If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities. (Maya Angelou)
collective of kids from last summer, engaged in some seriously good fantasy. (digital)
Now. Check. It. Out.
Posts Tagged ‘in which i get a little woo-woo’
Imaginary Commune
March 21, 2010wild geese
March 16, 2010
- watercolor and ink on arches hot-press. (poorly-lit snapshot)
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Mary Oliver
dance!
March 15, 2010“Now you are entering the world.
You will become adult with responsibilities…
Walk with honour and dignity.
Be strong!
For you are the mother of our people…
For you will become the mother of a nation.”
Apache
My future little women and I had such fun playing with colors and shutter speeds the other night. Lately, every time I put on a skirt, Shortcake stops what she’s doing, and commands me: “Dance!” And so I dance, swishing the skirt and spinning. She stands back, watching me with a critical eye, then says things like, “Yes. Mm-hmm. Good, good.”
I don’t know if it is Spring, or these photos, or the new moon, or what. But I am craving ritual and fires and drumming and dance and lying awake in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. And such.
Brave
March 11, 2010“The gift you carry for others is not an attempt to save the world but to fully belong to it. It’s not possible to save the world by trying to save it. You need to find what is genuinely yours to offer the world before you can make it a better place. Discovering your unique gift to bring to your community is your greatest opportunity and challenge. The offering of that gift – your true self – is the most you can do to love and serve the world. And it is all the world needs.”
– from Soulcraft by Bill Plotkin
For Illustration Friday. I’m not terribly pleased with it, and it’s only a very blue-tinted snapshot, not a scan. Ah, elusive perfection. Anyway, what’s your interpretation of it, regarding bravery? I’ve got a few.
- watercolor on arches hot press
stories
February 24, 2010
(tri-x 400 mamiya 645af)
(wrote this last night, so today actually means yesterday, and tomorrow means today, and whoa. trippy.)
Julie. The Louise to my Thelma. Julie so kindly got naked for me the other day so I could mess with some ideas I’ve got regarding this little tube sock problem obsession interest. Some stay-at-home-moms go to scheduled playgroups. You know, whatever, to each their own. I’ve still got some rolls to develop from this day, and some more ideas to play around with, and I wasn’t planning on sharing this right now, but . . .
the things I meant to do right now aren’t workiiiiiiing!!! None of them. Wonky ink in the printer and an empty bottle of developer and a guitar that won’t arrive until tomorrow and a twitchy brain. So, here it is.
STORIES!!!!
is the word of the day (week?) on the blog. I feel like I keep coming up with keywords. “Threshold” and “Illusion” and now, “Stories.” That’s so fucking annoying. (Ooooh, hoo hoo! I’m in one of those moo-hooods!) But annoying or not, that’s the way of it. (And now I’m going to picture Pee Wee Herman doing his word-of-the-day thing that he did. Great. Thanks a lot.)
Julie makes me think of the word “stories.” The woman has got. stories. And they just keep coming! I’ve begun to think that either she is lying about all of her adventures, or that she really is that much older than me (heh heh), or that she has clones that go out live and then come back to report to her regularly.
Besides being wildly entertaining, it inspires me. It makes me think about how I live this life that is presented to me, every moment raw and teeming with opportunity. Do I devour it? Savour both the illusion (there I go again!) and the clarity? Drink in the true experiences, despite their threat to this farce of stability and normalcy?
Now, I don’t think that living your life as a good story means actively looking for trouble, but it does make me reconsider my definition of “mistake.” It seems that the Great Stories of my life (and others) have been those times when Life has presented us with something, and we’ve accepted the offer, ignoring the fear of a possible mistake. Otherwise, it is a sad story ruled by empty routine and fear.
Also, I think, those mundane everyday things, like the whirlwind of snow-globe-like snow blowing today, or the trip to the grocery store in which the strange happy-lovey force between everyone was palpable, or the millisecond-prolonged glance, or the star-shaped center of the apple, or the laundry, can be a Great Stories when they are lived attentively. And then of course, there are the Great Stories told by nature—childbirth, tragedy, love, death—that sometimes give us no choice in the matter of attention.
What’s your story?
stirs in her winter sleep
February 22, 2010
She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half words whispered low;As earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.(Robert Graves)
Characteristically paradoxical, me. I’ve changed my mind. I’m now officially looking forward to spring, whether I like it or not. I just read the above poem last night (in this book), and that is likely what secured it. Yep. I feel it stirring, despite the falling snow. (Either that, or the extra espresso shot from this morning’s latte?)
