The past few days, I’ve been hobbling around like a pirate with a thorn in my backside. The culprit: sciatica. A cruel little kink in the body’s wiring that turns the simple act of walking, sitting, or even existing into a grim sort of guessing game. Will it shoot lightning down my leg this morning or lull me into false comfort until I reach for something and yelp? I’ve learned to appreciate the miracle of stretches, a pilates ball and Advil, which take the edge off enough to enable me to move more or less normally.
It came on slow and strange, like pain often does. One day I was dancing in my kitchen, the next I was bracing myself just to roll out of bed. No dramatic injury, no noble fall—just the body saying not today, in the way bodies sometimes do.
I missed the first hour of the Hornby Arts Centre opening last Saturday, but I made it in time to be dazzled. What I walked into was lovely, stunning. The new space is thoughtful, grounded, and beautifully lit. There’s a sense that something alive can take root there. The art was excellent, mind bogglingly varied, colourful. This show is smaller pieces, which means a lot of pieces. The call went out, and artists delivered.
The Centre is deceptively spacious. Art is displayed everywhere, including in the bathroom, which is a work of art itself, and there are pants on the wall. Pants can be art; if you know, you know. This is not the sort of work you want to glance at on the way to the snacks. It commands your time, and rewards you for the investment. The show will be open daily until July 1; do check it out.
I didn’t stay too long. Crowds are a dance for me. Sometimes I can hold the room, sometimes I need to slip out the side door and find a tree. I was glad I went. It felt like a proper gathering, a real place, not just for us to hang pictures but to be together inside something meaningful. I’m not sure yet how the acoustics will serve, but I hope to find out soon. I am looking forward to singing there, and if all goes well, it might become a regular thing.
You may know I released a CD last fall, called “Late Bloomer,” a collection of songs grown from the rich deep compost heap of my life. We tried a launch party then, but the timing wasn’t right, for reasons I won’t bore you with. The Arts Council has offered support for a second try this September, and I’m hopeful that this one will bloom properly.
June is like this on the island—too much and not enough, all at once. So much beauty it aches. So many events I want to attend, and so many that I know I won’t. My spoons are a limited resource. Some days I have one, and I use it to make coffee. Some days I have several, and I try to take care of too many things at once, and end up doing something else entirely.
And the garden! It is exploding with green. Even from indoors I can feel it pulsing, nettles elbowing into the path, peas curling toward the sun, chickweed wrapping its fine fingers around anything that holds still long enough. The air smells like someone left a jar of honey open in the woods. I love this riot of growth, and I also want to yell, slow down! I can’t keep up.
This Saturday, June 28th, I hope to be at the Pride Dance Party at the Arts Centre. DJ Pat will be spinning his prideful magic, and whoopee, it’s free. All ages, all flavours, all sparkly, wobbly, glorious selves welcome. There’s a brand-new sprung dance floor, I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m dreaming of boogying pain-free, but even if I have to limit myself to a gentle sway, I’ll probably have fun. Swaying is underrated. Whatever works!
As for the weather, well, bless it. We’ve had a flirtation with summer, but she’s been playing hard to get; teasing us with warmth, then slapping us with a chill wind. I dream of heat, real heat that smells like cedar sap and low tide. To swim in warm water, oh what bliss! I have faith in summer; it’s bound to happen, it always does.
Here I am, dragging myself around like a mythic crone, plotting art and mischief and music. I’m grateful for the opportunity to write this little column and to share what I can from my scraggly edge of things.
If you see me around, feel free to say hello. I might be slow right now, but I’m showing up, whenever and wherever I can. When I have the spoons. These are exciting times. Interesting times. Terrifying times. All of it. Facing the future with a grin full of gritted teeth, we persevere. Don’t forget to breathe, friends. We’ll make it through.
Feedback is welcome, email me at phoenixonhornby@gmail.com
