Sky
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..
Church Ladies
detail of ceramic sculptures, 1995
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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.
Eclipse
untitled, 2003, 11″ x 11″ x 4, m/m
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Tomorrow we have a lunar eclipse to look forward to.
I am peripherally interested in astrology and those guys say: “TRUST CHANGE.”
Well, I’m pretty dang tired of change these days, truth be told.
My nights and days are full of giving myself grief over undone life things like messy closets and projects and bills and phone calls and unwashed dishes and dry cleaning needing to be picked up.
Yes, there are meadows dotted with wildflowers and bunnies scattered in the midst of my days.
Sleep used to be a respite but lately, even those realms are tainted.
Oddly, I am finishing up a book proposal and the writing of it is the solace in my life at the moment.
That and a flirty-thing going on.
Sometimes I want to throw in the towel.
But I haven’t the strength to make the toss.
Pathetic but real.
This season of change we are ALL INSIDE is horrible.
And necessary.
And anger-provoking.
And patience-making.
I hate change.
And I need it.
We all need it.
Sometimes, I feel as if my body acts as a little microcosm of the out-in-the-world frustrations of collapse and rebuilding.
I am tired.
So very tired.
But we don’t have a choice.. not a one of us.
We get up and handle the stuff shoveled our way.
Make a neat pile or toss it in a messy heap.
The key seems to be action.
No matter how large or small.
It acts like a ballot put in the voting box of LIFE, I think.
So, today, with this small act of writing my truth, I cast my vote for life.
God, give me the strength to keep moving through my day and participating at a healthy and vibrant level.
And forgive me if I can’t.
Secret Color
When I was living in Boston in the 80’s, I worked as a textile designer for my company called BETES de COULEUR (Beast of Color).
We sold very expensive hand-painted mens and women’s wear.
We didn’t sell too many actually, so the life of the business was short.
But we did do great stuff.
And got oodles of good press.
We made things like this robe from a vast and filthy loft in a bad part of town.
It was a very alive place, that loft.
My partner loved heavy metal music and I learned to tune it out and hunker down in my area focused on color and pattern and dye and brushes and color…
I have always known how to create my own world.
Initially out of necessity and then as I got older, out of necessity again.
This robe is the last remaining piece from our collections.
It hangs in my closet.
I love how it just looks like a fairly plain blue robe until you open it up.
In my own life these days I watch how I am very judicious about when and with whom I show my own colors.
I used to splash them around all over the place.
SEE ME! SEE ME!!
Invisibility? NO! … SEE ME!
How funny that these days invisibility is not an option as I wobble around town with my walker and wheelchair.
Not really funny but how weird that life has given me what I wanted.
The thing is that I now choose very consciously where and with whom I show my colors.
They are hard won and precious.
There is nothing about me that even resembles splashy these days.
But I am not without the spontaneity of a water balloon toss..
It’s just that it isn’t an everyday event.
You never can tell when the wind might catch the hem of my robe and turn it such that you think you see color but aren’t at all sure that you saw anything at all.
Hectic Heart
untitled, 22″ x 30″, 1992, monoprint
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It is scarily hot here.
For too long now.
Yesterday I got caught without any liquids with me and stopped into the golden arches for an iced tea.
They were a beacon of light when I saw them there.. I was beyond thirst and heading into MS heat shutdown fast.
So, I waited in the drive thru but it was lunchtime and too many others were there with me in line.
I felt myself crossing over into ‘borderline-human’ status as the heat worked on me.
I start to hate everyone and my tolerance level hit zero.
Finally, with oversized cup in hand I pull away toward the exit.
There are cars coming and going at an alarming rate; they’ve got a mini window of time for lunch and they NEED it BAD.
And so.. mayhem ensues as each is out for themselves; getting into line FAST!
I’m waiting there at the exit to try to do just that.. EXIT this damn place and get what I need: peace and liquids in me.
BUT NNNNNNNOOOOOOO…
NO ONE WILL LET ME EXIT.
I can’t get out of there.
Panic peeks around the corner with a knife in her hand, a very ugly mask and my heartbeat runs too fast.
I call up a smidgeon of humaneness and say a prayer of pure supplication: “Dear God.. Please have someone see that I have to get out of this parking lot immediately and let me go before them. Please let civility be alive and present.”
And there it was… the miracle at McDonalds.. a white (of course) Honda with dark glazed windows paused to let me leave.
Somehow, when angels appear to help, we never seem to get to identify them so a proper thank you can pass between us.
They appear, then they’re gone on their way to help another needy human.
I pulled onto a shady street and drank down my iced tea and felt the slow return of my sanity.