This dead little flower is just outside my window, and I was sketching it today with the home-from-school-for-a-dentist-appointment kids, and whoops! Hope and Mother Earth made an appearance. Hey there, Mama. Stir it up.
Use Your Illusion
February 19, 2010Illusions are art, for the feeling person, and it is by art that you live, if you do. (Elizabeth Bowen)
tri-x film in mamiya 645af. mowgli and a girlie friend.
Today I’m thinking about illusions. The illusions of vision, of art, of social role, of relationship, of should, of connection, of separation, of possession, of acceptance, of proper, of religion, of comfort, of security, of emotion, of praise, of beauty, of insult. Hey! Another one of those lists. I haven’t gone all there-is-no-spoon yet, but I do think I’ll go on a quantum physics kick, now that you mention it.
I’m thinking about how we can become so governed by those illusions, and about what would happen if we . . . weren’t. If we accepted their function when appropriate, loved the illusions for what they were, and then gratefully let them go in due time. “Arigato Zaisho,” if you know what I mean.
I’m thinking, and letting go of a few other . . . thinkings. Oooh, I have a lot more to say here, but I’m operating under the illusion of time, so I must go.
Have the illusion of a happy weekend!
Durga in A minor
February 9, 2010If you have never been called a defiant, incorrigible, impossible woman… have faith… there is yet time.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes
watercolor on arches hot press paper
This may be redundant, but listen. The last couple days have plunged me into some ridiculous, epic journey of self-loathing and rage-y despair. It was not so much a passive state of depression, but an active fury. When I said I wanted to throw a temper tantrum, I totally meant it. I was hard-core craving broken dishes on the driveway and screaming and kicking and throwing. The desire was really just for the sake of the feeling of it, but more subtly, I suppose, it was the if-i-can’t-have-EVERYTHING!-exactly-how-I!!-want-it-and-NOW!-then-i-will-throw-a-fit . . . thing. And not being able to throw fits all day long was like being told by the obstetrician to not push.
And, oh! Look at the moon. It is a little waning thing. How predictable. I hate myself for being so fucking predictable!
(Just kidding. But if I would’ve said that yesterday, I probably would’ve meant it.)
And so it was in this state that I did this painting. I’m borrowing this guitar, if you remember, and although I’ve previously never learned anything beyond the first three chords in Harvest Moon or a Nirvana riff or two, I’m trying to get my rock on. I really am quite terrible at it thus far, and my fingertips are red and swollen and sore, and hooray for a very easy E minor chord, but still, it just feels sooooo damn good to play it really loud. It is also a good thing to have around when one is craving a temper tantrum.
A part of my self-loathing was regarding my inability to just be calm and sweet and nice. I mentally noted one failed attempt at Zen, F minor, housewifery, and altogether goodness . . . after another. I did try to wrangle it in, the crazy. I was bringing my attention to that which is, but it turns out that that which was was the ridiculous desire to scream and swear and maybe even to bite. Sometimes what presents itself is the painfully beautiful glitter of snow, and other times it is just, you know, biting.
Considering the honesty of the emotion made me think (with a little help from my friend), waitaminutehere. Maybe this is OK, simply feeling what there is to feel, as opposed to denying, or worse, becoming completely out of touch with, extreme emotion. (And also, she told me that someone called a picture of me cute. Ah, flattery.) Fiery is a part of me, and trying to be “good” and “nice” is sometimes especially exhausting. I woke up thinking about archetypes, and trying to remember some of the goddess myths that would point to the fierce aspect of the divine feminine. And, so hooray for facebook, where Chameli mentioned Durga. I cued up Ragani‘s “Durga” on my iPod, and I named my painting after her.
I’m putting the original up on my Etsy, as well as a few prints of both this rocking Durga and The Selkie. The prints have not yet arrived from the printer, and so I’m listing them at a discount until they do (I am such the terrible businesswoman!). You’ll get them cheaper for being a little risky and patient. Apropos.
***EDITED TO ADD: the 8×10 prints have sold, already! I’ve just listed the 5×7.***
selkie
February 1, 2010
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.
Patience or Confined or Something or Other
January 14, 2010I should let you know straight out that I’m going to talk about tarot cards.
And that this post, once again, contains tube socks.
Are you still with me?
Heh . . . lo?
So this drawing / painting / sketch /whateverthehellyoucallit was supposed to be about patience. I was thinking about natural intuition, reception—patiently waiting for that small, directive voice in the stillness. I was deep breathing and feeling all openness and attentiveness and patiennnnnce-ommmmmm. But then her hair got out of control, and before I knew it, it was all wildness. And then her face took on an impatient scowl. And then the restful, crossed arms became tense and ready to burst.
