In Visionary summer, I wanted to take a fresh look at my work/art/life plan. For some strange reason I couldn't see anything with my mind's eye. Who do I want to collaborate with, what do I want to create, what do I want to experience? My attempts to dream life into being went nowhere.
How mortifying that Wild Imagination should have failure of imagination!
But it's hard to dream big when we are feeling small. If we are unable to see anything ahead, it's time to see what's right here. I had to look at my anxiety and fears about no money, no support. I had to name my limiting beliefs. I had to face what in me felt hopeless, helpless. I had to be compassionate with these parts in me and agree to coexist peacefully. Maybe you know what I'm talking about.
I also had to let things be. In taking a pause, I got to fill up on reading about, of all things, the genius in each of us that relentlessly shapes our lives. I also had a most profound nature experience: the swift river flowing over immovable me. I understood how I am sculpted beautifully over time by life, like the granite boulders in the wild river's current. I felt grounded, joyful, satisfied. No pressure to do, just the bliss of being present and awake to incredible simple beauty. A day like that just fills my soul.
And now I have to pay attention to unexpected opportunities and support coming along - the days away at the river, a trip to see family and friends, a teaching gig, an inquiry about commissioned art, a new service project. These things pop up most often when I'm at my lowest, as if the Universe is saying: don't give up, keep going.
So that is what I'm doing.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Calling all Amateurs
If you can talk, you can sing. If you can walk, you can dance. - African saying
I love to move spontaneously to music. Someone asked me once if I was once a modern dancer by profession. I had to laugh. I have no innate sense of rhythm. I can't memorize steps. I'm quite clumsy, rather shy, and I don't have abs of steel. I am an amateur. What inspired her to ask must be the way I melt into the pure pleasure of sound and movement. I get transported.
Creative people know and seek numinosity, and we are all creative. Remember the last time you were so absorbed in what you were doing that you lost track of time? You became it -- the sound of your boots on the trail, the colors mixing on the canvas, the lullaby you sing to your child, the tales coming from your inky fingers, the chopping of the vegetables. Numinosity is total presence, being immersed in the moment, feeling fully alive and connected.
Amateurs get a bad rap in a culture that elevates experts above passive, disempowered consumers. But amateurs are lovers, those who follow their bliss, do things purely out of love of this numinosity. Amateurs risk being called nerds or geeks or wannabes, but a person who is passionate about something is a truly alive being.
When we are so absorbed, we soothe our nervous systems, regulate our heart rate and breathing, and get those endorphins flowing. We get happy. And that carries through to the end result.
Imagine a meal cooked by a harried, resentful, burnt out mom who's just rushed home from work. Hear the plates being plonked on the table. See the morose family sitting there. Taste the undigestible obligation. Now envision a potluck whipped together by friends who love to cook. They invent new dishes out of missing ingredients. They sing and dance to their favorite tunes. They are grateful. Totally different experience for those creating the meals and for those dining.
And finally, imagine a meal cooked by rote by a disconnected, bored professional chef. It may look all pretty, but there's no love, no soul. And substitute any profession for 'chef' and you see the negative impact of soulless production.
As an antidote to the endless craving-consuming cycle promoted by our culture, we are each called to be amateur, lovers of...something. Where can you experience the love of the thing you are doing? That's where you can extend happiness and connection in what you offer up. Be brave, be daring. It's amateur hour, in the best sense.
I love to move spontaneously to music. Someone asked me once if I was once a modern dancer by profession. I had to laugh. I have no innate sense of rhythm. I can't memorize steps. I'm quite clumsy, rather shy, and I don't have abs of steel. I am an amateur. What inspired her to ask must be the way I melt into the pure pleasure of sound and movement. I get transported.
Creative people know and seek numinosity, and we are all creative. Remember the last time you were so absorbed in what you were doing that you lost track of time? You became it -- the sound of your boots on the trail, the colors mixing on the canvas, the lullaby you sing to your child, the tales coming from your inky fingers, the chopping of the vegetables. Numinosity is total presence, being immersed in the moment, feeling fully alive and connected.
Amateurs get a bad rap in a culture that elevates experts above passive, disempowered consumers. But amateurs are lovers, those who follow their bliss, do things purely out of love of this numinosity. Amateurs risk being called nerds or geeks or wannabes, but a person who is passionate about something is a truly alive being.
When we are so absorbed, we soothe our nervous systems, regulate our heart rate and breathing, and get those endorphins flowing. We get happy. And that carries through to the end result.
Imagine a meal cooked by a harried, resentful, burnt out mom who's just rushed home from work. Hear the plates being plonked on the table. See the morose family sitting there. Taste the undigestible obligation. Now envision a potluck whipped together by friends who love to cook. They invent new dishes out of missing ingredients. They sing and dance to their favorite tunes. They are grateful. Totally different experience for those creating the meals and for those dining.
