There is Only Now - an essay

One almost talks to the future. Like there is a conversation to be had about days and nights and bills and calendars yet to come.  But the conversation is put aside because today, the waves are choppy, swept into a froth by a Northeast gale. No room for quiet contemplation as shutters rattle and asphalt tiles fly off the roof like whirly-gigs riding the wind.  

The conversation about tomorrow is put aside today because the day is humid, hot and strips a soul of forward-moving energy. Focus is channeled toward cutting through the lazy, de-energizing  heat. The rising thermometer demands nothing more than things as they are; the What Is of now. The waves rolling to shore, redundant, constant, serve as a perfect reminder of what is, now. What is, a conversation stopper as much as any.  We ruminate on what was, we dwell on what will be, but with the heavy-limbed movement of a pregnant woman on a hot summer’s day, we dance awkwardly with what is. Regardless of what we do or what we think about it, the waves still roll to shore; an enduring object lesson for those who care to listen.

The conversation of what happens next is redirected. There is ice forming on the harbor. Small peaks of Ice on salt water, thick enough to cross with little running steps in winter boots that have steel-tipped toes.  Night out on the frozen harbor is an adrenaline rush. The moaning and cracking of the ice as it shifts keeps all senses alert for clear and present danger. The past and the future are as invisible as the crystalline cold, winter air. All focus is attuned to the lubdub, lubdub of a beating heart and the heavy breathing behind a scarf-wrapped face. Keep feet steady, keep safe out on the unforgiving and unpredictable ice.

The conversation about the future has no place on this rainy day. The skies are grey and wrung with water. The Sound is a trampoline for raindrops; they bounce off the taut water surface of the ocean rising, then falling. The waves, kicked up by the wind, crash louder than usual, drowning thoughts of yesterdays and laters, leaving only a drive to stay dry, stay warm, nestle into warm bed covers with a book, electricity to read said book, and a cup of tea.  Nothing else is matters.

The conversation about tomorrow should be the road less taken. Instead, we feel compelled to try to catch a glimpse of the road ahead.  The gypsy’s promise to read the tarot cards, reveal what is around the corner, is infinitely more seductive than staying firmly planted in now.
Now is where the Black Dog sails alongside the Alabama against a Vineyard sky so blue that a heart might be forever seared by its perfection. Now is where we can go to minimize all suffering and ameliorate all sorrow. Take the day, parse its into seconds,therein is only now.
there......there......there......there -
It’s when we insist on stringing them together in a continuum of past-present-future that 
we are apt to visit sorrow and loss.  In the stand-alone seconds, there (a red-winged blackbird takes flight across the autumn grass).....there (the chimes ring out a 100-year old hymn from the Methodist Campgrounds bell-tower).....there (the fragrant lavender blossoms leave their fragrant calling card wafting through the air an Indian summer day).....there ( the perfect orb of red sun breaks through the night bringing with it a new dawn.  

....there....
is only now. 

One almost talks to the future. Like there is a conversation to be had about days and nights and bills and calendars yet to come.  But the conversation is put aside because today, the waves are choppy, swept into a froth by a Northeast gale. No room for quiet contemplation as shutters rattle and asphalt tiles fly off the roof like whirly-gigs riding the wind.  

The conversation about tomorrow is put aside today because the day is humid, hot and strips a soul of forward-moving energy. Focus is channeled toward cutting through the lazy, de-energizing  heat. The rising thermometer demands nothing more than things as they are; the What Is of now. The waves rolling to shore, redundant, constant, serve as a perfect reminder of what is, now. What is, a conversation stopper as much as any.  We ruminate on what was, we dwell on what will be, but with the heavy-limbed movement of a pregnant woman on a hot summer’s day, we dance awkwardly with what is. Regardless of what we do or what we think about it, the waves still roll to shore; an enduring object lesson for those who care to listen.

The conversation of what happens next is redirected. There is ice forming on the harbor. Small peaks of Ice on salt water, thick enough to cross with little running steps in winter boots that have steel-tipped toes.  Night out on the frozen harbor is an adrenaline rush. The moaning and cracking of the ice as it shifts keeps all senses alert for clear and present danger. The past and the future are as invisible as the crystalline cold, winter air. All focus is attuned to the lubdub, lubdub of a beating heart and the heavy breathing behind a scarf-wrapped face. Keep feet steady, keep safe out on the unforgiving and unpredictable ice.

The conversation about the future has no place on this rainy day. The skies are grey and wrung with water. The Sound is a trampoline for raindrops; they bounce off the taut water surface of the ocean rising, then falling. The waves, kicked up by the wind, crash louder than usual, drowning thoughts of yesterdays and laters, leaving only a drive to stay dry, stay warm, nestle into warm bed covers with a book, electricity to read said book, and a cup of tea.  Nothing else is matters.

The conversation about tomorrow should be the road less taken. Instead, we feel compelled to try to catch a glimpse of the road ahead.  The gypsy’s promise to read the tarot cards, reveal what is around the corner, is infinitely more seductive than staying firmly planted in now.

