It is transition season in the garden, before the hot colors and voluptuous forms of the true summer flowers arrive.

There are feverfew, wild geraniums, hedge roses and coral bells, all sporting their pastels. This year, there is also a profusion of early fuchsia blossoms, which remind me of ballerinas, with their tutus and a general dainty flair.

Today a friend of mine enters another year in her 8th decade of life. Interested in all things ballet, accomplished critic of and writer about the art form. Published in journals like New York City’s Dance Magazine, the New York Times, encyclopedias and periodicals, or local press here in the PNW, the Oregonian, Willamette Week and Oregon ArtsWatch, among others. She wrote a deeply researched and fiercely argued book about Todd Bolender, Janet Reed and the Making of American Dance that came out in 2021.

Dainty she ain’t. Which I consider a compliment. It’s also a way of being that empowers those asked to master complicated and often painful lives, early widowhood included. There is a fiery intellect groomed during a New York childhood closely associated with intensely intellectual and artistic circles, and an education at Barnard. There is a ferocious quality of protecting and defending who and what she loves, at almost any cost. There is scorching rage there against the vicissitudes of aging and bodies no longer willing to comply. There is hot contempt for the unprincipled, the immoral, the compromising and the indifferent ones, in public and private sphere alike.

She has a special gift for friendship, keeping early ones alive, opening herself to the vulnerabilities of new ones, established late in life. We have known each other for some years now, old enough at the start not to waste time on frivolities and chitchat. Instead there are repeat conversations that allow exploration of topics relevant to finding closure without throwing in the towel. Conversations that sometimes venture into the territory of illness, death and dying. Topics that are rarely spoken of openly in this society, issues preferably explored with someone equally non-moribund as I consider myself. Thoughts triggered by accumulating losses in our respective social spheres. Ideas (and tears) better confronted in the company of someone curious and open, rather than alone.

In this spirit I offer one of my favorite poems as a birthday gift: an unflinching, yet positive look at what life holds for us, good or bad; an allusion to belonging to an infinite universe; a profoundly stern but also reassuring reminder that here is still here: no terrifying cracks in the wall sucking us into oblivion just yet.

Let us cherish the day, each day, fatigue, pain, irritations notwithstanding.

Cherish the memories of an extraordinary life (I AM STILL WAITING FOR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, Martha!).

Cherish the dance still left in us.

Happy Birthday!

Here

I don’t know about other places,
but here on Earth there’s quite a lot of everything.
Here chairs are made and sadness,
scissors, violins, tenderness, transistors,
water dams, jokes, teacups.

Maybe somewhere else there is more of everything,
only for some reason there are no paintings there,
cathode-ray tubes, dumplings, tissues for tears.
There are plenty of places here with surroundings.
Some you can particularly get to like,
name them your own way
and protect them from evil.

Maybe somewhere else there are similar places,
But no one considers them beautiful.


Maybe like nowhere else, or in few other places,
here you have your own body trunk,
and with it the tools needed,
to add your children to those of others.
Besides that your hands, legs, and the amazed head.

Ignorance here is hard at work,
constantly measuring, comparing, counting,
drawing conclusions and finding square roots.

I know, I know what you’re thinking.
Nothing is permanent here,
for since ever forever in the power of the elements.
But notice—the elements get easily tired
and sometimes they have to take a long rest
before the next time.

And I know what else you’re thinking.
Wars, wars, wars.
But even between them there happen to be breaks.
Attention—people are evil.
At ease—people are good.
At attention we produce wastelands.
At ease by the sweat of our brows we build houses
and quickly live in them.

Life on earth turns out quite cheap.
For dreams for instance you don’t pay a penny.
For illusions—only when they’re lost.
For owning a body—only with the body.

And as if this was not enough,
you spin without a ticket in the carousel of the planets,
and along with it, dodging the fare, in the blizzard of galaxies,
through eras so astounding,
that nothing here on Earth can even twitch on time.

For take a good look:
the table stands where it stood,
on the table the paper, exactly as placed,
through the window ajar just a waft of the air,
and in the walls no terrifying cracks,
through which you could be blown out to nowhere.

by Wislawa Szymborska

Music directed by another redhead – Ballet scores by Mozart.