Mansi Kern

Belle and I (Thor) went to the Cascarones dance on May 17th, 2014 and took this poster of Mansi dancing and put it on the chairs at our table and , later, Rosita (in the white blouse and red dress)  went up on the podium with the poster and honored Mansi and then Phillip, Rosita's husband, carried the poster around to the tables so the people could see her.  It was lovely and touching and was a nice gesture on everyobody's parts. Many people came by and remarked at what a lovely picture it was of her.  Rosita has many pictures of Mansi from over the years and is going to send them to us.  How cool is all this!!  Just a note: there are very few people that we recognized from the many years of going there and the music has changed substantially.  It would take quite a lot to recover the old feeling of that historic dance....and is worth the effort to do so. 

A force of nature; the accordionist

 

This morning; a strong orange glow of sunrise, seen past the leaves on the trees, still now, but not always, outside,

Further, now; behind the far mesa, where the sky should be,

This morning there was the faintest last gasp of her breath just as the sun peeked back into the world, promising what it has always promised; warmth and hope, well past hope to the promise of life, almost eternal.

The last two or three gasps, the morphine, the spring run dry after the trickles finally dripped their last drop and the puzzle of the question of the beauty of the dry leaf and why it fell from the tree is begged again.

Now the living stroll down to the arroyo, looking for signs and whispers from the crypt, from the arroyo, which holds the red clay pools of water that reflect not only the surroundings, despite being not crystal clear, but their own origins and history as last night’s deluge collecting the particles of the mileau.

A force of nature, perhaps without the capital letters, perhaps the fine print is enough to describe,

Lest the mind be directed into competition with the flood, the earthquake, the drought or the fire.

She was…….the now aging douglas fir that took seed so close to the streambed that every large flood has bend it back and left its trunk scarred and bent into a capital C in reverse,

But strong and poetic……

Or the shriek coming down from the cliff, looking up and there she is…a big white large beaked hawk, alone on a long dead pinon still standing, surveying the gorge for food, then soaring over the canyon, hovering over the granite boulder with the natural arch at its base, fantastically frozen as she stares across the valley at her dance partner on the other side, who is frozen and staring at her also,

Soaring past the springs, now mostly dry but still springs, reminding us all that cold clear running water, purified in the nooks and crannies of the plutonic vortexian world below us, reminding us that that is where we belong and had decided years ago to worship; by the cool, clear spring water…. A choice for sure; something to tell your children and then they tell theirs about it; how cool…..how clear…..how clean….how pure…how important…….

The other birds, the smaller ones in their browns and greys and rusts and dull reds; others sporting some spray of gorgeous;  are now singing, too, over here and over here and over here, cacophony and musical, counterpoint to the curved beak of the hawk.  Some sound more poetic than others, but together they bring a sense of safety aesthetically

The deer has been here, there are tracks in the still wet silt.  She was so much like a deer that it is eerie to think about, the strength amidst trembling, the sharp hooves and the slight squat to pee, the eyes that are big and suggest looking for tender grasses, not warm meat, slightly desperate for sustenance.  The deer has pranced and danced and walked through the deep forest with its fawns, year after year.

 

The human, though, is not a deer or a tree or a bird.

They are the ones that decide what to be, if they are strong enough in themselves or have been cultured, somehow;  to be an maker of music, a dancer, a sun worshiper , a thinker, a looker, and appreciator of the  world around, an activist or a bystander…..each of us decide, somehow, whether to be bent over or sit up straight, to eat well or not, to go back to the things that made us ill, to stand on the stage or not, to rest a lot or to run around, to appear like  a flower or a grey stone, to dance or tap your toes, to sigh and wonder as the skies and all the landscape unveils its glory and light, to walk on pavement or on a game trail, to be an insider or an outsider, to stand out or to blend in, to sleep in your station wagon or in your bedroom, to be positive  or to aggress, to cuss or not, to browse or feast, to lead or to follow, to relent or to stand firm, to be a saint or a sinner, the be a modern or traditional, to work with children or not, to be a granny or an elder, to gaze into the mirror or to gaze into others’ eyes, to be rich or poor or to carry or to be carried.

A force of nature, yes, but not an arroyo so much or a flood…more like a spring, really

And not a predator, so much, but more like a fancy littler bird with some spiffy plumage,

To prance and dance, to fancy dance, more like a deer than a bear,

To be a little needy and desperate, somehow, like a mouse

To bear fruit and spread seed or to propagate like a cottonwood; all the offshoots are still connected to the parents, to be bedrock or river rock, to blossom in foliage like an aspen or a cactus, or, sometimes, somehow……..both or a little of all of the above,

Much like nature or a fine oil painting or a fine instrument that improves with age, somehow, then, like us all, eventually……must fade away into eternity…the symphony has come to and end, the river is filled with small pools that await the sun to evaporate their tears, their susurrus days a memory, their eternity crawling into their friends, rippling……

 

The strap on the accordion, the leather one that holds the bellows shut, has been placed carefully with its eyehole past the bulbous tip of the steel post,  settling back  with barely a note heard anywhere since the song, the dance the finale, the encore and that goofy sound as the box is closed, then placed in its case, the smell of the accordion and the accordionist, the velvet red of the inside cushions and the case wafting past the nostrils, that familiar smell only her children would know, then…….silence.