when it rains . . .

. . . sometimes it pours.

It’s been pouring. Blessings, that is. Gifts.

In addition to my experience with my flamenco class this week — as if that weren’t enough — here’s another story . . .

A few weeks ago, the Morro Bay White Caps played for the Cayucos Elementary School’s Flag Day assembly. After it was over, we helped Fernie load his drum kit into his van and then he helped us carry our paraphernalia down to our car. As we were walking, he was talking about playing drums, about having some finesse. I made a comment that that’s the way I’d like to play, with some finesse. And within moments, he was giving me a drum lesson.

“Begin with the feet,” he said. “A lot of people start with the hands, want to start banging away. To have finesse, you need to begin with the feet.”

Then today, after White Caps rehearsal, I heard Fernie talking to my husband — didn’t understand what they were saying, but I did catch that it had something to do with me. Fernie turned to me and said, “Hey Sandy, come here.”

A little puzzled, I walked over to where his drums were set up. He motioned for me to sit down on the stool. Wow. Lesson two began.

So, I’m getting lessons from one of the drummers for the Beach Boys. Unbelievable.

A great deal of foot stomping and loud sounds occurred when I got into our car afterwards. :o)

. . . . . . .

Image source: caught in the rain | Flickr

with veins of gold

Translation from Spanish*:

“The Kintsugi is a Japanese technique for repair of broken porcelain and ceramics by which cracks are highlighted with a lacquer containing gold dust.

When something has been damaged – and therefore already have a story – it becomes even more beautiful and unique.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Some dreams are so precious, so inextricably woven into the fibre of our being. For me, that was, and always has been to dance, to be “a dancer.” When I was 13, I had to abandon my dream against my will. The class for the second year of Tap 5 (Al Gilbert Technique) was on Saturday. Game over .

Perhaps some backstory would be helpful.

My parents were members of a church, a church that, at the time, was listed in Walter Martin’s book, “The Kingdom of the Cults.” Without going into a lot of detail, one of the very rigidly regulated doctrines had to do with what were acceptable Sabbath activities. (We kept all of the Holy Days described in the Old Testament — and no, we didn’t actually perform animal sacrifices as was rumoured.) To have taken the class was “unthinkable.” Dance class, worldly pursuits, personal pleasure, were not on the list. And for reasons unknown to me, no attempt was made to find another school that offered the second year of Tap 5 on a different day. I don’t know why, and I’ve never ventured to ask.

Like a priceless, fragile vase that’s been broken, I’ve carried the pieces of my dream with me, safely sheltered in my heart. Barely whispering of it, protecting myself, spoken words painful. I’ve continued to dance, mainly in solitude. Music, paintings, sculpture, images of dance are like food to me.

It has seemed so impossible that I would ever have the opportunity, the years speeding past, the future spreading out blankly before me, that I didn’t even dare to include it on my list of “Six Impossible Things.” I could see no way to reach it at this point in my life.

Then last night, I had my first flamenco class. When I entered the room, music was playing, Laura, our instructor, was leading some stretching exercises. I changed my shoes, joined in with the group, and was warmly welcomed. As the evening progressed, it was like the broken pieces of my dream had been gathered, mended with gold, and given back to me. The thirty-something lost years falling away, and in their place a profound sense of connection, a feeling of home, of being exactly where I needed to be at that moment.

All I could think was, “Thank you, Papa.” I am once again humbled by His grace.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven . . . a time to mourn and a time to dance.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-4)

This is a time to dance.

. . . . . . .

*Translation via Google Translate.