Pensive

The last glimmer of brilliant green,...transluscent green,...sunlight through morning lit leaves. I see this from my window. Open window, crisp cool air to relieve the stagnant collection of dust and artificially cooled air from preceeding days of exhausting heat. The jump from hot to cold is so quick. Too quick. Each moment of this day, with its lovely sunlight, it's fresh air filling my spirit must be appreciated. I just have to remember to notice. To withdraw from the "other" stuff filling my agenda, my list, my life and just take a deep breath and notice.

To be an artist is really a simple thing. It merely is the art of observation, meditation and introspection. And with this dedication and practice, creativity is a natural outcome. The challenge is withdrawing from rapid chaos of everything and permitting oneself a moment to LOOK and to SEE. In our ambitious American world of productivity and constant motion, this becomes a difficult thing to do at times. Or maybe its just me and my wonder woman generation of the do it all, be it all types. Because when asked what "I do" I first say I'm an artist and then pause and truthfully say that right now I'm devoting most of my time to my family, my three sons and husband. And this really may be the most important and creative endeavor anyone of us can attempt to accomplish!

A tear for humanity; a tear for VT

I am blank. No words. It leaves a hole too big and a penetrating sadness and reminds me terribly of my post about my grandfather.

It's as though a vile hand has reached up through the darkness and has grabbed my ankle and is determined to pull me in.

But I won't go.

A letter to my Grandfather and All Those Who Have Lost Someone in Violence

I remember that on this date, in 1991, it was your last day on earth. I remember your smile and the twinkle in your eyes. I remember your laugh. I remember hearing the distant sirens not realizing at the time that they were headed toward you. I remember that when they found you, you still had a pen in your hand.

I remember the shock and of lack of understanding. The inability to comprehend the phone call that you'd been killed? What? Who? ...What??? Like one wasn't hearing correctly.

I remember the nearly physical feeling of suddenly being cast between the known layers of time. Where regular time, present, past and future all cease and you find yourself in a space where instinct takes over.

I remember retrieving my grandmother, so fragile and innocent, and bringing her to you. She never recovered from that day, this day, and began to die herself from that day forward.

A piece of me died that day too. The shock waves of Violence and evil travel deep. They knock us down into the black from which it rose and the known path becomes lost. And all of life as we knew it remains in that space of time now defined as "before." It is packaged and sealed and is placed in a box seemingly separate and lost. The world becomes, for a time, a dark wood. Where one begs for light, but doesn't know how to find it, for all of the paths are overgrown and seem to lead one only deeper into darkness.

And I remember the feeling of joy "before" but can't seem to find it now even though it's been quite some time since someone murdered you, grandfather.

And one feels oddly connected to an invisible community of victims...those other people you read about in the newspaper; but you never signed up. You don't want to be a member.

And you live your life still feeling like you're slightly apart from the flow, separate and changed. And the optimistic joy that defined your life is inaccessible. And you go that way, day after day after day.

You smile and laugh, but you don't really. You chat about things that don't matter. You don't pity your plight. Worse, you just frankly don't care about much anymore and THAT is probably the saddest place to be...empty and without capacity for reciprocal joy.

But Grandfather, feel glad for me if you can. Know that I am OK. Know that this terrible thing has given me the greatest gift, even though I could not imagine it so many years ago, on this day. For eventually, in a most quiet yet powerful way, God presents himself to me in the form of a simple white flower; a fragile flower that appeared out of no where, that grew up in a crack in the exact middle of my expansive driveway, in the heat of July, in the middle of a drought. And when I saw that flower, I realized that despite the harshness of life and the odds of survival, even a seedling, in the midst of barely any soil, little water and intense heat, can find it's way. ..to be what it was meant to be. Even the fragile flower finds it's expression in life.

In such a moment, your heart re-starts, you gasp in recognition of what this flower represents and just as suddenly as it stopped, the WELL of hope and joy and all that you knew yourself to be is tapped. The path is illuminated and recognized.

And God has said, in an unexpected and silent way...I'm still here.

And you weep and weep and weep...and the tears of sadness mingle with the longed for tears of pure joy. And finally you know that you will be OK even though there is still healing to be done, the healing can begin.