Now is where the Black Dog sails alongside the Alabama against a Vineyard sky so blue that a heart might be forever seared by its perfection. Now is where we can go to minimize all suffering and ameliorate all sorrow. Take the day, parse its into seconds,therein is only now.

there......there......there......there -

It’s when we insist on stringing them together in a continuum of past-present-future that 

we are apt to visit sorrow and loss.  In the stand-alone seconds, there (a red-winged blackbird takes flight across the autumn grass).....there (the chimes ring out a 100-year old hymn from the Methodist Campgrounds bell-tower).....there (the fragrant lavender blossoms leave their fragrant calling card wafting through the air an Indian summer day).....there ( the perfect orb of red sun breaks through the night bringing with it a new dawn.  

....there....

is only now. 


If you are fearful, you’re living in the future, if you are depressed, you’re living in the past. Byron Katie

How a World Renowned Concert Pianist Played Piano for Me

Refica Elibay, concert pianist

 Last Saturday night, I had the most improbable experience.  I was sitting on my friend’s porch enjoying the view of the ocean, a glass of wine and the pleasure of visiting with some Mainland sojourners.  This month, I am fortunate enough to be the guest at a former bed and breakfast on Martha’s Vineyard.  It is twelve-bedroom affair with balconies and jaw-dropping views of the Vineyard Sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman walking while talking on her cell phone. She seemed to put on her brakes as she drew closer.  Finally, she stopped altogether.  As she crossed the street, I rose to greet her. Over the past four years since the B & B reverted back to private ownership, there have been frequent inquiries from former lodgers hoping to secure a room.  After a standard exchange of greetings, the woman asked if I was the owner. I explained I was a guest of the owner’s, but offered to be of help if I could. She introduced herself, her name rolling off her tongue too fast for me to retrieve it. She went on with her tale. She was a concert pianist who had stayed at this B & B for one week, six summers running when she was performing at the Katherine Cornell Theatre.  The Katherine Cornell Theatre offered her legitimacy, gravitas.  I was cordial and invited her in to see the place.  

She expressed joy to find that there had been few changes to the place that meant so much to her.  And the piano!  A Charles Norris of Boston (circa 1920) baby grand, the piano upon which she had so often practiced, was still in situ.  “Would you like to play?” Her face beamed with joy. Her answer was to simply sit down and, well -- play. She spied my music for Pachelbel’s Canon arrayed on the piano.  “You, you stand here,” she pointed to a spot slightly beside her to her left. “”Better for you to see my hands,” she said. With no more than the initial glance at the music, she launched into her own variation of the Canon. The woman brought a magnificent talent to that one hundred year old keyboard. Something inside of me let go. Tears rolled down my cheeks. 

Her method of instruction, which at first, seemed one of madness, was to play a piece then drill us on what it was, who was the composer?  And who was Lizst’s sister?  Then she would demonstrate an element of technique that would enhance anyone’s playing of the piece. Her didactic approach was engaging and somewhat daunting at times. Who did write Bolero.? And O Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring? From memory, she spilled music.  Her instruction included a thorough explanation of the importance of yin and yang in musical expression. Her one most important lesson was that, “ See, watch. Do you see how I don’t play the music? The music plays me.”

We brought her a glass of wine, and though she preferred red, she agreed to accept the chardonnay.  

Somewhat zany, but completely brilliant, this woman intrigued us. My friends had to take their leave, but not before we all exchanged names and contact information. No emails, she doesn’t do computers.  Finally, I saw her name Refica Elibay.  She played a bit more and then just the two of us settled on the sofa with cheese, crackers and crudites.  Refica regaled me with stories of her life. Born in Turkey, she has studied music since she was seven.  Her mother, a Russian ballerina, and her father, a Turk who specialized in animal husbandry, had three children. They sacrificed mightily in order that Refica and her sister could have the training they needed. Today, both sisters are concert pianists.  Refica lives in New York City, teaches and performs as engagements come up. Her sister is associated with a Berlin orchestra in Germany.  Though they see each other just once a year, there is a bond that exists between them that was forged by history and their love for music.  

Refica was a sensational conversationalist.  The clock seemed to fly from 7:45pm to 10:45pm in a matter of minutes. My yawns could no longer be suppressed. It was past my bedtime. I packed Refica a bag of food to take back to her room in a near-by B & B. Our discussion had run right through the dinner hour without our having noticed the exception.  Restaurants stop serving at ten. Refica was particularly grateful for the brownies that I made that afternoon.

I insisted on taking a few photos of her, and I have a short clip of her playing a song made famous by Judy Garland.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPEpJxo27yc&feature=em-upload_owner#action=share            Refica playing a song popularized by Judy Garland.

Can you name it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taVYJgrr3JI          Judy Garland singing the song.

Cheers from Refica
The song? I'm Always Chasing Rainbows.