Before dawn I throw crumpled clothes on and, out of habit and desire, put some lipstick on.

I smile at my dog’s high-velocity tail and strap on her leash.

I unplug my wheelchair from the charger and sit down.

I wheel over and open the door to ‘out there.’

It rained just a tidbit last night and so the air meets me like a lover; soft, mysterious, full, inviting.

I love the half-dark.

The colors are dimmed, the air quality elevated and chilled and perfumed.

Songs are begun and ended on cues I can’t know from treetops and under tangled brush.

My breath slows.

My brow and jaw let go into original softness.

My dog feels the release in the loosened grip on her leash.

The wheels of my secondhand chair make a sort of tired but bearable sound.

I breathe.

And pray.

And breathe some more.

There seems to be enough.. right here in this moment.

I am full.

Of nothing.

This piece is made from sand collected from many beaches.

I have always liked the juxtaposition of chaos and order.

In this case, the idea of tiny grains of sand from various places; tossed in the waves for God knows how many eons and then introducing the geometry on top of that.

It soothes me, somehow.

And so, I wonder how this thread of order and not which shows up in my work so often makes itsself known in my life?

Well, the chaos part is pretty self-evident.

It starts with an M and ends with an S.

The order is the interesting element because I seem to fight it in many ways but see that it is essential for a sense of wholeness for me.

I’m feeling too vulnerable this morning to list all the areas out of order in my life at the moment but suffice it to say they are there.

…and there..

…and there…

What I am drawing attention to this morning is the solace that seems to come from the presence of the two.

Together, they are life-supporting. Chaos and order.

I’m going to wobble over there and clean up my desk…

If I were forced to choose a time in my life that I hold most dear it would be my high school years at Cranbrook.

In truth, my name was called each morning in classes across the lake at KINGSWOOD, the girl’s school part of the educational community.

But I likely was not there to answer.

I was given the gift of an education at Cranbrook by my grandmother.

A number of my ancestors names were carved (legally) in the halls of both schools upon graduation.

The Cranbrook Community is a rarified piece of real estate; both of the mind and the earthen kind.

I will write more about my time there another day but I woke this morning thinking about Jonah’s Pool.

The pack I ran with were boys, mostly.

Smart and sassy, irreverent and intense.

I loved them. Love them still.

They saved me but they likely don’t know that.

We laughed and cut class and smoked pot and walked around the grounds at Cranbrook in the process of becoming the men and women we are today.

We just looked around at things.. life.. and took note. We were too high to put the pieces together back then but later on in life we did.

It was the finest backstory you could ever imagine.

Jonah’s Pool was dark. And surrounded on all sides by green. And BIG! And in off hours, private.

It served as a swimming pool for the boarding students, teachers and all those associated with Cranbrook.

It felt like a secret place as you walked through the glade and the big, black water opened up in front of you.

I was too depressed most of the time in high school.

That pool gave me freedom as I crept through the green gates of hedge in the half light of Michigan evenings.

I scanned the still water and if I found no one there, I left my clothes on the bank and dove into the dark.

I never quite knew what was under that water.

Could have been anything.

But the mystery and surrender of the dive called me and I kept listening over the years.

It was medicine, that water.

A private reverie.

A grand erasure.

And I was new.

And I was new.

Today, so many years past, here in the desert, I remember.

The skies here look a bit like this at dawn.

There are a few wildfires burning close by and the monsoons have made their entry with a suitcase full of cloud formations.

My dog presses close in as thunder wreaks havoc.

And I shut my eyes to smell the sweetness of dampened blacktop and fat sage.

Twice this morning I’ve written what felt like good and solid words here.

And twice their lives were cut short.

It is a sign I need simplicity and spareness as my medicine today.

I will share it with you..

My girlfriend has a 10 year old son.

He wanted to go to church.

She, not being ‘organized religion savvy’ looked on the internet for Santa Fe possibilities. (Good techie mom she is..)

The UNITARIAN-UNIVERSALIST people won.

Yesterday, I went too.

I usually am really put off by the initial barrage of false-feeling, bug eyed strangers heading in my direction as I walk into a church for the first time.

‘She has done this before’, you say….

Yes. I am drawn to ritual. I like the feeling of singing with others. I do enjoy a bit of faith-en-mass.

