Angels in Nebraska - Part 2.

I have noticed, in fact, it's become obvious over the years, that we live in a world of everyday miracles. In an earlier BLOG entry (March 2008) I was awed to find, right on the street near where I lived, an autographed copy of a book by Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing - perhaps one of the most magical entries in my "Book of Common Miracles". Where does magic really begin, and when and where are the "Mythic Times", if not here, and now? So as I prepare to toddle down the road again, I want to put this on my blog as well, something that happened in 2005 as well.

In May of 2005 I began the long trip from Arizona to Connecticut for a residency at IPark Artists Enclave; I have been privileged to participate in two residencies there, and I will always be grateful to Ralph, Joanne, and the staff of Ipark for their generosity, support of the environment, and the arts.

It takes me about 5 long days to cross this enormous country. After a pleasant night among the pines in Flagstaff, I stopped at a rest stop in New Mexico, squatting on the ground and enjoying the view. Dusting off my skirt, I noticed a pair of fancy pliers literally at my feet. They seemed a useful find, so I picked them up and put them in my car. By the time I reached Missouri, I decided to take a detour to Nebraska, to find the graves of my grandfather and grandmother in Dewitt, a small village in the prairie near Beatrice. When my beloved grandmother, Glen, died in 1966, my family lived overseas, and my father flew alone back to the U.S. to return her body to Nebraska.

No one had visited those graves in 40 years, my own father, Kent, having passed away in 1976. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to pay my respects at last, to see as an adult the country she filled my imagination with. All I had was a child's memory of driving across the midwest with my family in the '50's, and endless Black-eyed Susans dancing and hissing in the hot prairie winds.

Dewitt is a village of maybe 4,000 people. It is still prosperous, thanks to a tool and die factory that has been successful since the 1920's. Petersen Manufacturing is particularly known for its founder's invention, the Vise-Grip Wrench. Which is why it's called the Vise-Grip Corporaton. 

When I found the old graveyard, I planted some flowers, said what I had to say to my grandmother's spirit and drove on, feeling very glad I made the trip.

After arriving in Connecticut, I cleaned out my car, and there were the pliers I found at my feet in the red dirt of western New Mexico. Stamped on the side was the legend:

"Vise-Grip: The Original"

ANGELS IN NEBRASKA & other conversations...

 
Getting ready to drive across the country again (which is a meditation retreat for people like me with ADD), I felt the urge to share two magical stories from my 2005 crossing. I've become very fond, by the way, of the prairie state of Nebraska, and the winding river Platte.

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In an article from his webzine "Warrior of the Light", Paolo Coelho wrote:

"I let my life be guided by a strange language that I call “signs”. I know that the world is talking to me, I need to listen to it, and if I do so I shall always be guided towards what is most intense, passionate and beautiful. Of course, it is not always easy."

I also so often find myself engaged in what I call the "Great Conversation", and it's not easy to explain what I mean sometimes, even to myself. Perhaps, living a mythic life is often a matter of aesthetic choice.

The conversation seems to become most lively when I'm in movement, whether walking, crossing a trail, or a stateline, or an ocean. Like many Americans, I've been blessed and cursed with restlessness and rootlessness. Between destinations lies a mythic land of flight and migration, a free range for the imagination in the "Bardo" of transit. Perhaps travelling has become my way of meditating, certainly I seem to find so many of my answers, and questions, on the road. Well, the metaphor is an obvious one.

JOURNAL ENTRY, September 3, 2005.

Stopped in Cozad, Nebraska, home of the Robert Henri Museum. The Museum has some beautiful paintings of the tall grass prairies by a local artist, and a few reproductions of Henri's "Ash Can School" paintings. They don't have any of the originals. Henri's father, it seems, founded Cozad, but had to leave rather sudddenly with his sons and wife when he "accidentally" shot a man in a heated argument. He went to New York, changed his name, started the first casino in Atlantic City, and his son went on to study art and become famous. The boy never felt the need to return to Nebraska, although he did live in Ireland, New York, and Paris. Cozad is proud of him anyway.

I'm not entirely sure what kind of legacy this artist will leave. My life seems like a tapestry, on my good days, the threads finally woven with some skill into a colorful tapestry, I see that my hands have achieved degrees of mastery. And then there are days when so much precious life seems wasted, lost, too many disappointments and wrong decisions. That's what menopause, whether you're a woman or a man, seems to be about. An emptying out, discovering things that once seemed so opaque are now, well, transparent. Unimportant. What really matters? What are you living for, what do you serve?

So here I sit, with a very nice cup of coffee and a sandwich at the Busy Bee Diner, where I have a front row center seat for the First Bank & Trust Company of Cozad.

That got my attention.

Gathering and Offering, 2.

One last story from the Kripalu workshop. I was fortunate to meet in the class Dana Dakin, founder of the Women's Trust in Ghana. If any are reading this, I urge you to be inspired by visiting their website, and reading in particular "Dana's Story".  I take the liberty of quoting from her writing...........it was so inspiring to me to hear her story.

