I have three passions: trail hiking in the mountains, observing nature in a silent setting, and music. I am compelled to write about the first two – trying to lean into, savor the wonder and awe. The third experience for me is most often wordless – sounds and rhythms that empty me of all other pondering, resonating in my heart, sometimes speaking words buried in my spirit. All three passions share the results of liberation from whatever burdens, obsessions, or anxieties I carry about every day. I enjoy a wide range of music performers, but am drawn these days to Bluegrass, Traditional, and the soul of a few folksingers. A recent music and storytelling event moved me to words because the sounds and rhythms were set between tales I have never heard.
I live in a world where buskers are a part of the fabric of the city; they also find themselves playing by the “rules”, like assigned slots for street corners and building entrances. In Asheville they formed a Collective to create a conversation with the policy makers to benefit street entertainers as well as the city’s economic and cultural life. To walk through town is to be drawn from one corner to the next by street musicians.
The only word to truly describe Abby the Spoonlady is mesmerizing. Experiences of silent listening, joyous wonder, and a bit of movement. When Abby plays on the corner of Patton and Biltmore Avenues, a crowd quickly forms. These days she is a popular draw at indoor music venues. Last month I secured tickets for a “second showing” at a local stage. I looked forward to her music with her partner on the road, Chris Rodrigues, a great singer, songwriter in his own right. But I especially wanted hear Abby telling her stories. A first for me. The two gave a performance that I did not want to end. When the show closed and the stage was silent I captured my experience in words so I could hold onto the memories. Check out her music and stories. https://spoonladymusic.com/spoon-lady-biography/
Abby the Spoonlady wears life as a traveler
in the worn lines of her face; her voice carries
the wisdom of the road and a bounty of love
for those she met along the way – a family
of migrants who stopped to give her a much needed
lift, placing a young child on her lap as she slid
into the back seat; the cold nights spent
on the road with weary others gathered under
concrete bridges; the snowman they built
in the freight yard, topping it with a hard hat
and scattered bits of clothing; this community of
loners watched as workmen stopped to take pictures
of their creation. She helped traveling buddies shove
a comfortable sofa into a rail car to soften yet
another long ride heading somewhere she never
felt she belonged. “It’s not easy” she says, “always
waiting for someone to ask you to leave or just
move along.” Wedged behind a cardboard sign left by
her street mates reading “quarantined,” she hoped
the officers would move away and leave her alone;
she played percussion, drawing the attention of a group
of Chippendales emerging from a bar; they continued their
their routines while an appreciative crowd gathered.
with bells on her feet, and a matched pair of
any old serving spoons she clicked, clacked,
snapped her body, rhythm and movement coming
alive, eyes wide open, brilliant with glee. Abby says
she doesn’t move about too much these days;
her body tells her not to. “I miss the traveling ways –
but I learned all I need to know about being
genuinely myself- with nothing to lose.”
How About That 