Word of the Week - 162

Painting by Ed Ruscha.

Word of the Week:  INTERIOR

My own exterior and the spaces I occupy are candidates for sprucing up.  Little by little I work toward a  mythical day of declaring all officially spruced.  The interior is a different business.  I don't imagine a day of completed interior tidying.  I declare myself a work in progress and leave it at that.

These thoughts were sparked by beginning, last Saturday, year two of a daily chair yoga practice.  That year one is now in the record books seems a miracle or something very much like one.  When we were told "one day at a time," in our best moments we hoped we could manage such seemingly small increments.  Continuity is created with baby steps.  That a year now passes so swiftly is a mixed blessing.  That time, as I experience it, simply evaporates, often without a trace, is disturbing.  Yet its quality of vanishing even as I observe it makes 365 days of committed practice more possible than I could have guessed.  Next is the addition of daily art, either as work or play.  There are goals and desires.   I see daily work as the only reliable road.

Another interior assignment is rumination or the clearing of unhelpful thoughts, replacing them with ways of seeing that lead me away from chaos.  We seem generally to have been stockpiling chaos and are now cursed with a surplus which threatens to engulf everything.  If ground coffee still came in cans, I could pour mine into the empty ones as I once did bacon grease.  If I still had a back yard I could bury them there.  Beneath the pine and the camellia bushes, the earth was shady and damp in all four seasons.  In the absence of coffee cans and a private, walled garden, I've sought other solutions.

I adhere to the belief that our capacity for change is infinite.  We do what we can, with what we have, from where we are.  I realize that in my younger life, and possibly still today, I have been stupid in a thousand different ways.  If I could go back, there is much I would do differently.  But we only know what we know when we know it, if at all.  I believe that simply being kind in any and all situations will never be a bad choice for me.  I know that, once spoken, harsh words cannot be unsaid.

This, this living, is all so temporary and fragile, so finite.  Everything we love is really just on loan and we are wise to treat everyone and everything that matters as sacred.  We befriend and, one hopes, become the better angels we seek.

From the oven, direct to you (if you wish).

For a recent boutique I created new shrink art pins, each hand drawn, colored and cut out.  A few styles may be similar (a favorite rabbit) but each is one-of-a-kind.  Six have been claimed, a good number remain.  If anyone is interested in purchasing, each pin is $20.  Postage within the US would be, I imagine, about $1.50.  The pieces that have been taken are:

Page 1 -
Row 1, the bird on the heart (3rd from left)
Row 3, woman with the rose on a stem (far left)
Row 4, large cat face (far left)
Row 5, walking cat (far left) and panda (far right)

Page 2 -
Row 1, head-to-toe cat (center)

To give you an idea of size, the pin on Page 1, Row 2, "Big Day" is 1 1/2" wide and 1" deep.  All are packaged in clear cello envelopes with an illustrated mini MOO card behind the pin.

If you are interested in making a purchase, I am able to accept PayPal (I believe I can figure out how to invoice) or checks by mail.  If you are on Facebook, please Message me with a precise description of your desired pin, location on the page would help.  If not on FB, please leave a comment with a precise description of the pin you want here on the blog with an email address so I can contact you.  Sales will be first come, first served, going by date and time of message or comment.  If you wish to order from outside the US, I will need to find out postage rates.

Please window shop to your heart's content.  It is Christmas, after all.  Judy Garland is singing "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas."

The oh-so-not smallness of The Small

Assortment of small print fabrics from binskystudio.

Fabric watches by Julie Arkell.

Fabric brooches by Julie Arkell.

Fabric covered buttons.

From seemingly out of nothing, nowhere, I was overtaken by an obsession for little bits of leftover fabric in tiny prints.  Day upon day I tracked scrap packets on etsy, chased images of art that made glorious use of such prints and similar remnants.  At some point I realized I was nourished by, enamored of, The Small.

The Welsh author and felting artist, Karin Celestine, invites her followers to post their Small Beauties daily.  These joys may include the sunrise, a rock, a flower, cuddling a beloved creature, something chocolate (or, as we write it in the Celestine world, choklit).  These delights are in no way less for their simplicity, the way in which they often exist for free, their lack of influence on a seismograph or their fleeting nature.  I challenge you to quantify the sweetness of ripe mango slices or a kind word.

