About Me — Jenine Bsharah Baines
Take a walk with me…
“In the end, we’re all just walking each other home.” Ram Dass
The above quote says it all for me. I could so easily make it my entire bio…Except I suspect Quy Ma expects a bit more out of me than this. (Insert smile emoji.)
Obviously, I can’t walk literally with you. But I do hope my poems and occasional essays are the best possible companions on your journey — providing encouragement, comfort, ah-hah! moments, a new way of seeing the sacred ordinary, and perhaps even a laugh.
I am a retired publicist/PR practitioner for the arts. Particularly the musical arts — classical and jazz musicians, opera singers, orchestras. I promoted what I yearned to become the first 18 years of my life.
My earliest memories are of watching my mother, an opera singer, perform onstage. I loved singing but, once I was exposed to the piano, there was no looking back. An introvert who loathed sports, I spent hours working out my fingers. I earned trophies; I was the second-best pianist in recital lineups. I dreamt of performing as a soloist onstage with orchestras around the world.
I auditioned as a performance major for a respected music school, was accepted. The first day of class, however, I walked out and never sat at a piano again.
The pain was unbearable for a while, but I’d encountered Truth. Somehow, at 18, I had the guts to face it.
I lacked the divine spark.
Looking back, I see that perhaps it wasn’t talent I lacked but grit. Success, musical or otherwise, requires grit. Grit mixed with 18-karat gold nuggets of belief in one’s ability.
There’s a reason I love this song by Don Henley...
We’re all walking each other home. But, in a landscape of nouns and verbs, I often feel more like I’m driving with my eyes closed. (Particularly in the early stages of a poetic journey.) As the lyrics proclaim, You know, everybody got to have a purpose in this world…Some guys were born to Rimbaud. Some guys breath Baudelaire.
I went decades singing with Don, clueless I was one of the Some Guys Gang.
…..
The clarinetist and I were walking to the parking lot, after a meeting to prep him for an interview.
“Write me a poem about those three trees,” he said, pointing.
“Excuse me?” We’d cracked open a bottle of wine.
“See those trees? Write a poem about them.”
I laughed. “You’re joking, right? I write press releases, not poems.”
“Didn’t you just tell me you hear the music in words?”
I pondered his question the remainder of the way to my car, inserted the key in the door then, slowly, turned. “That doesn’t make me Beethoven. Or Keats.”
The clarinetist arched a brow. “I’m not Dmitri Ashkenazy, but I’m soloing Friday.”
Driving home, I recalled how an opera administrator had remarked to a group of us at the Met Auditions (shorthand for the Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions Program) on the great need for audiences. Someone had to appreciate the singers’ artistry, honed after years and years of self discipline, practice, and study.
What a great excuse to back away from that arched brow of a dare…
The Muse, however, was in a witchy mood. WRITE ME A POEM ABOUT THOSE THREE TREES, she commanded.
I rarely argue with witches; they might hex me. The Muse, I discovered, is even more immovable. I unearthed a journal, picked up a pen, and abracadabra never looked back.
When it comes to poetry, I’ve got grit. I’ve got belief.
Voila I’m a poet willing to drive with eyes closed.
Well, except when I’m not. But the spell of insecurity and despair passes. As the 14th century mystic Lady Julian of Norwich reminds me, All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
Mystics have dark nights of the soul, and poets are our culture’s versions of mystics. Contrarily, I can’t think of a mystic who didn’t write poetry.
Like some primeval moon Your soul brightens The tides of essence That flow to your child.
I chose this verse from poet/mystic/priest John O’Donohue’s blessing For A Mother-To-Be because my all-time favorite line by JOD never ‘birthed’ into a poem; he died unexpectedly before completing it.
“I would love to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”
More eyes-closed driving.
Also, I must share a photo of my star child, my grandchild, ‘driving’ with his beautiful sky-blue eyes wide open. I can’t wait to introduce him to the worlds beyond the workaday world. The sacred ordinary, as I called it earlier.
In the meantime, I’ll end with a haiku, my own:
No links follow here. Especially for myself, good riddance, P.R.
I’m sick of promoting.
I had a career promoting others rather than myself for a reason.
Plus, remember what I said about singers and the importance of audience? I’m so grateful I’ve discovered Medium and, soon, YOU. Your voice needs hearing. Sing out! I’ll throw roses and bravos/bravas.