I finally remembered myself and was glad.
And there was peace and a quiet and grateful heart.
Woman Becoming
“WOMAN BECOMING”, 6′ x 45″, m/m
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This is likely the most pivotal piece of art I ever created.
I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to create that day and this arrived unbidden.
I was a little afraid..
The process of bringing her to form was tumultuous and other-worldly as I lost touch with time and place and just stepped out of the way.
My intention that day was to create a wedding gift for my husband to be I was to marry in the next few months.
Having set that purpose it was up to me to set all ego based wanting to the side and watch to see what wanted to come forward.
She was so insistent and fierce and vulnerable at the same time.
The piece took my breath away as it was nothing like anything I had ever created before.
My husband loved it and we both enjoyed her company for the years we remained married.
When we divorced he generously asked if I’d like her back.
I look at this photo of her and see the giant red schism running down her middle and the fact she has no discernable legs.
She was so much wiser than I at the time.. the bride- to-be enchanted by endless wooing with fine wine and status gleaned from the attentions of the company president.
I slipped so terrifyingly easily into the ’serve-your-man’ job description.
I entertained with sparkly dinner tables and took second seat as he attempted to sell his business.
I lost my legs.
Forgive me if it sounds as if I am blaming him.
That, certainly is a seductive road.
But the truth be told, the schism was ‘Cathy created” pure and anything but simple.
How weird is it that now, as I have MS as my companion, I get my legs back?
In reality, each day I seem to lose a bit more muscle strength.
They are untrustable, my legs.
But the ground I’ve covered since way back when!
Now, THAT takes my breath away!
And she was all the wiser, that girl who appeared as the unbidden wedding gift..
All raw and halved and yet-to-be-formed.
Such a gorgeous gift she was. IS.
Her voice still, to this day, sings to me. A whispered reminder.
Authority of Descent
“MAYA”, 1998, 5′ x 3′, m/m
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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.
Hardwired
“THE ROAD”, 1984, 3″ x 5″, pigment on wool flannel
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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.
Bellybutton
detail of sculpture
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A contemplative life could very well appear as navel gazing.
As my large installation-creating abilities drop away they are being replaced by an inward turn.
My nature has always been such that I wonder and muse and put my attention on systems.
Oftentimes those systems are things like this: how does all the produce sold at a grocery store get from the plot of farmland to the truck to the right road to the warehouse to the packager to the store to the right isle?
Stuff like that.
It is just the way my mind works. Loving the connections hidden from us that get the trains where they should be at the right time, all shiny and ready to take us where we want to go.
I find it intriguing.
These days, going in like I am, I look in directions like these: What actually creates health? What is a rich life? Is this what God feels like? Why do I get this weird feeling when I am with this one person? I feel crummy this morning. Is it something I ate or something I thought or something that belongs to someone else? My heart is wide and open here but protected and armored in this circumstance. Why?
You think about things like these which at the outside seem self indulgent, but as answers start coming clearer, guideposts appear for a thriving existence.
All the dross of a me-centric life starts shifting toward a BE-centric one.
It seems to start out like an endless array of self-centric psyche-diving but somehow along the way it moves into a wide and open place where I start leaving the ME behind.
I feel it beginning to happen and the solace of it keeps me riveted.
My ‘ME’ was/is so damn jam packed with ‘other-than-space’ that the little I’m privy to at the moment is very, very good medicine.
I guess the thing that is getting me here is the call to follow a particular system of thought, being, doing and keep following like a perfect dance partner.. giving myself over to the slight brush of a thigh or a pressure directing me left and moving into a turn and then a titillating pause..
When I think of it like that; as a call to follow rather than an ego based decision to do this or that, I see it is God’s language that is the main event and I am rapt with intrigue at the thing unveiling itself.
The Journey
untitled, 1992, 30″ x 22″, monoprint
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I surprise myself sometimes that I still have the core of faith at my center.
I still love this precious life.
And most of the time I want to stick around.
I probably would not be so keen if the whole theater of the thing wasn’t still entertaining.
These days though, I watch from my witness perch and it is too often dark out there.
Out in the world, sure, but closer to home as well.
But is this bad?
I sense it is all part of the plan and my job is to stand for what I stand for, make a good life and handle my own inner violence.
Flip flop..flip flop.. change happens so how shall we hold it?
It embarrasses me that my inner terrain is not more even.
The GREAT DAY of yesterday has slipped into another costume as days are wont to do..
Often, when sense is out of reach, I go here, to Mary Oliver’s work:
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The Journey- by Mary Oliver
.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.