Tag Archive: music on the wind


I sat on the dock, feet dangling in the water, a warm breeze blowing gently over the lake; it felt like  fingers running through my hair.

I could hear the water lapping against the dock and the shoreline, rhythmically sliding over the rocks.  Birds chirped quietly and the crickets were just starting to hum.
I recall thinking, briefly, that there weren’t any mosquitoes biting at me.

And the trees… oh, the trees. They danced on the breeze – especially the big willow in front of the new cabin, its branches swaying back and forth, almost touching the grass.

Strange, though, that no one else seemed to be out enjoying this beautiful day.
Usually, there are fishermen out in their boats, children playing in the sand,  families out swimming. It was remarkably peaceful.

I was totally at ease when I heard footsteps on the dock behind me and felt the dock rock a bit.
I really didn’t expect anyone else to be there.

We sat there, together. Our shoes tossed up on the grass and jeans rolled up to our knees. We shared a drink… Jameson & ginger ale. It was really, really refreshing in the warm air.

No words had been exchanged, just a shared glass and occasional splash.

As the sun started to drop, the terra cotta sky reflected on the lake. It was like an impressionist painting.
The crickets were  really going at it, I thought.
But then I realized that it wasn’t normal chatter. It was harmonious. It was lyrical.
They were playing for me.

I stood up and walked toward the cabin, and once my feet touched the grass, the music became louder, clearer. They wanted me to dance.

I found a flat section of the yard and took my position.
There was no choreography, no defined movements, just me, dancing with the birds and bugs and trees.
The willow tree swayed with me, caressed me as I twirled around it.

It was lovely, and freeing, and wonderful.




It may have been the fever. It may have been ‘Twin Peaks’.
But, it may have been something else entirely.

I was sitting on the floor in my home studio, looking at my reflection in the big mirror. My legs were crossed and I was leaning back slightly, leaning back on my hands.
As I pushed myself to upright, I noticed a flicker of light beside me. I thought to myself that I needed to get that bulb changed. As I looked back at myself, I saw a glow around me. It began to grow brighter until I could no longer see myself. There was only light.

I stood up and walked closer to the mirror. I saw the way the light moved.
So I danced.
There was a trail of light that lingered, sort of like when you wave a sparkler on the 4th of July, or when you play with the exposure on a camera.

I felt warm and safe. The room was filled with magic.
I lost myself in the music.

Wait…. that’s not my joga mix. What is that?
I know that song.

Looking into the mirror, I saw a strange light coming from behind a curtain.
I moved to it and pulled back the fabric to find a doorway leading out.
There was my field!

Day was drawing to a close. As the sun set, I could see fireflies dancing.
So I joined them.
I spun and dipped and twirled. I felt free.

A fire burned bright in the distance. I could see the flames lick the sweet air and hear the wood pop with a puff of cinder thrown into the sky.
I made my way to the fire. I could feel its heat and smell the buring wood.
I looked down at my hands and saw that they were mine again. I was no longer covered in light, but instead kept a soft glow. The fire burned brighter.

There were two small chairs.
In one sat a woman, not much older than I 9when did she get here?).
She motioned for me to join her.

We sat in the warmth of the fire for some time, not speaking, just listening to the crickets and frogs and other night creatures sing the song that I knew but didn’t remember. The stars grew bright in the sky.

I was humming to the tune, swaying with the melody.
I let out a small yawn.
“You’re getting tired, maybe you should rest.” She said. Her words were soft and soothing. “Besides, you have work to do.”
“Work? What should I do?”
“You have to dance.”
“I like dancing.”
“I know, dear. But you have to make them smile.”

I woke up in my recliner, sticky and sweaty, and really confused. I don’t have a home studio, or a big mirror.
But I do love to dance.

Glowing DanceGlowing Dance
*Actual photos from my wedding reception

Because of the funk in my life, I’m doing what I can to just relax.
Meditation has been kind to me. I sit with my Peanut in my lap while I feed her and just let myself drift off –  I am absolutley convinced that she appreciates it, too. I think my stress has impacted her, and this is a good thing for both of us.

Once I have her set in position, and the syringe set in the feeding tube, I take a few slow, deep breaths while petting her. I still have to be “there” a bit, since I have to moniter how fast the liquid is flowing through the tube. I just sit, stroke her fur, and listen to her soft purr.

Most days, I start by envisioning a warm, soft light surrounding us. I imagine that glow gently pulsing around us, in rythym with the beat of my heart. I stay in the light until I feel completely relaxed. Then the light dissipates. I find my self sitting in a grassy field surrounded by trees. The birds are chirping, and there’s a cool breeze blowing. I can hear leaves rustling. And there is a faint music on the wind. It’s always that music.

I don’t know what the tune is, or if I’ve ever heard it in “real life”. But it is beautiful and melancholy.
I always know when I need to return; Peanut will nudge my arm with her paw or nose. I’ll switch the syringe, or finish up completely, and go back for a bit longer. She seems relaxed by it, and I know I definitely feel better.

Even though I am so very stressed, I know there is a place I can go to unwind and heal. And I know Peanut can sense that, too.

I’ve had a lot of serious matters pop up lately, so for a quick change of pace (and so my readers don’t think I’m a depressing character), let me share a little bit about one of my hobbies.