A scrap of patterned cotton that would fit in the circle of a thumb and forefinger could not be the cause for exhaled tension, could it?  Well, yes.  Thus have I launched myself as a self-proclaimed smalloligist.  Of course I will require new business cards.

Regardless of what anyone tells you, none among us is made healthier by frenzy.  All that is loud and unloving contributes to every sort of affliction.  Small is known to hold hands with quiet.  They understand each other perfectly.  Attempts to seduce us to noise and The Big go on without cease. 

Whether or not there exists a scrap of fabric too small to be used is a question without answer.  There is not, nor will ever be, a beauty too small.

Process and practice

Creating habit, changing course, all is process and process is slow.  Slow is a tireless teacher.

It is now 146 days since I began a practice of wheelchair yoga, inspired by and following this book:

Available at amazon.com.

When I first ordered the book, I showed it to the nurse practitioner who sees me at home.  A second floor apartment, very steep outside stairs and greatly diminished mobility have me, for now, playing the part of Rapunzel.  The NP was enthusiastic and encouraged starting to work with the book, "Ten minutes a week," she suggested.  For a time I resisted, claiming that I had a prior commitment to art every day, "or so help me."  And then one day it changed, as absolutes do.  And now, for more than the stated One Hundred Days, I have begun to build a practice of 35 to 40 minutes a day which equals about four hours a week and I am not the same as when I started.

A friend with whom I Skype from time to time, told me well before I reached the hundred days, that I had been "youthified," appeared thinner, she heard more life in my voice, more strength, she complimented my complexion and my consistence.  I feel that, other than in supernatural heat, my sleep is better, my desire to overeat compulsively is diminished, and an enhanced state that I will call balance of mind has crept up on me.  I am able to complete tasks in whatever increments they require, however long they take, making space for them with room for the unexpected.  If I will not make a deadline, I call and reschedule.  Process.

In a recent donation of books to a thrift store, I set a maximum number of grocery bags that would be included in this round of clearing. That allowed me to stop when the number was reached, knowing I could call them again for a return trip - or several.  I've pictured creating a map of what I want to accomplish in nest fluffing and may go ahead and draw it.  There may be "before" and "after" scenes with no life-or-death dates for completion of anything.  Rather than my old way of creating needless stress for my son and me, I have become more caring of our time, our physical resources and, much as I still have pipe dreams of being turned into House Lovely by some magic hand, a very gradual, wary acceptance of who I am and how I do things.

As I am still a newbie to such a practice, I know what has been revealed, what has been altered, is only the beginning.  Under life's umbrella of process in the act of surrender, over and over and over.  I simply await direction.  The best description I can give is that I show up every day for the series of poses and movements, complete them, and let go of everything else until the next indicated thing becomes clear, which it always does.  There are days with drawing and coloring, days of sorting and sifting, days of lifting and, after a fashion, muscling things about.  I remain seriously committed to a daily sharing of what I find beautiful, inspiring and encouraging on Facebook.  That assignment is clear.  I've gotten over the notion that such an intention is trivial, lightweight.  It is part of my work and part of my joy.  Beauty and love, optimism and humor are the antidotes to every pox and toxin that would knock us to our knees.

Being in touch with friends makes me happy, though I have yet to master being a timely and reliable correspondent.  Always process.  I trust what I do manage to send forth will be adequate, possibly welcome and not seen as falling horribly short of expectations.  Process is where we learn to major in patience.  Along with possibly quantifiable gifts of beginning a practice, I think I am finding those aspects of human existence which cannot be counted, which may not have any name beyond spirit.  For some years now I've felt that all life is an act of faith.  That feeling grows stronger.  Peace and trust help diminish the deadly stress-produced chemicals that claimed me for so long.  Because I have seen so many movies based on samurai and kung fu warriors, it is a metaphor that springs easily to mind, tremendous inner strength to withstand relentless outer forces.  I would like to be strong in every sense of the word, to be quiet and calm, reasonable, healthy (heaven knows!), resilient, clear and kind.  I would like to be steady, firm in mind and body, not practicing juggling in the way I once did.  Not teetering, no fancy footwork, yet flexible.  Some of you may be familiar with one of my RubberMoon stamps, "Impossible Things Happen."  Yes, yes they do.