And finally, imagine a meal cooked by rote by a disconnected, bored professional chef. It may look all pretty, but there's no love, no soul. And substitute any profession for 'chef' and you see the negative impact of soulless production.
As an antidote to the endless craving-consuming cycle promoted by our culture, we are each called to be amateur, lovers of...something. Where can you experience the love of the thing you are doing? That's where you can extend happiness and connection in what you offer up. Be brave, be daring. It's amateur hour, in the best sense.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Taking a bite out of life
Never eat anything bigger than your head. But if you tend to take on more than you can chew, you might take a lesson from the seagull I saw yesterday. Three starfish arms dangled from his open yellow beak, his lunch stuck mid-swallow.
First he tosses back a large purple red starfish that could do all sorts of wrestling holds on his head. Imagine gulping an octopus the size of a large pizza! A sea star isn't nearly as wily or wiggly as an octopus, but you get the picture. It goes down part way, and immediately the gull must be thinking, "Oh crap! What have I done?" Biter's remorse. We all know that bitter taste.
He tries to swallow. This thing is lodged! He tries again to stretch his neck and swallow, to no avail. To anthropomorphize, maybe embarrassment gives way to a tamped-down panic. "I'm glad none of my friends are around to see this! Just stay cool. Everything's fine. Oh crap!" We who watch this gripping drama through the binoculars start to think this amusement might turn tragic.
The seagull manages to fly to a rock close to us. Those three arms still dangle. "Should I drop it before I choke to death?" Here's a great illustration of how we all on occasion have a hard time Just Letting It Go. Well-trained dogs are smarter than us at times.
He finally lets out a cry that must be distress, and we take heart that his airway isn't totally blocked. Another gull arrives, but does not seem to have any emergency room techniques. He must have eaten already, for he shows no interest in the strange meat.
Now we start to think that the distress call was actually boasting, the gull warning off the newcomer. "Get away, it's mine. All mine!" He easily coughs up the starfish onto the rock, to our great relief.
But no, he will not let it go for even a minute. He pokes at it some more with his beak. After the starfish is tenderized or a better grip is taken, the first seagull tosses back the starfish. Again the three arms dangle. He throws his head back. He does it again and again, and by some miracle the five arms go down. His neck bulges alarmingly with that spiky fist in there.
It's like a Rohrscharch test. Is it perseverance that wins the day? Or being willing to be foolish?
Is it important to do it yourself by trial and error?
Am I taking on something with too many directions?
A friend was sobered that one mis-step could suddenly mean life or death.
I take this away: it's time to be quiet and digest the immense nourishment I've been given. Really receive it.
What do seagull and starfish say to you?
First he tosses back a large purple red starfish that could do all sorts of wrestling holds on his head. Imagine gulping an octopus the size of a large pizza! A sea star isn't nearly as wily or wiggly as an octopus, but you get the picture. It goes down part way, and immediately the gull must be thinking, "Oh crap! What have I done?" Biter's remorse. We all know that bitter taste.
He tries to swallow. This thing is lodged! He tries again to stretch his neck and swallow, to no avail. To anthropomorphize, maybe embarrassment gives way to a tamped-down panic. "I'm glad none of my friends are around to see this! Just stay cool. Everything's fine. Oh crap!" We who watch this gripping drama through the binoculars start to think this amusement might turn tragic.
The seagull manages to fly to a rock close to us. Those three arms still dangle. "Should I drop it before I choke to death?" Here's a great illustration of how we all on occasion have a hard time Just Letting It Go. Well-trained dogs are smarter than us at times.
He finally lets out a cry that must be distress, and we take heart that his airway isn't totally blocked. Another gull arrives, but does not seem to have any emergency room techniques. He must have eaten already, for he shows no interest in the strange meat.
Now we start to think that the distress call was actually boasting, the gull warning off the newcomer. "Get away, it's mine. All mine!" He easily coughs up the starfish onto the rock, to our great relief.
But no, he will not let it go for even a minute. He pokes at it some more with his beak. After the starfish is tenderized or a better grip is taken, the first seagull tosses back the starfish. Again the three arms dangle. He throws his head back. He does it again and again, and by some miracle the five arms go down. His neck bulges alarmingly with that spiky fist in there.
It's like a Rohrscharch test. Is it perseverance that wins the day? Or being willing to be foolish?
Is it important to do it yourself by trial and error?
Am I taking on something with too many directions?
A friend was sobered that one mis-step could suddenly mean life or death.
I take this away: it's time to be quiet and digest the immense nourishment I've been given. Really receive it.
What do seagull and starfish say to you?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Polishing our Edges
Many of us are lone rangers longing for community, yet wary of being swallowed up by a group. I enjoy my solo time and working one-on-one with people. Yet a deep longing for belonging keeps me joining circles just to learn how to be in community.
