Somewhere Special
monoprint, 1996, 22″ x 30″
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Last evening another fire broke out near Santa Fe.
Actually, this one is so close to Los Alamos Lab that they began evacuating voluntarily.
“Been here. Done this… ” they must be thinking.
A wildfire came dangerously close to the Lab a few years ago.
Last evening brought all eyes to the sky
As we saw ourselves smack in the middle of fires burning all around us.
30,000 foot plumes of smoke
From our precious
And now toasted
Forests.
And a small patch of blue
Just above Santa Fe.
One could almost smell the panic
Beginning to grab hold
Of Santa Feans used to basking
In the sweet fantasy
That we live in a ‘protected’ place here in central New Mexico.
By ‘protected’ I mean: “Nothing can hurt us because this is a SPECIAL place.”
Honestly… I am not sure there is room for the idea of ‘specialness’ anymore.
By way of this shared experience of
The impossibly blue skies of Santa Fe
Rendered sooty and roiling with smoke,
We begin to feel not so special after all…
As we stand there in the middle of the dirt road
With neighbors we’d never met
A sense of connection arrives
And we are surprised
At the gift of it.
The Very Sight of You
detail of monoprint
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Seeing as we all are having a challenging time
Finding our way through the threshold at hand,
I often find an odd sort of peace
When I look at crop circles.
The religion of rationality
Isn’t really cutting it, is it?
Don’t get me wrong, here…
I’m all for the solace of order.
It feeds me. Keeps me grounded.
Inspires me. Taunts me.
I say ‘taunt’ as an ‘ordered’ existence is not my natural state.
I get caught in thinking I ‘should’ do this-n-that
Because, culturally speaking, we seem to have chosen the linear mind
As our favorite.
It is essential to me, sure.
But not to the point of exclusivity.
We really can’t afford to be exclusive on any front anymore.
The strange sense of hope,
Confusion and wonder
I get when I look at the perfection of geometric etchings
In the barley fields of a distant farmer
Help me to open
Into ‘something other’ that what I know.
And for that chink in my societal armor
I am grateful.
What, Exactly Is Creativity?
monoprint, 1991, 22″ x 30″
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A friend asked me this question recently.
It hooked me and hasn’t let go so I thought I’d write about it
Without looking at what anyone else had to say before I began.
Does this topic (or the myriad others I choose)
Have anything to do with MS?
Healing Through MS DEMANDS a holographic point-of-view (is that a non-sequitur?)
For me, creativity is a wash.
I mean: ‘something other’ washes over me, through me, into me
And my mind is like a nest.
All it has to do is get out of the way
And let the eggs laid there, hatch.
The man who asked me this question
Is a plumber-writer.
He has lived his life following the instruction book.
It scares him not to.
He wants to know how not to feel afraid of the unknown where Creativity lives.
The thing is… there is no instruction booklet
If one desires access into where originality, genius, healing occur.
We are alone there.
Takes some moxie to even entertain the thing.
We must love our own company.
To sit still and ask:
“Where am I drawn to go?
Who am I drawn to see?
What mark wants to be made now?”
And then REALLY LISTEN and RISK ACTION.
It tends to be a solitary road, this creative life.
It needs space and forgiveness and fuel for the fire
Because it has nothing to do with a manufactured life.
An INSPIRED life is full of the unknown.
In fact, that is the very foundation of it:
There is NO SOLID GROUND TO STAND ON!
I am always trying to find my sea legs
And it looks wonky in so many ways…
But the thing that continues to wash over and through me
Is nothing less
Than my reason for waking up.
Damsel Ephemera
1991, monoprint, 30″ x 22″
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One of the best feelings in life
According to Cathy
Is the knowledge I have truly been HEARD.
And ‘heard’ without the filter of another’s desire or expectation about they WANT or NEED to hear..
I’ve spoken here, about my love of dragonflies.
Recently, a dear friend and I sat at a table together
And he presented me with a box.
I opened it and found a fossil
Of a DAMSEL FLY;
100 million years old found in Brazil.
The delicate, glassy wings
And her small, lively little body
Imprinted in limestone
For me
To appreciate
100 million years later.
