lined with cars that belonged to afternoon shoppers going about their daily lives.

I stood in the shade of the trees, the wooden floor beneath me, the parking lot and green leaves peeking through the slats. The closets were little rooms that had latches on them, with thin plywood doors and chipping green paint. Naomi would be in the first closet, along with her books and her book bag. They told me I could look in to say goodbye. With the afternoon light brushing my face, I loosened the latch and pulled open the door. There she was, lying in eerie silence with her lips slightly apart, her eyelids fallen, as if sleeping. I was boiling, my breath hard and short. I wanted to scream, but my spirit was so tired, I could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. I stepped toward the stairs, then walked down toward the black parking lot, in the hot afternoon, my knees melting like candlesticks. I reached the parking lot, the weight of my body becoming more and more difficult to bear, and then I became a puddle on the pavement.

Farewell in Blue

Photo by Ruth Shiroma Foster

We rode on a white foam trail, dozens of us in six boats, from the Waianae Boat Harbor to Maili Beach. I watched Jason sit in the corner of his boat, cradling the copper urn that carried his father's ashes.

The motor was loud, but constant, like a meditation. The blues of the water were rich and clear, like jewels. It was then that the song Time by the Alan Parsons Project began to fill my head. And, it was then that time stood still, and I could look to the Pokai Bay shoreline and remember Bob Adair, standing in the shallow waters, his hair soaked, wearing no glasses and always that smile from within, alongside my dad countless times during baptisms. Two mild-mannered men doing the humblest of tasks, together. Bob Adair was a deacon, he was a friend. I know the mountains in the backdrop behind Farrington Highway, each mountain proud to have its own shape and color, like old friends, all different, but meant to be together. Bob knew these mountains very well, too. It was good to say hello again to the water and the mountains of Waianae, even on the occasion of saying goodbye.

When the boats stopped at the spot that marks Maili Beach, below the Waianae Comprehensive Center, family members huddled around Jason, the youngest of Bob's children. Jason stepped with one foot on the ledge of the boat. Then, it was time. The ashes were rich grey plumes in turquoise blue, a transfixing sight. It was a moment when the ancient soul gathered to its chest a new and beautiful soul.

Farewell, Bob. To be in the sea will forever be sweeter.

+++++++++++++

Fading Film

Even if I were to be free
And fly as far away as I possibly could
Even if I had the chance to be me
To realize fully my potential,
The things I leave behind
Are things that I loved
Things that made me feel grounded as a human being
Like happiness and closeness to family
Joy and satisfaction.
I feel the cells in my body separating somehow
They are saying goodbye to each other inside my body
Like two lovers parting
Not because they want to
But because they have to.
This is so new to me, I don't know what will happen to me.
I know it goes somewhere, I just don't know where.
I shiver sometimes,
Perhaps out of fear
But mostly out of pain.
I keep crying because something is slipping away,
And I can't do anything about it
A part of me is fading away.
Sometimes I think of my mom's voice
And my dad's voice,
And they sound so sweet,
But somehow they are getting so faint
Like after you watch a movie you really loved
And you are trying to recall what happened.
Your heart connects with what you felt
When you first saw the movie
But the images get blurrier and blurrier.
Does anyone know what this feels like?
I thought this would be easier.

The Giver

With rough hands, she separates the wheat from the chaff while others stay inside, playing cards and sleeping off yesterday's folly. She walks a rocky path to bring harvest to them all. And this she will know till her hair turns to tin. No rest for the soul of one whose beauty hides within.

Pompous Grammarians

It happens without fail. Someone writes a Letter to the Editor about "proper punctuation." The only problem is that the letter itself has a grammatical error.

Take today's Advertiser:
http://the.honoluluadvertiser.com/article/2005/Sep/21/op/FP509210321.html

Anyway, according to this book, I am a "stickler" and proper punctuation is an endangered species.

That sentence is missing a comma, which would separate the two independent clauses. It should read:

Anyway, according to this book, I am a "stickler," and proper punctuation is an endangered species.

I know, I know. This kid is in the seventh grade, so I should have some mercy. But while the letter was written in jest, it still exhibited a kind of pompousness that gets me steamed. I believe in good grammar, and for the sake of the language, we should watch each others' grammar. On top of that, I do believe the print media should be held to an even greater standard than the everyday person.

Yet, when the day ends, and we all go home, grammar is just a set of rules that some people know - and use - better than others. That's it. I just don't think grammar is something that people should be beating their chests over. Oh, for the traditionalists, let me phrase it this way: I just don't think grammar is something over which people should be beating their chests.

Good night!

Posted by ruth at September 21, 2005 07:40 PM

COMMENTS:

I would write it:
Anyway, according to this book, I am a "stickler"! Proper punctuation is an endangered species.
But datz me and I write & spell however the hellway I please ~ in my blog anyway. I think because of the interent there is a literary feedom or creative license with punctuations. If you understand what the person is trying to say why ask why the punctuations are where they are or are not. But datz me. :)
Posted by: Lika on September 22, 2005 06:37 AM

My suspicion is that newspapers only run spelling, grammar, and punctuation rants when there is a spelling, grammar, or punctuation error in them.
Posted by: Ryan on September 22, 2005 08:59 AM

Esclamation mark should be within the quotation. "Stickler!" instead of "stickler"!
Posted by: jj on September 23, 2005 03:36 AM

Agree with that last paragraph. After all, worrying too much about preposition position is something up with which Winston Churchill would not put. :)
Posted by: Keith on September 26, 2005 10:29 PM

No. Period.

I was just dozing off at my computer here at work. And in a brief moment, I dreamed that a guy was red with indignation over why he decided to leave periods out of his sentences. He refused to use periods because there's enough space to designate the ends of sentences and that he wouldn't use periods if he didn't have to.