47. to commence... how then shall I live?

To graduate means many similar things. Off the top of my head, I might associate it with its most common definition: to complete an academic degree. That's correct, and it is what I'm talking about, but I like to also consider some of its other depictions: to "move up to (a more advanced level or position)", or to "arrange in a series or according to scale."

Even more interesting is the idea of commencement. This time of year, commencement usually brings to mind the endings of things for me. The end of the semester. The end of an academic year. The end of this leg of the journey for graduates. A look back on all of one's accomplishments. But commencement actually means "a beginning or start." What will be to come?

A common refrain of the past three years, however, has been that one must look back at what has transpired in order to build toward what lies ahead. What we will build depends entirely on the vantage point of our present perspective informed by all we have experienced in the past.

After considering in our first two concerts of the year the concepts of power and powerlessness (in the fall) and what it means to be human (in the winter), we're wrapping up the year questioning: How then shall I live? I've been having a hard time articulating what this piece will be about. As usual, it starts as an awakening; a gentle voice affirming what I know to be true: there must be something other than this. There is a time of deep listening, and only in the stillness are the hints of new pathways revealed. But the excess can only be chiseled away using small and precise strikes, leaving behind the delicate wisdom one can only find in the stories and remedies of our ancestors. There is a discipline involved with the act of deep listening. A muscle to be built by practice -- by ritual -- and refined by intuitive play. The repetitious nature of building can feel mundane. At times, I begin to feel stagnant in the uneventful routine of growth, unsure if my skill is slowly blossoming in its silence or if, in my haste to make headway, I've lost the scent completely. But I'm reminded in those quiet, mundane times -- when our morning routine goes smoothly and we make it to the bus stop on time, when I walk past a tree softly creaking in the wind, I'm reminded of the slow and steady strength I am building to support a healthy morning routine or listen deeply to nature in the ordinary times.

The piece is about being in that still and uncertain place. It's about stumbling upon God there at the crossroads of a most Holy Trinity -- Past, Present, and Future -- and being infused with that rich harmony somehow already coming from the inside. A cyclical type of thing. It churns and churns, gathering energy with each revolution, until finally it doesn't break free; rather it realizes it's been free all along.

The piece I am choreographing is about what one chooses to do with that freedom. Because freedom is power. And power can be so many things. It's the ultimate resource and what we choose to do with the power that we have determines the life we will write for ourselves and all we're connected to.

How then shall I live?

With curiosity, tenacity, patience, joy, fluidity, reverence, gratitude, and direction.

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