Makes one stop to think:
What impression do I think I will leave
As my tailing…
To be held, perhaps,
By some curious and maybe wonderstruck creature
100 million years from now?
Will my essence be revealed
There, in the limestone?
Will my bones reveal my strength
And fragility?
My desires?
My dreams?
When I hold this fossil in my hand
The sense of time evaporates
And an almost unbearable intimacy
Rushes in
To suggest
That the purpose
Of this whole ‘thing’
May very well be
What seems at first like the small act
Of noticing GOoDNESS.
Losing It
untitled, 20″ x 20″, 1999.m/m
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This is so good to read out loud:
KINDNESS
By Naomi Shahib Nye
Before you know what kindness really is
You must lose things,
Feel the future dissolve in a moment
Like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
What you counted and carefully saved,
All this must go so you know
How desolate the landscape can be
Between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride…
Thinking the bus will never stop
And the passengers eating maize and chicken
Will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
You must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
Lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
How he too was someone
Who journeyed through the night with plans
And the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
You must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till you voice
Catches the thread of all sorrows
And you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
Only kindness that ties your shoes
And sends you out into the day to mail letters,
And purchase bread,
Only kindness that raises its head
From the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for
And follows you everywhere
Like a shadow or a friend.
Red Saab Sun-Fun
“EVENING”, 2000, 11″ x 11″, m/m
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One of my favorite things to do is drive around New Mexico and look at stuff.
My friend has a Saab convertible.
The three of us (one chihuahua) went exploring yesterday.
We stopped to buy fresh cherries.
Spit the pits out as we went.
Sank into long silences.
Swooned over seeing that our beloved river, the Rio Grande, was still there
Considering it is burnt toast dry ’round here.
We found dirt roads that whispered “Come this way”
And we listened.
We saw some cool and creepy stuff
That will get woven into stories years from now.
I love my friend.
But not enough to have him watch me pee at the side of the road.
So I kept sending him off into the wilderness with the dog
While I supported myself on the side of the red Saab.
What I am about to tell you is the mark of a truly good friend.
This may be too much information so consider clicking off right here..
Peeing in the wilderness is a really satisfying activity in my book.
It has the taut quality of;
“Hurry, Hurry! Someone may come!”
But also, birds are singing and the pine needles are fragrancing
And you just look around
And appreciate the scenery.
Following ‘THE CROUCH”
One needs to arise once more…
And I could not.
I was humbled beyond any cool cover
And yelled for my friend.
He is strong.
And laughed at the whole predicament.
Then he helped me up- the girl with her pantaloons down..
All I could say was “LIFE IS SO WEIRD”.
And the three of us continued on our journey.
I got too much sun.
And I am glad.
I Got humbled.
And then I wasn’t anymore.
I got space in my heart from the land, the company,
The impossibly fresh air.
Space in my heart.. Space in my heart..
SPACE…………..
The River Enterer
detail of monoprint
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My life has been filled with taking the path less trodden.
These choices I’ve made come with costs, to be sure.
I can’t seem to stop leaving the house without a map.
Why is this?, I ask myself.
There are easier ways.
Paths with porta-potties along a manicured and tended forest trail..
But I seem to find it more interesting
To crawl over that boulder (metaphorically speaking)
To see what’s on the other side.
You see- I am bored by what I know!
Which makes the shadows and unknown terrain
My friends.
Sometimes I wish for a palanquin;
Because I can no longer go
All the places that call me.
I might surprise you
One day,
Phoning you up
To take hold
Of a corner of the thing…
My curiosity
Grabbing me by the scruff
Of my neck,
Stretched taut
At a whiff
Of a white flower
Over there,
Beyond my grasp.
Healing THROUGH MS ???
“WOMAN BECOMING”, 2000, 5′ x 3′, m/m
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Why did I title this blog: “HEALING THROUGH MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS” ?
I began writing posts two years ago.
I wanted to create a forum which approached illness from the perspective of a journey
Complete with the grit and with emphasis on the GRACE part of the ride.
It is selfish, really..
I want an interesting life
And so…
MS interests me.
