Myopia
“ABIQUIU”, detail, ceramic, earth
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My resolve has always been
To become the best I can be.
For me, that has meant
Things like meeting hidden traumas
Of various forms,
And mining the shadows
For energetic obstacles
Intent on preventing me from thriving.
It is a dirty job.
Messy job.
But, in my case it has been the only way
This beautiful patina
I now am seeing on me
Had any chance of making it’s appearance
And remaining uncovered.
I would not be surprised
If I knew
The actual number of people in my life
Who had taken a few steps back from me
For fear
My relentless quest and it’s intensity at times
Would upstage any chance at
An easy and comfortable exchange.
Believe me, I don’t blame the reticence.
It likely was a fine, fine choice indeed.
And so.. my path in healing my body and soul
Has been in partnership
With a good deal of solitude.
And I really get sick of myself, sometimes!
So- When I do,
A good dose of a grander perspective
Is in order.
Today, I went here.
I mean, REALLY….
Can you look at that and not remember
Your lovely
And purposeful
Part of the plan
Which is a supportive role
And not the lead?
I’m Not Giving Up
detail of painting on textile, wool flannel
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I wrote a post the other day entitled: “I’M GIVING UP.”
It was in reference to hosting an event in which I chose to sell most of my private collection of remaining art.
I orchestrated it as a mark in time
To help me and all parts of me
As well as letting the Universe know
That I am laying down my 30 year identity as an artist-in-form
Because my body is ‘different’ these days.
I did it with a very full heart.
With gladness.
I sat there and witnessed a good chunk of ‘time’ leaving
With my blessing.
The gift I gave myself was/is open space.
Emptiness… to love as is
Or, perhaps be filled by the Mystery.
Inside this process of give-away, sell-off, bye-bye darlings
Is wrath.
Wrath.
I have to say it again as I am quite sure I’ve never paid attention to that word
Let alone used it before.
And yet, there it is…
It’s visitation (for I know it will eventually knock on someone else’s door)
Shocks me.
I love my center.
It was lost for so long
And now I’ve found it.
I see I may have settled into a bit of complacency.
What to do with this quicksilver and searing
Unconsciousness
Directed at the beloveds in my life?
Yes, there are ‘reasons.’
Plenty of evidence to use as fuel.
But it’s dirty fuel.
Anger’s favorite gas is evidence.
It will run on and on
And on.
The fumes are so toxic, though.
It is inefficient fuel at best.
Today, I promised myself I would not give up
On my gentle heart.
The actions needed and the effects of
DESTRUCTION AND CREATION
Are messy, indeed.
Did I think I could sail through this life event
Of choosing to silence one voice
In order to make room for another to be born
Without any kind of fallout?
How silly of me.
I AM a gentle heart.
AND..
I am ‘other’ as well.
If I love and respect my own beingness
As I surely do,
Can I be humble enough to just notice what’s here,
Give it a nod or a bow
And move forward from the soft place
That seems to have the almost unbearable capacity
To house all these heretofore
Orphaned parts of me?
I am not giving up on myself.
I AM.
Picking Up The Sword
ceramic sculpture (detail)
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Crafting a weapon such as a sword
Is actually a very organic process.
Heat and more heat..
Folding, pounding.
Then do that all over again
A thousand thousand times
And you might (just might)
Get an edge you can be proud of.
I am wary
When I hear myself say that I don’t like something.
These days, it just plain takes too much energy
To have a judgement about ANYthing.
I heard myself say in this blog, recently: “I don’t like metal.”
Why, I wondered?
It is a neutral element
Save for whatever I put on it, meaning-wise.
When I think of metal
I think of swords;
Wielding a sword, in particular.
Every girl should have her own personal gleaming edge
At the ready.
Don’t be afraid..
Or, rather: BE VERY AFRAID!
Surely, we are speaking metaphorically here
But the journey from the tiny spark of God
We were born with
To the embodiment of ‘SAMURAI’
Is an arduous path, indeed.
Picking up the sword
And using it effectively
Asks us first,
To even know WE HAVE ONE.
Asked even last week what my sword looked like
I would have said a pretty flimsy and warped piece of wood;
Slightly waterlogged and bereft of patina.
Today, my answer is different.
I will tell you about it in a minute.
What do we need a sword for, anyway?
How do we hold it?
Where do we keep it?
How do we honor it?
What noise does it make when used well?
I want to survive
And thrive.
In order for me to do that
I MUST separate the wheat from the chaff;
Be ruthlessly
discriminatory in my choices:
People around me, how far I choose to let each in, places I go physically, food, thought and emotional patterns, beliefs, what I hold sacred and how I tend such…
These choices, and many more
Are what will keep me alive.
Saying the kind of “YES”
To these kinds of ‘medications’
Means there must also be an equal and potent
“NO.”
And this is where the sword comes in.
Being this discriminating
Makes my previous tendency toward acquiescence
Shake in it’s boots.
I haven’t the energy to whip around any long piece of metal
Willy-nilly
Until.. by some miracle
It meets it’s mark.
