In this detail from a recent collage, a kimono-clad woman bows to a circle of people. She reminds me that my work is a ceremony, an offering of just the right Medicine. The words around her: Inspiring Life's Journey and Respectful Exchange. She is close to the earth, grounded. She is ready to serve.
Perhaps she is an Ancestor called home by my creative fire, the sparks I'm fanning into flame.
In o-bon, the Japanese Ancestor ceremony, it is bonfires that guide the Ancestors home. Family clans gather in mid-late summer to clean up graves, give thanks to the Ancestors, feast, sing and dance. After a good long visit, people float lit candles on the water to send the Ancestors back until the next year. Both the quick and the dead are renewed.
I remember as a young girl stringing leis with my grandmother in Hawaii, preparing for an aunt and uncle arriving late for o-bon. We walked in the dark, following the sounds of celebration to the neighbor's luau, bearing long white strands of starry blossoms. We kids called it the 'bone dance' and watched the old ladies make their careful steps with sweeping arms and moon fans. They wore their light summer robes and sandals. I remember fire and night.
I haven't celebrated o-bon in many many years. But every time I write or make art, it seems as if the creative fire itself invites the Ancestors in. They help me and I hope that I help them in carrying forward this spark of life.
The ancient Egyptians intimately connected life and death, with their mummification and preparing the dead for the next life. I made this collage in the spring. Rediscovering it now, fiddling with it in Photoshop, adding the sands of time, I see it freshly.
You see, an important stranger recently died, someone I'd sat with in healing ceremonies a few times.
In the week between his accident and his death, I felt inexplicably happy for him. Several others and I just kept seeing his smiling face that whole week he was in a coma. I felt no worry, knew he was somehow fine, despite the medical prognosis. I knew he was preparing for some next big thing and was already free.
I can only hope that he did not suffer, that he was in essence gone at the time of the accident. Perhaps he was just patiently waiting for his loved ones to get used to the idea of losing him. I like this idea, for he was a truly generous person.
These are the mysteries. We don't know. Years ago a close friend, trying to prepare me for the loss of him, told me that the relationship continues. Over the years, having him as an Ancestor, feeling his continued care, I really get how the love continues in a different way.
For many people around the world, this is not news. Still, we are pitiful humans and we get attached to that smile, the enfolding arms, the smell of each others' hair. Even though we can't have them back, we can choose to carry on with the love.
We can serve our Ancestors by living our lives well and heeding their teachings. My husband and I are keeping a spirit plate for our important stranger's year of transition to Ancestor land. We give food offerings to fuel his journey.
And we can look to them for support in the myriad of invisible, palpable ways they are here to back us up. I feel their love and blessing in all that I do. I choose a connected world.
My husband learned one great thing in all his years of architecture school: finish that sketch.
So no matter how bad things seem to be going as you are creating, it's good to complete this one pass. Perfectionism kills. You might glean that one essential bit you would've missed had you crumpled and tossed too early.
So I'm catching up with this old post to see what comes...
The flash of blue caught my eye. Unnatural in the plum tree's burgundy branches. A sparrow had a blue faux feather in his beak, turning his head this way and that so I wouldn't miss it. A welcome pause in writing or doing yoga or whatever had me parked in the studio. He looked like he was eating cotton candy at a state fair, it was that blue.
I must tell you, this was just after GLBT Pride weekend here in the Castro at the end of June. A bit of boa lost in the fun, repurposed to feather a nest. I imagine him weaving in this neon blue fluff, perhaps among the glitters and spangles already gathered. Perhaps the sparrow was going to trade it for more practical twigs with a raven? Or maybe it's just what we all do, take in something new, see if it can work with what we've got.
And we mix and match and create.
And what would the mama sparrow say? If she's sensible, she accepts the warmth, the softness, how familiar. Woven into the inner part of the nest, to avoid drawing undue attention to her vulnerable young, it just might work. If she's got a gleam in her eye, as taken by beauty as I was seeing her mate, then she might just chirp: Fabulous!
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.
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.
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?
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.