I love you, Papa. The journey is never easy, but when the way is found, it is rich beyond words.
Is there any wonder why I find the Commedia to be so profound?

Fighting the Malaise of Regularity

Whirling around in my mind and my heart are things that go so far beyond the malaise of regularity.

I have begun to understand, in a profound way, why many (some of them great) artists were incapable of leading “normal” lives. They fell apart or ran away from it. Because of this constant “mental distance” many artists become inept in normal life and frustrated in their creative life. Yes, the carrying out of daily obligations, domestic duties are simple enough. At times there is great pleasure and joy in these tasks. Eventually, however, I fear life may become one great “Plan” or “List” of tiny “To Dos.” And in the End, what is the contribution or positive result of having faithfully provided clean underwear and routinely dusted baseboards?

And all around, there are those pushing for conformity.

Some of us simply do not belong here in this pool of regular folk but we do the best we can to keep our heads above water. This may sound strange to most, but I think it is a sentiment shared by many creative souls.

Vespas & Smart Cars

It is surreal, when in the blink of an eye, one has been transported so far. The journey made. The journey over. But it never really is over is it.

The set up and opening in Rome was perfect. Everything went smoothly! And when confronting the unknowns of such a distant journey, I am most grateful for the beauty of all things.

I return to Italia in just a few days. Departing the sounds of lawn mowers and leaf blowers and returning to the sounds of Vespas and Smart cars. Upon one shoulder rests the guilt of leaving my family for three weeks. And upon the other, the excitement and anticipation of fulfilling my quest. I do know that I will return a much better wife, and a much better mother. Sometimes the desire to "do" something for oneself grows so large, that a slight depression and apathy sets in. It seeps in to the way we do things...or don't do things. I know it sounds difficult to imagine, but I find joy in doing laundry, cleaning house and grocery shopping, whatever the task. I find joy, because I do it for "them," my family.

But for now, for the next three weeks, I am asking them to share me with others. And for that I am deeply grateful.

The Proud, Purgatorio

Canto X .139

"piangendo parea dicer: 'Più non posso'."

"weeping he seemed to say: 'I can no more.'"

When the samskaras rise and the troubles of the world build, like the Proud of Dantes' Purgatory, the weight becomes unbearable.

Suffocation, buried... clawing to get free. I now fully understand why many creative spirits cannot live "normal" lives...for the drive & passion over this thing that dwells within - this motivation of expression - this sense of purpose beyond mere existence - is all consuming.

We are the ones who do not flow evenly in the river of daily life. In fact most people are oblivious to the fact that they are even in the river. Born in the calm pools, we flow from the stream to the brook, which seemlessly becomes the lazy river. But water is not always calm in the river and there are many tributaries to take. Along the way, some are pulled under & drown, or crash upon the rocks. Many survive but are scarred or ruined. Too few, paddle to the side to watch along the way...to attempt to gain a vantage point to see where the river leads...gain a perspective. Which tributary to navigate? Which way to the sea? ...to the end of ones' life, where we melt away into the unknown.

One must ask, what does he hope to see along this one way journey in the River of Life? Which tributaries has he chosen? Which way will he choose today? Did he find his way to the bank to watch for a while or did he simply float blindfolded and dumb?

Sometimes I Still Think He's Coming Home

The leaves are changing once more
and billowed clouds drift by endlessly.

I watch the seasons pass
I too am swept in their progress
For I am late in the autumn of my life.

For 54 years I have shared the seasons with another.

We shared sunsets of crimson and golden hues
where the clouds were so pink against the turquoise sky
it would remind one of a painting by Van Gogh.

We spent stormy nights close together
Stronger, the two of us, against nature's wrath.
And with winter's chill, we shared the warmth of our bodies,
he and I.

And every spring, as the buds unfold their fragile petals,
We too would open ourselves fresh and new to the world.
Our hearts so young despite the wrinkles in our skin.

But now I am alone.
And the greatest difficulty is overcoming habit,
for upon occassion, in a fleeting moment I am caught unaware...
And Sometimes I still think he's coming home.

In memory of my grandmother, Marguerite and grandfather, Bill.