Re-Solve

detail,hand-painting on wool

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When I think of “resolution”

Like many of us do at this time of year

The word seems hard and one I don’t actually feel like approaching.

I never keep my word to myself, anyway, in the way of resolutions and feel like a failure.

Wondering how I could use this potent time of the beginning of a new year

And have an intention I’d feel eager about holding and continually re-visiting

I came up with this:

Create an IMAGE in my mind instead of a list of words which would be a symbol for the feelings and emotions I wish to evoke

That hopefully will translate to action.

Just musing about this idea brought forth an image of me;

Standing (no wheelchair) dressed in a butter yellow swirly ball gown (the kind a competitive ball room dancer would wear. I have always had the secret dream of being such…),

My shoulders thrown back as well as my head, arms outstretched in a totally undefended stance.

When I hold this image in my mind I FEEL what the essence of it carries: balance, athleticism, confidence, joy, faith, creativity, trust, Spirited.

Life.

Capital “L”.

This is the “ME” I will be living into this year.

Happy New Year fellow life-wanderers.

In the face of so much ugliness may we do our best to make and share a bit of the beauty we are.

The Sacred and the Profane

detail, monoprint

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I may be the last person on earth to have seen the film BAD SANTA

But last night was my night to actually laugh A LOT in that rare, ugly and involuntary way;

The kind that hurts so good.

Now, this film, with Billy Bob Thornton is pretty much in the profane lane

Until you get to the end

Which is worth it.

I love to swear.

I find it extremely therapeutic

And a medicine I rely on

In these times of woe.

During the holidays in Santa Fe it is a challenge to meander down the sidewalk without getting slimed by someones’ family drama having escaped.

Emma looks askance at me when I swear

But I experience an immediate cleanse, physically and emptionally

And then can come back in to enjoy the holiday festivities.

My coarse exclamations are as bad a girl as I get

And so I enjoy them thoroughly when they appear unannounced.

My God.. I could be a heroin addict or thief

But I have settled in on unapologetic cursing.

I feel these exclamations must be brought forward with commitment.

No question mark at the end, boys and girls.

Say it and be done!

After such a clearing the nativity is fully populated and all the candles are there in the life-sized menorah on the plaza;

The lights are blessedly lit and my heart returns once again to an un-contracted state; open and primed to receive the gifts of the season.

Here we go—moving from darkness once again into the light.

I Sing

“BIRD”, 2001, 5″ x 4″ x 4″, ceramic

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I SING
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Big.
Black.
Eyes.
Watching
Me.

Ever-present oceans
Of adoration
And also
Fairly gracious
Demands:
“Get a move on, wheelchair girl!!”

Does each
And every
Tree trunk
Play
It’s own personal
Dog symphony?

In her complete silence
Emma is
A potent diplomat.
She instantly shifts all
Discontent;
Granting us a few untainted moments.

If she likes someone
She may
Grant the fortunate
A tiny tail wag
Or even a lick.
Maybe.

Never needy
Or unappreciative
Except
When I move
Away from her
In bed at night.

It is then
I hear a rustle of blanket
And slight adjustment
Until the press
Of her warm back
Meets mine again.

Emma is communion.
A wafer and wine at mass
Don’t hold a candle to her.
Everyday
I open my personally writ hymn book
And sing.
.

– CA.

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Intimate Observation


painting on wool flannel

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The weather has shifted into raw winter here.

Everyone is bundled and puffered.

An occasional muffled greeting escapes layers of protection and meets my ears.

Emma’s face bravely pokes into the wind like the prow of a Viking ship.

As my beloved Santa Fe slips into the holidays

The stoic and frozen Native Americans sit very still under the portal presenting their offerings as they always do.

They are so beautiful in their contained presence; the antithesis of what is on the news.

The winter, between holidays, is our local time sans too many visitors

So we can see and feel one another easily.

How do those Indians keep sitting there prettifying a tiny piece of sidewalk real estate with blankets placed perfectly

Bordering their neighbors spread?

Where do they go to the bathroom?

Why do they seldom smile?

Over the years we’ve led our lives near one another with me and Em scoping out the plaza and the mysterious Naive American artists nearby, a few hundred feet away.

It calms me they are always there.

I count on their gravitas.

One time this past summer I had the thought to rise before dawn and spread anonomous rose petals all along the sidewalk where they set up.

Anglos can be mysterious too.

I didn’t do it thinking how they’d have to do the work to clean them up.

We all exist side by side with stories about one another

Or maybe not.

But we share air.

A brief look.

A quarter of a smile.

These seemingly inconsequential ocurrances seem meaningless

Yet, here I am writing of them

Feeling a soft and grateful heart.

We never know how the essence of us affects the world of “other”.

Add in the courage of vulnerability or out-loud recognition of those who matter;

Up your game to half a smile

And add a “Hi”

POOF! You got a community.

The Wave

I dropped my head this morning with a sigh

As I read that TIME MAGAZINE has voted the women

Who have bravely thrown open the shutters

And told their truth regarding past sexual abuse; THE SILENCE BREAKERS people of the year.

Is it any wonder 90% of autoimmune disorders (MS, Chrone’s,RA, ALS) are experienced by women?

Autoimmunity is the action of the body attacking its’ self.

What do we all imagine happens inside us as we continually shrink to fit

As I have done most of my life.

My storyline began at birth changing myself around to wrangle some love from a depressed mother.

From there I went on to do things like stay silent while Les McCANN, a jazz musician of note, fondled my crotch in a pressing crowd while I asked him for an autograph for my boyfriend.

It was an expensive gift.

I stayed silent.

My boyfriend was overjoyed.

In my 30’s I was raped in Boston.

A young black man stole into my apartment.

My eternal hero, Detective Joe Lally, pieced together obscure clues and caught the guy.

As I testified in court I understood my voice was very important; I would make it through this horrifying experience-keep it together..speak through my walking-deadness

Because I knew that my voice that day represented all the legions of women who could not, would not speak.

The rapist was sentenced to 27 years in prison and died there a few years ago.

My hero, Joe, called to tell me of his death.

The backround fear I carried in the bottom of my stomach left.

I remember years ago when the wave of feminism was gaining and bras were burned in a potent but fairly messy swing of the pendulum.

Change happens this way.

A critical mass is reached.

The pendulum swings waaaaayyy over to one side and then, in time, we integrate that very change achieving balance.

Courage is contagious.

I am going to let this sacred wave of change wash away all the self-judgement, shame, silence, containment, stasis and the lost and weary undernourished dragon in me I left out in the cold so long ago.

I think I shall invite her in and tell her I am sorry for shutting her up so many times that her fire almost disappeared.

I will listen. Wipe her tears and polish her scales that I never let her use to protect me.

I will tell her it was too dangerous to allow her presence to be known.

We can share some tequila, maybe.

She will be my teacher.

My blood has cooled to a dangerous degree and I will let her gently warm me with her fire.