My teaching partner Dan has concluded that every group, no matter what the stated common goal, is really about learning how to be oneself in a group. Spiritual teacher and right livelihood guide Rick Jarow goes on to say that work itself may be just an elaborate excuse for us to mend our common karma. My biodynamic craniosacral therapy teacher Gary names our group identity plainly: we as a training group are tending to traumas big and small held in our individual 'social nervous systems' and that of the group as a whole.
In other words, we need each other and we need practice. How else can we learn to communicate, cooperate, and resolve conflict?
People drawn to monastic life have their edges 'polished' by living and working in close, communal quarters. It's easy to be spiritual with your own practice and nobody around to ruffle your feathers. But we serve each other best as mirrors and teachers. What a gift when I become aware of my reaction to X's behavior. Now we're in spiritual practice! My noticing wakes me to what must be my own area of next growth and healing. I bow to X for being a perfect reflection for me.
Any well-facilitated group can be a strong, fluid container that gives breathing room for each individual and encourages cross-pollination. That's how I like to lead and hold space, and how I like to participate. I feel safe to be open and purely myself, excited to learn with the group. I get over my shyness and play well with others.
Our human frailties arise quickly in groups. Alliances are bound to happen as we are drawn to and repelled by certain others. But how do we form bonds, not cliques? Do we understand that everyone is here in this particular group for a reason? Can we enlarge our compassion, inclusion and our willingness to be with someone different? Especially if we don't like him/her? What do we do when we feel exiled? Do we hold leadership or sit back? What do we do with our judgments?
All these questions apply to our inner relationships as well. The more self-compassion we have, the easier it is to meet another openly. And the more we allow our edges to be polished in community, without losing ourselves in group think and group speak, the more we can be truly present with ourselves just as we are.
My teaching partner Dan has concluded that every group, no matter what the stated common goal, is really about learning how to be oneself in a group. Spiritual teacher and right livelihood guide Rick Jarow goes on to say that work itself may be just an elaborate excuse for us to mend our common karma. My biodynamic craniosacral therapy teacher Gary names our group identity plainly: we as a training group are tending to traumas big and small held in our individual 'social nervous systems' and that of the group as a whole.
In other words, we need each other and we need practice. How else can we learn to communicate, cooperate, and resolve conflict?
People drawn to monastic life have their edges 'polished' by living and working in close, communal quarters. It's easy to be spiritual with your own practice and nobody around to ruffle your feathers. But we serve each other best as mirrors and teachers. What a gift when I become aware of my reaction to X's behavior. Now we're in spiritual practice! My noticing wakes me to what must be my own area of next growth and healing. I bow to X for being a perfect reflection for me.
Any well-facilitated group can be a strong, fluid container that gives breathing room for each individual and encourages cross-pollination. That's how I like to lead and hold space, and how I like to participate. I feel safe to be open and purely myself, excited to learn with the group. I get over my shyness and play well with others.
Our human frailties arise quickly in groups. Alliances are bound to happen as we are drawn to and repelled by certain others. But how do we form bonds, not cliques? Do we understand that everyone is here in this particular group for a reason? Can we enlarge our compassion, inclusion and our willingness to be with someone different? Especially if we don't like him/her? What do we do when we feel exiled? Do we hold leadership or sit back? What do we do with our judgments?
All these questions apply to our inner relationships as well. The more self-compassion we have, the easier it is to meet another openly. And the more we allow our edges to be polished in community, without losing ourselves in group think and group speak, the more we can be truly present with ourselves just as we are.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Call and Response
Always the world is calling to us with beauty, with love. Are you there? it asks. Are you alive? Do we take time to see, hear, taste, touch, smell what the world offers? If we are at least a little sentient and awake, how do we respond? We need to share our stories: Yes, I'm here. Yes, I'm alive.
My body is still resonant from a recent kirtan led by Jai Uttal and friends. We friends and strangers gather to sing and chant Hindu devotional songs. The meaning of all the songs is the same: I love Creation, Creation loves me; YAY Universe; thanks to the Gods/Goddesses. And because it is call and response, you just listen and receive this passionate music and respond with the purity of your heart. The room was alive with all kinds of voices. From afar the meditation hall must have pulsed like a giant heart.
Each round builds in energy, and the group entrains. The full-bodied ecstatic waves of energy are so wonderful to feel as air and sound travel throughout my cells. One cannot sit still. We are literally moved. The silence is full and delicious during meditation between songs. And the frogs outside harmonize with us throughout.
Yes, I'm here. Yes, I'm alive. Yes, I'm grateful. Yes, it's wonderful to be together. Out loud and in silence. Yes, this is my body. Yes, this is us.