"Twenty-three years ago, while living in San Francisco, I met a woman named Olga Murray celebrating her sixtieth birthday. To mark the occasion, she was heading off to Nepal to start an orphanage. Her vision, courage, and determination left an indelible mark on me. In 2003, the orphanage and Olga were still going strong and I turned sixty.

Based on the adage that life is lived in thirds, the first third you learn, the second third you earn, and the final third you return, and with Olga as a role model, I decided to greet the youth of old age with my own way to give back."
Dana Dakin, The Women's Trust (Ghana)

Gathering and Offering

I've been meaning to share this particular work from the MASKS OF THE GODDESS workshop in April at Kripalu - while I always am moved and astounded by the work others do, I found this work especially moving. Ilana has graciously allowed me to share photos of the masks she made, and sent me the poem she wrote in the workshop. I found it so profound......a message intimately hers, but a deeply transformative image for me as well, and others in the group.

Ilana is a well known Midwife and Birth Coach  from New York City.  She is a slight woman with intense eyes, and her hair was gone sparse because she's been undergoing  chemotherapy, which she shared as began our introductory Circle. 

We begin our four day process with a "shamanic journey" to the Underworld, to encounter the Goddess, in whatever form she may care to appear, as we prepared to create our masks for Her. Often I ask participants to see if she gives them a gift of some kind, and almost always something meaningful is presented.

Returning to the "above world", after our trance, Ilana told us she had met a Goddess all in white. She emerged from the darkness to dance before her. Her dance was like a figure 8, the "eternity symbol" - gestures of gathering on one side, and giving forth on the other, a flowing gesture of taking in and giving forth.

It happened that another of the participants was a professional dancer (a ballerina, actually).....in the course of the workshop she gave Ilana a white dress she had brought with her - it was Ilana's size!



One of the masks she made was "scarred", but contained a bright red, open heart.  Above is the white mask she made, a basket on one side, and flowing forms on the other. She decided to put flowers on it after completing the mask. And here is the poem she wrote - I feel privileged to share it.

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8/12/08 Postscript:   I am sad to have to add that Ilana passed away 4 months after this workshop.  But when I think of that, I think the  Goddess who came to her, and the poem she wrote, were all about leading the Way.

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GATHER AND OFFER
Ilana Stein

Gather towards the West
Gather towards the North
Gather towards the South
Gather towards the East
Gather Above, gather below and gather the great Mystery
Gather what you’ve studied
Gather what you’ve learned
Gather how you’ve lived, and gather what you’ve earned.

Gather what you’ve loved and gather what you’ve lost.
Gather what you’ve soiled and gather what it’s cost
Gather what you’ve wasted and gather what you’ve saved
Gather what you’ve shopped for and gather what you’ve tasted

Gather who your friends are and gather how they’ve cared
Gather your relations and gather how you’ve fared
Then Gather birth and celebrate, gather death and cry
Gather hope, regret and longing and gather up the why

Gather up the waiting, gather struggles, gather challenges.
Gather all the goals you’ve met and gather up the bravery
Gather faceless fear and all the broken promises.
Gather yesterday today, and gather time tomorrow

Gather what you’ve ruined and gather when you’ve failed.
Gather up the personal and gather up the frail
Gather up the culture and gather up the myths
Gather all the songs you’ve sung, and all expressive art
Gather dances gather dreams and gather up your heart

Gather in the garden and gather at the beach.
Gather on the mountain and gather what’s in reach
Gather in the workplace, and gather on the roads
Gather in the home you’ve made and gather all you kin
Gather your impatience, your frustration and your greed.
Gather up the words you’ve said and gather what you need.

Gather up your journey and all the time you’ve spent
Gather up your courage and walk inside your tent.
Gather up your secrets and and gather up your wisdom
Gather what you’ve forgotten
Gather what you’ve meant.
Gather faith and Reverence

Gather truth and and gather lies,
Gather secrets great and small
Gather wisdom of the ages and wrap them in your shawl
Gather sickness, Gather health gather tenderness and rage
Gather all your stories and gather on the stage

Gather up your gatherings, and stir the basket’s bounty
Gather all remaining threads and search across the county
Look out among the human beings, look out among relations

Then offer up your gatherings to all nations and creations

Offer to your children and offer to your kin
Offer to the hungry, to the needy and the grim
Offer to the blessed and offer to the prim
Offer to the kings and queens the princess and princesses
Offer to the beggars, paupers, jesters and priestesses

Offer to the little birds the chipmunks and the deer
Offer to the badger, mole, the frogs, and yes the bear
Offer to the green spring shoots, the white and yellow crocus
Offer to the budding trees the bushes and the rushes

Offer to the sand and mud the concrete and the buildings
Offer to the cook and maid the seamstress and the butler
Offer to the farmers - offer to the farm
Offer to the doctors and offer for no harm

Offer to the visionaries offer to the artists
Offer to the frightened, offer to the scared
Offer to the endangered and to the unprepared
Offer to the hurting, offer to be healed,
Offer to your neighbor and offer to the field

Offer grace and offer peace offer possibility
Offer privilege trust and faith
Offer gratitude amazement wonderment and awe
Offer loving kindness, compassion, joy and love

Offer up your story, offer honor and integrity
Offer for community Offer your vulnerability

Offer what you’ve learned and offer what you have
offer what you know
Offer what you’ve shared
Offer both your ears, your shoulders and your tears
Offer all you’ve gathered, offer all your cares

You’ve gathered through the springtime,
the summer and the fall.
And you’ve offered season’s greetings without going to the mall.

