Last night, a few of us went to hear a wonderful night of jazz music as part of the IU Presidential Concert at the MAC. My eyes were drawn, over and over, to pianist Alan Pasqua. Music or joy or feeling or something flowed through his body and out through his right foot, which tapped and danced under his piano stool.
This morning I was out running with my dog and thinking about the dancing, tapping feet from last night, and then about a friend who played jazz music on his keyboard. At the time (this was years ago), I lived with a man who - as a sort of side hobby/business - had turned our basement into a full-fledged recording studio. Musicians of all sorts regularly drifted in and out of the house. And my friend who played jazz music recorded a couple of his albums there. On one of the albums is a song recorded for me. He also had me paint the album cover for the one he recorded before moving.
Sometimes when my friend was recording, I would come home from yoga or the market and sit outside on the deck with the wind and his moving music blowing around and through me. Only when he was done playing would I go in the house, walk down the stairs to the studio, and let them know I’d come home. Mostly I just sat and listened, content.