Most of us probably remember Emily Dickenson’s wonderful poem, which starts:
I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors –
I love to stand in that place of “possibility,” with the windows and doors open, waiting to see where some creative journey might take me next.
The video shows a piece waiting to be torch-fired. I can’t fully control what happens next, but I will be part of it. What will this bare sculpture show me as it changes color? What will it become? Maybe there will be an unexpected streak of color I can encourage, or something decidedly unpromising I need to redirect if I can. I need to show up, pay attention, steer the piece toward the most intriguing possibility that presents itself at the moment. I need to welcome and roll with the unexpected.
Years ago, I attended a life-transforming workshop on improvisation with the jazz musician Paul Winter. We waited for his arrival in a large room: 4th graders with flutophones, people like me who hadn’t played in years clutching their band instruments, and seasoned musicians from the Peabody Institute. The Peabody musicians were anxiously patrolling the room trying to get people in tune with each other, a pretty hopeless task. I will never forget the famous saxophonist’s presence as he entered the room – peaceful, open, ready. The temperature and “feel” of the room was transformed. The worry was gone. We felt alive, curious, ready.
Five people were called to take their instruments to the center of the room and begin to play from silence, listening carefully to each other and discerning their parts. One was a masterful violinist. One was one of the little kids with a flutophone. In this democracy of possibility, they held equal power. When four musicians thought the piece was over, the kid started it up again, and it unfolded with their support into yet another magical exploration of the possibilities of sound.
There’s nothing easy about this approach. It’s not “anything goes.” It’s about bringing everything you’ve got to the task of being present. It’s about accepting not knowing. It’s bringing all your skills and good ideas and picking up the tool that feels right in the moment. It’s eschewing the prose of planning and knowing and certainty and control, and welcoming the fear and delight that come in through all those open doors and windows. “I dwell in possibility…”