Now rest and build your strength up. Cycle with the moon. Cycle through the mystery time. Close your eyes and sleep. Dream the dreams of where you’ve been.
Dream of where you’re going – dream the dream that dreamers dream.

Then gather. 

Leaving and Arriving

Sometimes with the bones
of the black sticks left
when the fire has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving
you are arriving.

....David Whyte

Yesterday, while waiting in the heat of Tucson's eternal traffic (which becomes more painful now that it's 100 degrees and above and I don't have an air conditioner in my car), I found myself fancifully saying out loud: "Well, why don't you just give me a sign or something? For heaven's sake, I'm one confused cookie here.........".

The truth is, I've felt the need to go somewhere else, and do something else, for a very long time. I've been feeling isolated and stagnant in Tucson for far too long, isolated and unsure of what to do next. Like many people who find themselves at a major crossroads in their lives, I know I have to make a change, and I'm scared. All the "what if's" of a lifetime come to the surface.

Then I drove a bit farther, and my thoughts turned to an email I recently received from Marc Gold, one of my personal "heroes". Marc is the founder of the 100 Friends Project, a small non-profit that benefits many desperately poor people - and Marc travels extensively in pursuit of his work. I was thinking about what an inspiration he is, and the thought crossed my mind - "well, if he can do something like that, why can't I do something in my own small way?"

Suddenly, stalled in heavy traffic, I saw a magnificent monarch butterfly flutter over cars, cross my windshield, and fly across the street to disappear. A sign indeed! And, I might add, be careful what you ask for..........when I got home, I picked up a book of poems I've been studying by David Whyte. The above poem is the page I opened to at random.

I recount this little bit of grace from the Universe..........another story for my "Book of Common Miracles".

Now, to get off of my timid butt, and just begin.

Community Clay at the Creative Spirit Center

I woke up this morning determined to see if I could pack up my old car and just hit the road to points East ASAP. Actually, I would very much like to see Community Clay, at the Creative Spirit Center in Midland, Michigan, where some of my own work is being exhibited as part of the show. Their castings of community members is a continuation and new exploration of the interconnectedness motif begun with my project, sponsored by the Alden Dow Creativity Center, last summer. I'm so grateful they are doing this, and if I can't make the opening, I'm hoping that soon I'll at least be able to see the show, and see again my collaborator from last year Kathy Space, and Sarah Gorman, of the Creative Spirit Center.

I've applied to numerous places for residencies to continue this project, in new permutations, this winter - among them, the Henry Luce Center at Wesley Seminary in Washington, DC, the Irish Museum, and Raumars in Finland. The Irish Museum, I have to admit, I'm crossing my fingers on. I would dearly love a chance to explore this mythological theme with theological students as well. And Finland in January, well, I guess the project would tend to take on a slightly more "internal" motif. Although who knows. Maybe it's time I learn how to ice skate.

I've recently learned about a way to publish very small editions of art books, ie, highly illustrated with color photos. I'm excited - this would give me a chance to publish a limited edition version of MASKS OF THE GODDESS, as well as the Spider Woman Project.

At any rate, travel is what I need now - this will be the year of my "pilgrimage". Who am I now, and where am I headed? It seems strange, as I touch the fringes of the last year of my '50's, to say that I really don't know. I've spent years now wanting, no not just wanting but needing, to do something wholly new. I've been lingering at a crossroads for so long that even my bags are threadbare - time to go.

The Poet David Whyte

It doesn't interest me if there is one God or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need to change you.
If you can look back with firm eyes
saying "this is where I stand."

I want to know if you know how to melt
into that fierce heat of living
falling toward the center of your longing.
I want to know if you are willing to live,
day by day,
with the consequence of love
and the bitter unwanted passion of sure defeat.
I have been told, in that fierce embrace,
even the gods speak of God.
.............from "Fire in the Earth", by David Whyte

Another syncronicity that occured in our Kripalu Workshop was that one of the participants placed an audio cd by contemporary poet DAVID WHYTE on the altar we made.

I had been reading "The Winter of Listening" on the plane that brought me to Massachusetts. I feel moved to share here a few of his poems, because they've been with me over coffee this morning. Yes, especially now, as I sit looking out across the Berkshires, the trees bare still but the sun fragile and brilliant, the vitality of early spring a deep, deep hum within the earth, a rythem pulsing through my feet, an attunement I long to continue for more than this one last day.

David Whyte's poetry has always had a way of bringing me home.

From "The winter of Listening"

All this petty worry
while the great cloak
of the sky grows dark
and intense round every living thing.

What is precious
inside us does not
care to be known
by the mind
in ways that diminish
its presence.

What we strive for
in perfection
is not what turns us
into the lit angel
we desire,

what disturbs
and then nourishes
has everything
we need.

Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.

Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.

All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.

All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.

All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.

And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.

Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.

So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.

. . . . . . . . . .

by David Whyte