Because I could not stop for beauty

Because I could not stop for beauty
She kindly stopped for me....

I am referencing Emily Dickinson's:

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility...

The phrase keeps singing through my mind: Because I could not stop for Beauty, she kindly stopped for me. Why?  Because, the other day, like so many other days, I felt that I did not have the time for art, more specifically to take up my father's invitation to attend a stunning performance of Wendall Berry's words performed chorally and musically by talented local musicians and artists. Because I have now lived long enough to know that even an over-full day benefits from art (and also, for goodness sakes, he's my Dad), I did accept his gracious invitation.

The event was stunning. I wonder if the performers could feel us--the quietly riveted audeience. We were reluctant to clap between pieces. I think we sometimes were collectively holding our breath.  This was because we were enraptured--caught up, waiting for the next movement. Clapping felt intrusive, a bit gauche. As alto wind, drum hollows, vocal symphonics wove together, there was a leaning in the room--like sunflowers following the sun;  endings--attenuated and beautiful-- called more for a reverent bow.

But this is not a review. Instead I want to note how we sometimes don't stop for beauty.  Recently, I spent several hours composing a rather clumsy Powerpoint slide show for my students that incorporates imagery, charts and music. I wanted to engage them emotionally...with something other than text and discussion. I ache to do this. One might partially explain this by noting that I am a poet, an artist, and thus some art is my preferred language. But also, I believe and there is some evidence to support this belief that art is  key to education. (Dewey,Eisner, Sameshima, Clark, Pinar, Pink, Pillow)

This is why I keep a picture of Galinda and her bowl on my desk.  How can one apply language to Galinda's (performance art) walk--leaving the fragile mark of blood, the tracing lines of power, abuse and memory?  In some ways talking/writing about it is simply inadequate.  There are layers of knowledge, of wondering, of grief and hope and outrage, hope against hope reaching that can only be explored through witnessing and experiencing her art. I can write a treatise on it and that can be lovely.  I can write a poem and that would be lovelier. (I'am heartened to know she is a poet, too.) By this I mean, it would leave more space for the engagement with what perhaps cannot be languaged. Because art engaing with art allows for a differenct space.  Art, I propose is metaphor and metaphor gives us some space.

This direct apprehension in important.  Giving it space and responding then, in kind. Perhaps we cannot teach this apprehension/engagement nor write it, even.  But can we, as a part of human education--what my colleague Antonio Garcia terms a pedagogy of humanity--can we perhaps make it available? And then, in dialogue, in an atmosphere of collective care--what understandings might emerge?