Receiving a gift, in the middle of Marty's garden, in a round-about fashion, via Ricki

and there we were...

Perched, via two folding chairs, in the middle of an intersection round-about filled with flowers (later
discovered to be "Marty's garden") at 14th Ave East/E Thomas St. Giving&receiving, as cars curved past us on both sides, sometimes slowing down to have a curious look, and passers-by gazed, noticed or merely just accepted our presence. The post work day neighborhood lightly buzzed, while a stunning view of the Space Needle, bright water and evening light casted across the mountains, provided a lovely lull for our exchange.

Thus was the setting for my gifted solo from the lovely Ricki.
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I should back up a bit; especially to contrast this calm, picturesque scene.

The truth is, just 10 minutes before my arrival at the intersection, I was manically pacing up and down the squeaky isles at Safeway, pretending to be chill, pretending I wasn't fixating on this upcoming performance, but merely, non-chalantly deciding which almonds to purchase. When I finally made myself locate the chosen intersection and was only a block or two away, my body immediately spun around and skittered to the nearest bus bench to settle into until it was exactly 6:30pm. I worried what I might be interrupting or perhaps starting if I arrived even a minute early. "Jeez Ambryn..." I thought, feeling silly, especially because I consider myself a confident, dive-on-in, adventurous person, with experience in the performance world, but still...this was...vulnerable. All the sudden I was back in junior high, uncertain of what was expected of me, what to say and how in the heck to direct my body.
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Back at the intersection and after our greetings, Ricki brought out a paper bag filled with a six pack of IPAs (one of my favorites), with each bottle individually wrapped in its own smaller paper bag, perfect for on-the-street sipping. Ricki handed one to me, another to my sweetie along for the performance ride, and yet another for herself. As she knocked off the tops, we each toasted and took our swigs. This, I decided, was indeed a fine start.

We were seated face-to-face, as if preparing for a long story-telling session with a close friend, as Ricki brought out a small, colored wire notebook with my name on the front. She began reading...

At first, the words I heard were completely foreign and I had to work to figure out where they were from, and then, I quickly realized they were mine. The familiar ramblings of my answers to Ricki's emailed questions were now, oh-so brand new as they flowed via a different voice, with unique meter and rhythm, and with a new kind of care and attention to their intimacy. After an adjustment to this role exchange, and an easy reassurance from the care in which Ricki was handling my words, I settled in and opened my senses. I heard myself with a new meaning, as the neighborhood, my nearby-sweetie and the Seattle air listened to what I had to say, via Ricki.

My choices and stories of home, my emotional dream patterns and late nightlife, my messy insecurities and body aches, my secrets and reflections of new love all handled so lovingly and carefully, with attention to their prominence became my solo. Me reflected back to me, only different, because my only job was to accept. To sit back and accept the stage, merely by being there. Suddenly, my words had a great, great power.

"There's one more part," she said, and then came the movement. Big and expansive, yet intentionally controlled, with circling wrists and rolls through the back. Carefully located motions, with time to perch and notice, allowing herself to take up space. Connecting and opening to the sky, paying homage to the vast, open plains of my Midwestern home, stepping up onto the nearby curb to claim, and then choosing a long, powerful bubble of stillness, with great attention to the sky, perhaps following a passing plane, but choosing to be fully present. Focus to the slightly aching left side of her/my body, pushing it down, wringing it out, urging attention. Big arms, full back, swirling fingers and lots of wrapping. With great drama, but quiet stillness. An embodied weaving of my values, patterns and work-in-progress choices. With great care and honesty.

I felt as if I was being taken care of, affirmed and given immense permission to be exactly where I was. And, ironically, exactly where I was included an offered chair, a good beer, in the middle of a street full of life, with two honest witnesses along for the unknown ride.


After Ricki finished, she graciously answered some of our questions, offering some nuggets of her own process, of the collective vs. individual crafting, of the project itself and asked her own questions. I could have easily filled the next hour with this questioning and discussion, so tempted to want to know more, but it soon became quietly clear that it was time to end. It was time to part the space and leave this gift as much as it was, without any more picking, digging, or inquiry. Allowing this exchange to be. To be in the intersection and in the changing evening light. In Marty's garden round-about (her husband came out to kindly remind us not to put our bags and feet into the flower beds, but happy we were enjoying the space). To be in the folding chairs and clinked beers.

This, it seems, is what receiving a gift is all about.

Thanks Ricki and Lingo for your good courage, wise ponderings and embrace of the gritty, in-between space.