Poetry for breakfast

Once I reached my worktable to begin the tasks of the day, I treated myself to a few pages from Bill Moyers' "Fooling With Words" as I munched the nuts that were breakfast.

In the book, Moyers' first subject is poet Stanley Kunitz.  He refers to Kunitz reading of his poem, The Lincoln Relics, at the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival.  He quotes some lines that sent me looking for the whole piece.  The Civil War, its monuments currently in question, also the subject of a recent inaccurate reference, always speaks to me.

This morning's experience has me vowing to begin my days with poetry, any amount, for even a taste, while a set-up for cravings, nourishes like nothing else.  With poetry under our belts, we are no longer running on empty.

Here's the link, a connection to the poem and access to additional information.

 

Word of the Week - 160

“Spiritual practices help us move from identifying with the ego to identifying with the soul. Old age does that for you too. It spiritualizes people naturally.”    - Ram Dass

Word(s) of the Week:  SPIRIT ENCOUNTERS

Art by Lisbeth Zwerger.

Ram Dass also said, "Treat everyone you meet like God in drag."

I have come to believe that all encounters, human and otherwise, are spirit encounters.  Human to human, it is far too easy to slip into expectations, anticipating certain outcomes, making no allowance for the fact of spirits meeting - or colliding - and instead simply reacting.

Beneath the exterior, applied selves we may fashion to carry our often vastly different spirits from place to place are the grottoes, the hidey-holes where we truly live.  Spaces secret and safe where there is no reason to be other than who we are.  However deeply hidden, we are always at home within.  It feels wildly essential to me that I try and remember this, remember that we and our exchanges occupy sacred ground, the conversations beneath, behind the spoken words.

I wonder after a night of vivid dreaming in which all visitors feel so present, whether others share that experience.  There have been far too many of these dreams for me not to believe they, too, are spirit encounters.  People long departed or perhaps merely distant arrive and I awake knowing we have spent those dreaming moments, during which much is always revealed, together.  There is a sense of needing to send spirit emissaries to communicate without disguise or armor, that this is the only realm in which such honesty can occur.  That I am capable of imagining these dreams are more than dreams I freely acknowledge, yet I know myself to be capable of recognizing the existence of unlikely events, of trusting what cannot be verified.

In spite of loss, pain, terror and occasional defeat, life is the on-going seance during which we become familiar with magic.  As I've been typing, Hummingbird has visited my window twice, checking to see that amnesia hadn't overtaken me, confirming that I continue as a student of its message of joy, lightness and love shared.

 

Wholeness

Poets Joseph Brodsky, left, and fellow Nobel Laureate Derek Walcott.

A revisited post from March 22, 2011.  At the original post, readers have left their own experiences of being saved by poetry, a form which will forever unite us.  You will find the comments here.

In cultures other than mine there are ceremonies to restore balance, refit missing pieces into the spaces left by their exodus. My absence from self has been an itinerary of comings and goings for which no estimated times of arrival or departure were known.

Before poetry - appreciated and even studied long ago but not absorbed, not inhaled, no door opened wide enough for habitation, accommodating the bulky goods with which it travels - caught me, I assumed that my once-absent segments had all flown home. Now I find that what I took for life in full measure was more a silhouette. Poetry has a way of poking its fingers into vacant corners, eyebrows raised with the question, shouldn't there be something here?

Poetry, if it wanted to, could beat any self-help manual senseless. A poem is a far more believable testimonial: I survived to write this. Poetry doesn't tell you, it shows you. How is it that, over not so many months, a literary form, an art, has become teacher, guide, source of wisdom and the voice that keeps me awake at night (in a good way)? Painful shards of memory that used to steal my breath now look like material.

There is study ahead, there is travel. My fragments could turn up anywhere. They arrive in daily emails, my heart lurching in recognition. They emerge in posts and comments, they step shyly forward from links that have a telling glimmer: look here.

In a culture thought by some to be without shamans we are not lost or abandoned. The poets rattle and drum, they chant and dance. We are redeemed by words, their incantations point the way.

Posted by Marylinn Kelly at 10:18 AM