Incense, candlelight, humility and hope and mystery seem like good companions sometimes.

Yesterday, I was surprised by sincerity.

No push to join the group.

No one asked for my vitals.

Just a bunch of regular folks setting aside some precious time to come together and turn their hearts toward something other than themselves.

Homage to the ‘larger than us’ we tend to tuck away at the back of the drawer.

I loved sitting with my friend.

We judged people.

(We talked about this later)

And we sang.

My voice was so small. I took note of that.

We all sat in the midst of the tailings of a theater performance the church had put on; painted scenery and make-shift changing rooms and other flotsom from the previous night.

The only real prop added to the actual service was a chalice with a candle and flame in the center.

All the makings of a very human existence were well represented and had a place reserved for them: sorrow, hope, meditation, voice, order, chaos, questions and there were even a few answers.

I was left with the calm and pleasure in my friends company.

And the strangers who I didn’t need to armor myself against.

I liked the whole thing a lot and may go back.

So precious this human journey as we try to make sense of it all.

I feel the need here to tell my version of a church I’d love to attend:

Gospel choir.. very black and sort of wild, the event held in a wood down a secret path somewhere in the high desert at dusk or dawn, rocks and hay bales for chairs, a 10 year old kid next to me and a Native American teenager on the other side. No words read from any book. A chance to speak if moved to do so. Flowers, flowers everywhere. Animals, animals everywhere. Unlikely characters pouring out of the half-dark. And at the center of it all just a simple fire. And the unmistakable presence of the ‘all-that-is.’ And the sound would be one I had never, ever heard before. And everyone I have ever loved or ever wanted to would be there.

Amen.

I remember being on vacation once and the sea tossed me hard and long as I scraped the bottom and lost track of the direction I needed to go in to breathe.

I was down there too long and suddenly I realized I no longer needed breath; I was absolutely fine. More than fine.

When I did make it up for air I thought: “Did I breathe underwater? What the hell just happened here?”

I never did answer that question.

I think because the mystery of it all was bigger than the urge to have an answer that was right.

I see now it was a dollop of grace.

One I’ve used repeatedly over the years since.

There are those of us with the draw to dive deep.

No matter what the outcome, we continually go after the pressure that builds and the work it takes to remain conscious as we explore depths unknown to but a few.

Down there we see stuff.

Feel things.

Change to meet the unfamiliar depths.

We resurface different.

Our whole being wraps itself around the challenge of uncharted territory and we push aside the loneliness of each step because we can.

My own proclivity has always been to move toward the deep.

Now, as I have the companionship of a chronic illness it takes me a bit longer to suit up but I continue to dive and be glad of it.

The weight of the illness actually helps me go deeper faster and stay there longer.

Sure, there are hardships to endure and exhaustion; overload of new information, decompression and the constant effort to reacclimate to everyday life as I rejoin the land lovers.

But I still go in. Have to go in. And see what I can effect by doing, thinking, being different.

I think it is worth the effort.

I don’t honestly know how to do it differently.

So should you ever need to know how to breathe underwater, gimme a call and I’ll tell you everything I know.

You’ll likely be disappointed as the stuff I know doesn’t come easy to the telling of it.

But if you close your eyes for a moment you likely can feel a bit of the chill of the deep.

It feels good I’m told, on a hot and humid day.

This piece was done years before I ever came to Santa Fe.

And yet, it has all the elements of my life today in the high desert.

Living here as I do with a good number of Native Americans, I wonder at the presence of what have become recurrent symbols in my art over the years.

Since I can remember, circles and spirals and snakes and the grid as well as obvious layering and ladders have populated my art.

These same symbols are key in the Native world as well.

Earth-worshiping people.

Those for whom intelligence gleaned from the swamp and molecular make up of minerals or the elegant sidewinding of reptiles through barely disturbed grass are their hymns.

The circle keeps calling me.

It has been my most reliable companion over the years.

Do you think that pathetic?

The gift of no beginning, no end…. does that not level the pesky grasping of a thousand Christmases?

Yes indeed… there is some finely orchestrated plan I’m in the middle of.

Something somewhere with a monocle gripped over an eye looking over my list and nicking off trials and tests and bundles of grace and ‘”AHA!’s” as I meander down my road, broken and rebuilt so many times.