I use it as my spiritual path.
“HEALING”, for me, is the absence of desiring ‘other’.
To get there means being in partnership with this ‘thing’:
Not loving it but not hating it, either.
The more I need (read: need not want) it to be gone
The less energy I have to live.
In the process of attempting to look MS in the face
Without tightening my jaw in defense,
I am becoming more.
I judge less (self and other).
I am grateful more often.
I am less desirous of ‘stuff’.
I am quicker to forgive.
I love deeper.
I am present to my sorrow more.
It excites me.
And feels lonely, sometimes.
I am weak.
And I am strong.
Actually, MS has given me the ultimate ticket
Into the possibility
Of a life informed by Spirit
As opposed to The Culture.
I feel the chasm growing.
Between Me and The Cathy I Thought I Was.
This one is far more appealing.
To me, at least.
And, finally…
That right there is the gold.
Maya Angelou
“DEEP NIGHT”, 5′ x 4′, 1985, pigment on wool flannel
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I love Maya.
Everything about her;
Her GRACE, wisdom, compassion, fierce loyalty to her beliefs in the innate goodness of people, the fact she does not let people who practice false modesty remain in her home because she wants to be around those who know their gifts and are unapologetic about them…
Here is a gift for her:
.
A POEM FOR MAYA ANGELOU –
THE GREAT WAVE
Big.
Booming.
Blooming
Blackness.
A wave born somewhere
With no name
We know.
SHE RISES.
In the impossibly dark,
Irresistable dark
Curl of the wave;
HER
Stray hairs mixed with moonlight,
Damp and unruly
Tended by MOON;
We had to wait
Until we were ready
To bear
HER BLACKNESS
With NO thought
Of turning away.
The Mystery
Did not yet speak
A familiar language
To us
And
We were afraid.
***
She rode that wave
In the rise
And the FALL
Until
We could hear her,
Approach Her
To ask Her forgiveness
For our tardy
Arrival.
Perhaps the secrets
That came
With those roiling and watery waves
SHE rode
Would stick
To us
Like pollen.
And we
Could try
Once again
To LOVE.
Only
Better now.
****
That VOICE -
Holder of each
And EVERY sound
Ever sung,
Is too big for us.
The largest part
We know
Of ourselves
Stuck in our throat
When SHE speaks.
We are yet young.
Our balance
On the surfboard
Wobbly,
At best.
We Do
Keep going…
Out.
Further out.
Testing
Our
New
Skills
On
The Wave.
SHE,
All ready
At the shore,
Guiding us
Safely in.
***
The salve
Which
SHE IS:
Made of whispers
And crooked,
Beckoning fingers
Is
Inviting
All of Us
Into that dark
Of Mystery
And a dawn
-With new air and birdsong.
Rather
Like to a tea party
Fit for royalty (Us).
The manual
For sweet change
Is to read
Between the lines
Of
Her life. Her breath.
Poetry,
HIGH
Wisdom
And impossibly precious threads
Of The Tapestry
Ready
To Be
Worked.
Our summons:
Handwritten
By HER
To roll
And s-p-r-e-a-d
On to the beach
At Dawn.
(but not alone as She had to.)
***
She asks us
Never to lose sight
Of the rightness
Running in the blood
Of those who took
The ‘us’
Out of RIGHT ous NESS.
We should look,
(I think she would say)
For our tribe;
They’re home
May well be hidden.
Down some scrubby, dusty path
Traveled by few.
But find them
We must.
***
We will
All
Begin
Crafting a spanking new
Stepping stone path
With Her pearls
And Grace
And impossibly large
And ready
Smile
Decorating
Our New
Host
Of meeting rooms
Open to those
REAL – ly
Ready
To ride
The Great Wave.
.
.
.CA 2011
My Radio Interview
“SWIMMING”, 5′ x 5′, 1985, pigment on wool flannel
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Here is a podcast of my recent radio interview with the fabulous Desiree Cox, MD.
This is something different than the recent talk I did in Santa Fe
But I thought you might like to have a listen.
It is an hour long and works in bits and pieces if you haven’t the time for the whole deal..
We had fun.