pixie also led me to this poem.  and so i’m paying it forward.

The Invitation by Oriah
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

This is worth pondering. Does nature in her wisdom intentionally produce nonconformists, or find a use for them, enlisting their disparate talents in her service. Is there a place for everybody, a reason for everything, and we fail to understand some underlying cosmic logic?

Do acts that appear the most senseless to us have a rationale that we fail to appreciate? Are what we consider errors and mistakes really part of the grand design? How encompassing and integrated is the mosaic of life? Just how big and complex is this world that we define so freely and understand so poorly?

The Queen Must Die, And Other Affairs of Bees and Man – William Longgood

(thanks for the words, Lisa, and for the model, Julie!)

watercolor and ink on arches hot press watercolor paper

As Shortcake was making her way into the world, I was listening to Aine Minogue’s (an Irish harpist, singer, and folklorist) song The Selkie on my iPod.    It’s beautiful, and it resonated deeply with me the first time I heard it.  But I had no idea what she was saying!  I had heard of the mythological selkie, but knew only that it had something to do with water. 

Recently, the Celtic myth of the selkie has come back into my life en force.  She is a shape-shifter, a sea creature whose sealskin allows her to live in the depths of the ocean.  Her home is there, in Sule Skerry, but she can take off her sealskin and become human for a short time as well.  In the myth I’ve just read, a human man falls in love with her in this form, as she is sunning herself on the warm rocks, and she becomes his wife.  The husband (jackass!) hides her sealskin, so she remains on land, gives birth to his son, and starts to get all parched and peely and icky.  She can live without her sealskin, but only for so long (7 years, I think?) before she needs to return to her watery home.  It is her son who later finds her sealskin, and she returns to Sule Skerry.  Her son is able to travel between the two worlds, and he is who I really identify with.  But enough about me . . .

Here the selkie looks out to the ocean, dreaming of Sule Skerry and longing for her sealskin, pregnant with the child who will eventually aid her return.

I know this feeling well.  Don’t you?

I’ve listed the original painting on my Etsy, and will be listing prints soon.

This is how it began, my mild obsession with those two words, hearing them shouted in a strained voice by Mrs. Blue.  Actually, she did not shout.  Ever.  It was more of a slight and painful elevation of her perpetually monotone speaking voice.  Those of you who remember her, who were also students in her English class, or who knew her as my ex-boyfriend’s mother, know exactly what I’m talking about.  (You also know that she has a different last name, but I’m trying to be somewhat coy here, people.)

The poor woman.  She was probably trying to inspire us with Shakespeare or Camus or Emerson or Thoreau, forgoodnesssake.  What kind of numbskulls could remain uninspired by such genius?  A bunch of stupid teenagers, that’s who.  I was passing a note, someone was making pretend obscene noises, and someone else was farting for real, and she snapped.  God!  I would have, too!  Except my f-word would not have been “frivolous.”  Hers was. 

“Stop this frivolous nonsense!” she cried said.  Oh, the poor dear.  It really pains me now to think about it.  I feel guilty, of course.  But mostly, I feel, as I felt then, pity.  I remember the silence that fell over the room.  I remember thinking, I hope I am never ever as miserable as that woman.  I also remember thinking, what the heck does “frivolous” mean?

 friv-o-lous [friv-uh-l uh s] : –adjective 1.  characterized by lack of seriousness or sense: frivolous conduct.  2. self-indulgently carefree; unconcerned about or lacking any serious purpose.  3. (of a person) given to trifling or undue levity: a frivolous, empty-headed person. 4. of little or no weight, worth, or importance; not worthy of serious notice: a frivolous suggestion.

So I looked it up, and decided that frivolous actually was important.  I decided that if I did not include plenty of frivolity in my life, I’d end up as miserable as Mrs. Blue (who, by the way, made the most delicious rhubarb pie, was the first person to really encourage my writing, and was a genuinely beautiful person beneath all that monotone).

I fight with that conclusion, with my love affair with all things frivolous.  I talk to myself when it comes up (which is often).  Why are you crocheting a doily?   Because it is fun.  But you have more serious things to do.  True Art is serious and important and has a capital A.  But, look!  It’s turquoise!  It is still a fucking doily.  What if we call it a mandala?  Because it goes in circles?  Loser.  Stop this frivolous nonsense.

And, so, aha!  There you have it.  There is this young bratty kid inside me that comes to poke around when big important philosophical intellectual spiritual Artiste is around.  And she’s like, wheee!  Let’s do something pointless.  And so sometimes, I do.  I don’t know if it is the wrong thing to do, an evil distraction from some grand vision.  But I simply cannot take myself so seriously when there is this inner wild child bouncing around, begging for frivolous nonsense.

And so I honor that inner brat by making this frivolous print my first etsy listing.  Also, it is yours if you contributed to this frivolity.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! 

A doily!  If that fact does not inspire you to conclude that there is something  s e r i o u s l y  wrong with me, then I’m sorry, but there is something  s e r i o u s l y  wrong with you.  And, I mean, I didn’t even do it well.  But here is the worst part.  Oh, I don’t even know if I can say it.  Here I go.  Letting it out.  Confessing . . .

I liked it.

OHMYGOD !!!  The shock and horror.  I, too, am gasping aloud.  It is just shameful.  I am ashamed. 

In my next post, I am going to try to desperately salvage my honor from the bottom of this stinking pile of shame.  I’m going to tell you the story of “frivolous nonsense.”  Perhaps, then, you will understand my compulsive desire to frequently do nonsensical things.  Perhaps, then, you will forgive me.

But since we are on the subject of frivolous nonsense, check this out.  Have you heard of formspring?  Pretty please ask me a question.  It will be fun, in a frivolous-nonsensical way.  Maybe.

Also, I am going to start replying to comments via email.  “That’s all I have to say about that.”  (Not in a big-dramatic-I-can’t-say-anything-dot-dot-dot sort of way, but in a I-really-just-have-nothing-else-to-say-regarding-that-subject sort of . . . way.)

Also, I did not forget about you brave warriors who contributed to that failure of a New Year’s story we tried to write.  I’ve finally decided what I’m going to send you and I’ll show you with the next post.  But I need your addresses!

Happy Monday, or Happy Last Few Hours of Sunday, whichever applies.

(ohandbythewayiamgoingtostarttakingclientsagainandalsoimopeninganetsystorebutillgettothatlaterokbye)