And I saw, not patience, but impatience. More than a simple restlessness, I saw a woman attempting to restrain herself, trying desperately—and almost sorrowfully—to keep her wildness under wraps, betrayed by her crazy hair.
watercolor, arches hot press paper
It perplexed me, as those frequently-occurring paradoxes do. (I! AM! ALL! PARADOX! It isn’t just me, is it? Aren’t we all?) And, to further complicate things (I just said that two blogs ago), my feelings regarding this paradox itself are split. It is the eight of swords vs. the red shoes.
Are you still with me?
Heh . . . lo?
Journey with me, if you will, into my soul. Oh, come on, it’ll be fun! Does this restlessness-emerging-from-patience-piece point to this or that?
The eight of swords. (this)
Tarot cards are, despite what you might think, not about fortune-telling, but about inner journey. I am a visual person (obviously?), and the images on the cards can really assist me in finding psychological, philosophical, and spiritual clarity. They mirror aspects of nature and of soul, which, perhaps, are one and the same anyway.
I first saw the card years ago, when Dimples was a baby, and I was in the depths of some Postpartum Depression / darkness / soulcraft-ish descent. My cousin Amy and I would play with tarot cards, then she would babysit as I went crying to my therapist. The eight of swords came up in a reading for me, and I considered the image: a blindfolded woman, arms loosely bound behind her back, standing in the center of eight swords (go figure!) that had been thrust into the ground around her like a cage.
Yes! I thought. This is me! Bound and constrained by motherhood and culture and circumstance, unable to fulfill my potential! But when we studied the card further, we realized that the woman was not so terribly constrained. She could easily escape the “cage,” and could free her hands and eyes with little effort. Instead of relief, I felt offended. If I were not a victim of my circumstances, if I could simply remove my blindfold and carry on . . . Well, that was quite a lot of responsibility. “Victim” was so much easier.
So “this” is one thought that came as I considered the drawing. Have I given myself a new mental straight jacket? Is there something inside me (some creativity, project, wildness) that is screaming to get out, and am I holding it back for some unnecessary and imaginary purpose?
–OR–
The red shoes. (that)
To further encourage the eye-rolling of my most cynical readers, I will now, once again, allude to a story in the book Women Who Run With The Wolves.
Heh . . . lo?
The tale of the red shoes is, in short, about a resourceful little peasant girl who fashions for herself a pair of red shoes. One day, a rich old civilized lady takes the girl to live with her, gives her new clothes and shoes, and burns her old things. The old red shoes had been so special to the little girl, that she tricks the old woman into buying her a new pair of (scandalous!) red shoes. The girl becomes obsessed with these new shoes, and even when she has had a taste of their power (they magically cause her feet to dance, taking control), she craves them. In the end, the shoes take over, dancing wildly and threatening, essentially, to kill her with exhaustion. She is unable to remove them, and so, desperate, she asks a woodsman to chop off her feet.
The author (Clarissa Pinkola Estes) compares the little girl to a feral woman—originally and naturally wild (handmade red peasant shoes), but confined like a depressed animal at the zoo (shoes/wildness burned, child civilized). Sighting the new red shoes is similar to when that caged animal (or woman!) snaps, remembering that bit of wildness that remains within. But instead of having the knowledge or opportunity to reincorporate the natural way of being, she latches desperately onto anything wild-ish, even at the risk of losing complete control. The girl dancing like a lunatic in pretty red shoes, the snarling tiger who suddenly turns and attacks the loyal zookeeper, the well-behaved mother who suddenly loses her mind, or becomes addicted to something dangerous, or abandons her family for the cruise ship attendant.
I mean, not that I have a cruise planned anytime soon. But you know what I mean. (Do you know what I mean?)
And so in this light, restraint can be a good, natural, healthy thing. It can be having the patience to ignore the flashy red shoes and holding out for what you intuitively know to be your thAng, or just hanging on to your old handmade shoes in the first place. And so is it “that” that I’m seeing here? Sort of an alert patience?
–OR–
None of the above, it was just a millimeter of a stray brushstroke on her eyes, or the espresso.
(Now all of this passed through my conscious thoughts in approximately 15 seconds—-Eight of swords? The red shoes? Espresso?—-but it took, like a billion hours to write. It would be so much easier if you could just understand my thought processes next time. Thank you.)