I’m a dancer – well, a dance student.
I’ve taken Egyptian Cabaret classes for the past 4 years. Belly dance excites me. It’s not only because it is moderately taboo for a Midwestern girl, but because I’m actually learning to dance. Dancing has always been something that has escaped me – I’ve mentioned before that I have to left feet, both facing the wrong way.

I have no delusions of dancing for large crowds, or for money, I just want to dance. The way the music resonates in me, through me… it brings me little moments of peace. Especially when I am worried and stressed (like lately) dance is one of the things that can help me, at least for a while, relax and be happy.

If I ever get a decent video of me dancing, I’ll post it. I will someday; I’ve been working on the same darn choreography for months.

A series of dreams

I grew up in an Irish-Catholic family, with an emphasis on the Irish. My grandmother’s parent’s came over from Galway, and Ireland was always this exotic motherland to me. That was where we came from, where some family still lives, and where the most magical and fantastic myths and legends originated.

Like any child, I was delighted by tales of leprechauns, unicorns, and faeries. Between mandatory school reading, I occupied my time with Irish poetry and folklore. I was enamored with the “year and a day” concept in so many of the stories.

I remember the first time I read the tales of St. Brendan the Navigator, St. Patrick, and St. Brigid. I felt such a connection to them. It was like reading about my own family.  In particular, I felt a special bond with Brigid. Even though I must have read at least a dozen different versions of the tale, I never grew tired of them. She was beautiful, brave, and intelligent – everything I wanted to be.

When I was up for my confirmation, I chose Brigid as my name.It wasn’t because I felt any particular connection to the Catholic Church. Actually, by that point in my life, I was so frustrated with how the Church treated people, especially friends and family, I was ready to be done with it. But I had to finish what my mother had started; for my Grandmother, I would be confirmed. No, I chose Brigid because I always felt like there was a part of her in me, and that was closest I would get to changing my name.

As the years went by, I strayed quite far from the Church, only ever returning for weddings and funerals. I never reconciled with religion; every time I tried to find my spiritual path, I was left in the dark feeling more alone than before. Something was calling me, I just couldn’t find it.

I had a dream.
It was a bright, beautiful day, and I was standing in a field of flowers. There was a music on the wind that I couldn’t identify, but it felt so familiar. As I wandered through the grasses I saw a small brick building with a large fire burning just outside.
As I approached it, I noticed the fire was on a pedestal… it sort of reminded me of a torch. It glowed blue and white, but I felt no heat. An older woman sat on a bench near a small vegetable garden, reading a book. She hummed the mysterious tune to herself for a while before she took notice of me.
“What are you looking for?”
“Um, I dunno. I thought I was dreaming. Maybe I ate too much before bed.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t looking for something.”
“I suppose so.”
“Maybe you aren’t looking in the right place.”
“I never said what I was looking -”
“You needn’t speak it. Just focus on it and all will be revealed.”

And I woke up. I cursed at my alarm.
I had that dream three nights that week. It was almost always the same, we usually talked about the world, my life, her garden, but little things changed – Her clothes, the smell of something cooking in the house, the book she read, or where she sat. On the last night, I helped her weed the garden, and I asked her who she was.
“I am the keeper of the flame.”
“Who is it for? The fire, I mean.”
“The one you seek.”
I had finally made a connection.
“How do I find her?”
“She will show you the light and the path. Follow her, show compassion, embrace art, and you will be healed.”
“How will I know her?”
“You will know. You will feel her presence when you dance.”

Again with the stupid alarm.
Dance? I don’t dance. I have two left feet, and they’re both on backward.
It wasn’t long before I had forgotten about the dreams.

Not even a year later, I started taking dance classes.
And the dream came back. It was very different this time.

The old woman looked almost younger, and we stood inside the little house. It was tidy, warm, and comfortable. We played cribbage for a while, and talked about my new job, my cats, and my marriage. My life was good.
And now I had dance.

“Have you found her yet?”
“Um.. I guess, no. Not really. I haven’t, like, physically seen her or anything. Should I be expecting a hallucination or something?”
“Time, dear; give it time.”

It was another 3 years until I saw her again. This winter, actually. I hadn’t really thought much about it. Over the fall I had wanted to dream about her. One of my cats was very ill, she went in for emergency surgery and we discovered she had cancer. I prayed to whatever powers would listen to help keep her healthy and happy; I wasn’t ready to give up on her. We made it through, and she’s doing well. We should have several more years with proper diet and medications.

This February (2012), the old woman returned. But she wasn’t old anymore. She was, maybe, in her 40’s or 50’s. Her hair was a beautiful shade of auburn where once silver had been. Her eyes were not so weary as before, and her hands were smooth. But it was her, I knew it. She hummed her little song as we walked along a wooded path.
“You are dancing still, yes?”
“Oh yes, I love it. I feel the music move through me and I feel like I could write poems without words.”
“Then you have found her?”
“I’m close.”

I haven’t seen her since, but I think when I do we should be about the same age. And I think that is when I will have finally found her. Until then, I will dance for her. I will write poems without words.

Brighde-© Stuart-Littlejohn

Brighde-© Stuart-Littlejohn