No.
I am going for the whisper of an almost imperceptable
“Fffffftttttt.”
I will turn and walk away without a smile.
Forfeiting grace, connectedness and my place in the community of fellow humans is not my objective.
Whatever is back there
Will be wondering just what happened
And I will have earned
The right to choose
Again.
I Give Up
untitled, 1991, ceramic objects
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This past weekend I surrendered.
The word conjurs up images of an army hoisting a feeble-looking white flag
And bearing the weight of defeat.
Perhaps, a better word for my actions might be “YIELD.”
I yielded to the fact I can no longer produce art
In the forms it has chosen to arrive
During my thirty year career as a fine artist.
My art-making has been labor intensive
And not….
But I have always had the solace of a ‘thing-in-form’
Which somehow magically appeared
At the end of a string of inspiration, action and completion.
I DID something!
I MADE something!
There is a mark here where there was none before.
I AM.
A great deal of my ‘I AM-ness’ has been derived from a long identity as an artist.
This past weekend two good friends helped me achieve
Another kind of work-in-form
Which far surpassed any fulfillment
I have achieved to date.
I packed up my remaining private collection of art (not all)
And the works fidgiting in the cavern of a storage unit.
My two ‘girlfriends/sisters/family’ helped me orchestrate a spectacular event
In which my remaining work was hung, leaned, propped against the walls
Of a gracious home.
Invitations were sent to collectors
With a real time and date
Inviting them to come by and help me release this long and lovely art-making career
I’ve utterly adored.
You can be sure
That in the hours before the appointed time
My cheeks were wet
With heavy tears
As I did the interior wiggling around
It takes to let go.
By the time we opened the gate
I was sitting there
On the lovely patio
Surrounded by a lifetime of giving birth to beauty.
I felt so beautiful, myself,
As I welcomed the art-lovers
And watched them choose parts of me
To take home and love.
In the end,
I felt no regret.. no clinging.. no ‘if only’s…’
Really, my willingness to surrender this beloved identity
Gave rise to rooms within my self
I’ve yet to choose furnishings for.
They wait patiently
Until my eyes adjust to the light.
This new space in me has a quality of infinite generosity;
It isn’t even hankering to be filled!
And I have left behind a good deal of fear.
So- I won’t have a sculpture or painting
To offer you.
It seems my very life has become the art.
I wonder if, in my smile
You can feel
The tears, the relief, the vulnerability,
The solace, the fear, the faith
It takes to step forward
Once again?
I Am A Boat
“FINE LINE” detail, 1999, m/m
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I am a boat.
Not a Chinese junque. – (my blood is too foreign though I do wish it wasn’t).
Well.. perhaps a gleaming and slippery, “Have a martini”, 40′ ode to speed? – (I’d lose the key..).
Maybe that great outboard motorboat we used up at the lake to go bass fishing as the dawn steam rose and we, wee ones still with sleep in our eyes? – (Oh, I did love the control!)
What about a catamaran? Sliding and cutting so deftly through..intent on getting ‘there’ FAST!.. The constant thrill of capsizing the thing?- (Nope).
I could be a giant cargo ship with all the ballast I’d ever need in rough seas.. (No beauty in all that safety and way too much metal. I’m not that fond of metal, anyway).
A folded paper boat adrift on an even pond? – (Not enough substance or staying power).
I will be a canoe.
My own ship carved of a tree so I will remember dry land should I turn toward forgetting.
It will hold one.
Two or three if I so choose.
My family and friends will have helped me carve the thing.
We will have sung songs and toasted it’s doneness before they hand me two paddles and I pause to bow (to them and it) before I step in alone.
I will push off the beach and settle my frame into the curve of the tended wood.
I will not look back.
I am not sad. I will cut the glassy sheen of the lake
And lean into my direction.
I pull the water to me
And let it empty behind.
Pull.
Empty.
Pull.
Empty.
The rhythm lifts me.
And the work is not.
I am free.
Destination is uninteresting.
I just stay with the impossible beauty.
In raw weather
I huddle in the rain and wind
Sometimes, just yielding to the whim of the lake
Because it is bigger than me.
In the morning with wet and straggly hair
I peek outside my parka.
The way seems clear
Though I do not know where I am.
A loon sets me straight
And my paddle meets the waters.
I sing.
Attention is Our Currency
“GRID”, 1992, 5′ x 5′, m/m
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I had a massage the other day.
He worked on my right side, primarily.
My leg below my calf has become quite numb.
The masseuse I work with has very shiny and clean energy
So I have the gift of not having to shield myself from his ‘stuff’
And just deal with mine.
We worked the full hour on attempting to wake up my leg.
He asked me to send particular kinds of breath there.
My breath shifted from the shallows
To deep and long and wide.
My whole being felt smooth and supported.
A strange loneliness left me.
After the massage I asked him:
“Can you tell me anything that I could be doing on my own
Until I see you next?”
“When we began, your leg was pretty much empty and dark inside. After we worked together, it now registers as ‘dim’.
It scared me when he said that.