I’m so damn glad I heard the directions whispered one day way back when to leave everything I knew for sure behind and get my butt out here to New Mexico.

I plopped myself down smack in the middle of the most interesting of spirals.

It never matters if the direction I move is inward or out along it’s path.. the meal I’m served is always fine tuned to my palate.

And still I am hungry.

Went gallivanting yesterday.

I called an old friend I hadn’t seen in a few years as his relationship with another woman precluded ours.We had separated on good terms but there seemed no room for me in his life after that so I let it be.

I got gutsy the other day and called him up.

I broke our silence recently and called him. I asked if he still wanted to be my friend.

There are people in life with whom I have formed a secure and satisfying bond and neither distance nor time seems to have any effect.

This friend is one of those gifts; too valuable to toss into the corner with an “Oh, well…”

He told me that yes, indeed, he would like to be my friend.

Interestingly, he is in the process of unweaving his prior relationship but I had no notion of picking up where we left off.. I want him solely as my friend.

When I look to my inner circle these days, safety (physical, emotional, spiritual), an ability to see outside ones self, a good dose of irreverence and the capacity to swim in deep waters are hallmarks of those I keep close to me.

I listen to myself say “feeling safe” over and over in my life. What does that mean?

In the case of yesterday it meant that when he drove my car I trusted his skill.

I felt he kept his eye on me all day in an unobtrusive way, watching out for my well being.

We drove away from Santa Fe and felt the static of the city stayed behind us as we found hidden red dirt roads that looked like good picnic possibilities.

He found a great spot but it was over hill and dale and outside my normal comfort zone of navigating my walker.

I started to go into my default “NO.”

He said, “Just piggyback. Grab hold my neck and I’ll carry you.”

At first, I balked but his offer sounded so normal and without any weirdness attached to it that I said ok.

We sat in this great spot by the river for awhile till the bugs got us and decided to find a better spot.

It was time for me to get up from the ground.

I didn’t know how.

Usually, I have something to push up with but not here.

“I don’t know how to do this, ” I say.

We try a number of different solutions and start laughing.

It all felt so natural (almost) and fun.

I finally made it up and piggybacked to the car while squealing like a schoolgirl.

That whole thing felt safe.

I am so damned uses to the gravity of being CAREFUL and truncating my life in so many ways because of disability.

Yesterday helped me see and feel options.

I certainly DID NOT ‘look good’ as I struggled to get to the picnic place or try to stand up.

NOTHING WAS NORMAL.

I have a new normal.

And I saw it can be fun.

In order for me to settle into my new normal, I will keep those around me I feel I can test untried territory with and risk failure AND success.

I know it’s all an inside job but the company one keeps helps open sticky doors.

Most of my art tends toward self portraiture in the sense that I do my best work when I don’t know what I’m doing.

Rather, instead of DECIDING exactly what I think the piece should be I ALLOW it to emerge and in that way I always learn something about myself by letting the work teach me.

Sometimes this happens immediately as I am completing a piece or it could creep up on me years, even decades later.

Certainly, there are themes that have arisen over the years in varying colors and forms.

This is one such theme; that of striated layers with a seed-like form in various states of gestation.

So much of my work has included layering and a sort of hierarchy evident in the obvious ‘below and above’ the horizontal orientation.

What I have learned over these many years intimately entangled in a tempestuous relationship with a chronic illness is that it is all relative.

The climb and the energy output in trying to reach the summit always held such a gleam.

The physical test and the sweat outpour involved in putting one foot still higher on the ladder when the air was too damn thin.

Now, I can’t lift my leg high enough to clear just one measly rung on the thing.

But, funny enough, I am so much stronger.

Not the physical kind at the moment but the sort of strength inherent in the seed; the force that makes us burn through the rocks and weight of earth and keep doing it until we can’t.

And take a rest to gather ourselves gaining strength from the most mundane of things; reviving ourselves with the slow sensuality of water seeping through the dry ground and the impossibly rich smell of ready earth.

And we press on..

These things are my church. This is where I pray.

The small and weak and silent and threadbare..

How loud they have become to my ears.

And how very satisfying their song.

And I press on…