My body is still resonant from a recent kirtan led by Jai Uttal and friends. We friends and strangers gather to sing and chant Hindu devotional songs. The meaning of all the songs is the same: I love Creation, Creation loves me; YAY Universe; thanks to the Gods/Goddesses. And because it is call and response, you just listen and receive this passionate music and respond with the purity of your heart. The room was alive with all kinds of voices. From afar the meditation hall must have pulsed like a giant heart.
Each round builds in energy, and the group entrains. The full-bodied ecstatic waves of energy are so wonderful to feel as air and sound travel throughout my cells. One cannot sit still. We are literally moved. The silence is full and delicious during meditation between songs. And the frogs outside harmonize with us throughout.
Yes, I'm here. Yes, I'm alive. Yes, I'm grateful. Yes, it's wonderful to be together. Out loud and in silence. Yes, this is my body. Yes, this is us.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Feeling Ground and Rising Up
Being in the body means giving ourselves up to gravity and touching earth. Sitting in meditation, we root ourselves through our sit bones. Our feet, legs, and bottom meeting the ground give us great stability, out of which our spine and consciousness can rise naturally. A sprout reaching for the sun.
Grounding allows us to first be here, then rise up, reach out, and connect with others. Without grounding we can be floaty and a little too untethered, not productive.
In one of my recent Collage Circles*, one participant had abundant fiery energy wanting more focus. I encouraged her to pay attention to the ground of the paper she would work on and the edges that would contain her process. Being aware of containment offers safety and can actually create more space for what wants to happen.
She made a two-sided collage, with lots of movement and images transcending the board. One corner was a pop-up section with a plant stalk or snaky thing coming out and up from the flat surface, then connecting back down to the board.
A revelation: energy can go up and out AND can also feed back into the source. This was very moving to her, that her process could be inherently regenerating, rather than scattering and exhausting. All that energy could move, but she could stay here in ground.
Sculptor Martin Puryear often uses the form of some heavy solid thing with an upraised arm. The ground and anchor allows extension, suspension, lift and creates a great dynamic tension, a wonderful feeling of aliveness and presence.
http://mckeegallery.com/nggallery/page-219/page/163/
If you'd like to explore this more, contact me for embodied practices to connect to ground and movement in your life.
*Next Collage Circle 4/25: www.wildimagination.org/calendar.htm
Grounding allows us to first be here, then rise up, reach out, and connect with others. Without grounding we can be floaty and a little too untethered, not productive.
In one of my recent Collage Circles*, one participant had abundant fiery energy wanting more focus. I encouraged her to pay attention to the ground of the paper she would work on and the edges that would contain her process. Being aware of containment offers safety and can actually create more space for what wants to happen.
She made a two-sided collage, with lots of movement and images transcending the board. One corner was a pop-up section with a plant stalk or snaky thing coming out and up from the flat surface, then connecting back down to the board.
A revelation: energy can go up and out AND can also feed back into the source. This was very moving to her, that her process could be inherently regenerating, rather than scattering and exhausting. All that energy could move, but she could stay here in ground.
Sculptor Martin Puryear often uses the form of some heavy solid thing with an upraised arm. The ground and anchor allows extension, suspension, lift and creates a great dynamic tension, a wonderful feeling of aliveness and presence.
http://mckeegallery.com/nggallery/page-219/page/163/
If you'd like to explore this more, contact me for embodied practices to connect to ground and movement in your life.
*Next Collage Circle 4/25: www.wildimagination.org/calendar.htm
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
At Play At Work
Two weeks ago I met one of those great flight attendants who make travel worth it. What Kenny radiated most was an authentic sense of caring and playfulness. His safety spiel was a rapid-fire riff.
"Don't be unfastening your seat belts before the sign goes off. I know who you are. Don't do it," he teased. With this human touch, I felt his genuine concern for us, his charges.
Kenny was a natural performer and clearly loved making us smile. He chatted easily as he poured the ginger ale. When he came to my row, I told him I was happy he was having fun.
"I always have fun. I don't like mean, grumpy people," he shook his head with a furrowed brow. Clearly he'd made a choice getting up that morning, or walking into this life, just as we all can.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. said, It's faith in something and enthusiasm for something that makes a life worth living.
I didn't get to ask Kenny, but my guess is his faith is in people. What about you?
"Don't be unfastening your seat belts before the sign goes off. I know who you are. Don't do it," he teased. With this human touch, I felt his genuine concern for us, his charges.
Kenny was a natural performer and clearly loved making us smile. He chatted easily as he poured the ginger ale. When he came to my row, I told him I was happy he was having fun.
"I always have fun. I don't like mean, grumpy people," he shook his head with a furrowed brow. Clearly he'd made a choice getting up that morning, or walking into this life, just as we all can.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. said, It's faith in something and enthusiasm for something that makes a life worth living.
I didn't get to ask Kenny, but my guess is his faith is in people. What about you?
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