WHERE IS THE LIFE IN MY LEG?
And yet.. I participated in just a short hour’s worth of work
And felt the shift
Of light / life / love come in.
It was not a pill.
Nor was it a panacea.
We PAY attention,
Which has always been in our bank account.
Endless supplies, it seems.
We get what we pay for.
I am quite sure that my eagerness to wake up most mornings
And the blessing of an attitude of curiosity
And general gratitude
Even though I could call my life ‘tough’,
Is the threshold to HEALING;
Whatever that ‘looks’ like.
My attention is directed toward a lightness of being
Rather than the dark emptiness I sensed in my leg.
I can tell you in all honesty
That if I hung out for long enough
In that dark place
I would die.
I don’t have the luxury of messing around with other forms of currency.
Attention is ‘IT’ for me now.
I either refine my abilities in this arena
Or I will lie down
And not get up.
You see: it is all a choice.
I CHOOSE LIFE.
I CHOOSE LIFE.
I CHOOSE LIFE.
Popularity and Choice
“RENAISSANCE” (detail), 2008, 10′ x 4′, naturally pigmented earth, waterproof MDF
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When I married a number of years ago,
In preparation for the day
There were choices to be made.
One of the most challenging for me
Was deciding
Who I REALLY wanted there.
It was effortful because I was changing;
Beginning to make decisions from an authentic place
Instead of an ‘expected’ one.
Like: “I should invite this person because she’s so-an-sos’- mother.
I am using this example because as I look back
Some of my decisions were unpopular.
But, the thing is:
I felt infinitely more free
To sink into the day.
Today, I am more practiced at choosing for myself
And I don’t really care
That those choices register as unpopular on occasion.
How, actually do I choose, these days?
Really, it is an innate trust of my body;
DOES THIS DECISION FEEL RIGHT?
Is this decision generated from my mind?
If so… Cathy: try again.
I often close my eyes and let myself sink into the bottom of my belly.
I try to do what it takes to bypass my brain and even my heart.
When I get my consciousness there
I ask the question again
And FEEL the answer.
Often it surprises me,
Or disappoints me,
Or inspires me,
Or scares me, even.
This intelligence I can now tap into at will
Is the one I trust with every cell of me.
Do I always listen? No.
Is my choice always correct? No.
Do I consistently do what it takes to get there? No.
Do I care what you’ll think of me when I act on this decision I’ve just made? Sometimes.
I am a work in progress.
My life is now my art.
I make a ‘mark’ here
And see if it feels right.
If not, I just take the liberty
Of painting over that mark
And beginning again.
And I walk (figuratively speaking) on..
Utterly enchanted by the colors I choose.
Smolder Factor
“LINE IN THE SAND”, 40″ x 30″, 2003, m/m
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I was listening to the radio this morning
As someone talked about survival of the fittest.
I hear that phrase and am continually thrown
Into the tired inquiry:
“Am I fit?”
On the evolutionary scale, is someone like me meant to drop to the side of the road
Because I am unable to keep up in the physical realms?
Well… no.
Period.
Honestly, somebody has got to change these litmus tests we use
To decide who has got worth
And who is not worth the effort.
Today, that someone will just have to be me.
Tell me that your heart is not changed and better
For having witnessed this.
Really, I ask you:
Do you think these people have ‘fitness’
In a way most of us have never even come close to?
I am calling it: ‘THE SMOLDER FACTOR”
Because it isn’t an ‘in your face’ kind of thing at all
But it has the heat
And sort of slow, transformative quality
That gets at ‘ya
When you least expect it.
If you get in there
And really FEEL those people
Can you tell me you’d leave them
By the side of the road
Without knowing in the bottom of your stomach
You missed some sort of treasure
For which there is no name?
Vulnerability
“WHITE TREE”, 2001, 11″ x 11″ x 4″, m/m
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We hear the word ‘vulnerable’
And we wish we hadn’t.
In the deep recesses of our smaller selves
We value power and control
Over communion.
We ARE vulnerable creatures…
Descended from the great apes who had what it took to survive,
We are standing here, now
With only the barest snippet
Of the fur they depended on for warmth.
Because we don’t need it.
Gone are the food gathering skills
And the ‘you stay with me, kid’ uber-nurturing
As well as the intricate tribal intelligence
It took to live so closely together
In peace.
Here we all stand (albeit with a wobble in my case)
Looking so confident
And secure.
And then….
Some THING happens
That shatters the thin sheen
Of manufactured order
We banked on lasting forever.
All of a sudden..
WE ARE IN NEED!!!!
Our shiny costuming
Is dragging through the mud
And we can’t remember the word
For: “HELP!”
Standing there, mute,
By the side of the road,
We let all the cars go by
As we hide in the bushes.
We stay there,
Wet and hungry
Until we are forced to step forward.
With every ounce of pride
Finally dissolved
And replaced by humility,
Someone altogether changed
And so very lovely
Approaches the highway
And asks for a ride.
Choice (re-post)
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Part of upcoming book: “GOOD MEDICINE”
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