Notes to Myself
Your real duty is to go away from the community to find your bliss. — Joseph Campbell
What part of myself, I wonder, am I trying to find, to save? The need to retreat from media, to regain something I once knew, has the urgency of survival. On the second day of my retreat here at Saint Meinrad Archabbey, stillness begins to win over the part that wants to keep up with people and news. That wants the action of entertainment. It is so easy for me to forget that stillness is a way of knowing, of apprehending presence, of inhabiting the room of belonging. Time spreads out for paper, pens, paint, books and walking. The refreshment of beech trees rattling their leaves in the winter woods. Reading and writing. Sorting my tools.
There is something so restorative about the physicality of a place and the reckoning that comes with being fully embodied and uninterrupted. I remember how the saving mystery breaks through at odd and unforeseeable moments. There are many thoughts on the subject of places having memory, of places remembering what people forget. But the first thing I noticed on my arrival was something I have never seen here before: about 100 black vultures and a few dozen crows circling the sky above where I am staying. The black vultures have only recently entered this area in such great numbers, and are more aggressive than the native turkey vultures. They have an ominous reputation that calls to mind the birds of Mordor. The second thing I noticed was the green sprouts of crocus already up in the woods. The dark and the light, the evil and the good, both ever present.
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Leaping Greenly Spirits of Trees
I am not sure what prompted me to sign up for the Tarot Conclave in Philadelphia. My concerned friends asked me some pointed questions. My husband, fairly indignant at my having just touched down from Santa Fe, had some more. I normally travel for the art classes I teach, and they are carefully planned and scheduled well in advance. But, like work with the Tarot, this was intuitive and completely spontaneous. I simply packed my sketchbook and went; not even I knew what to expect.
No Praise, No Blame
William Stafford's philosophy of teaching, "no praise, no blame" is something I aspire to. He felt it is not our job, as teachers, to deal out praise or blame, but rather to create an atmosphere where, in the end, the teacher is envious of the work the students have done. I want to cultivate an environment that is not oriented to what others' think, or what the teacher thinks– but that arises from the inside, brings out surprises, and elicits the best each student has to offer. "I would rather be envious of my students' work than encouraging them." (Wm. Stafford)
The Silver Apples of the Moon
After teaching a class at Ghost Ranch, I was invited to stay in Taos at the Mabel Dodge Luhan Retreat, where I will be teaching next May. I was walking with Marguerite in downtown Taos when we wandered into the Ortenstone Delattre Gallery. Neither of us had ever been there, or ever heard of Pierre Delattre. He was sitting behind his desk and stood up to greet us– shining silver hair, shining eyes. In retrospect, it is like the archetypal stories where the children lose their way and find themselves inside a magic castle or enchanted forest. I was instantly spellbound, and wanted to see everything that was in this gallery.
"You Can't Discover the Product Until You're Making It" –Stephen Colbert
There was an article this week in the NY Times on Stephen Colbert's new role as the host of "The Late Show". In spite of the fact that he has been preparing all summer, he said: You can't discover the product until you're making it. This is the one of the characteristics of art, whether it is music, painting, teaching or theatre– if you already know what you are going to do, it loses vitality, and the delight of surprise. It is the paradox of being immersed in preparedness and open to the moment. This is both terrifying and a relief– for when we can forget about ourselves and the thing we are making, we become a vessel for creation– which is always more than we could imagine.
Are You Guided by Aim or Fate?
I love returning to a book or a poem that is well written, as there is always something new that emerges, or something I have read before, but now I understand more deeply. There is a scene from Tolkein's The Lord of the Rings, when an arrow, against all odds, hits its mark. Tolkien says: It was guided by aim or fate. What an image! We have all had the experience of something coming to pass where there seemed to be a force outside the realm of cause and effect at work. How much of our work results from our aim, our will– and how much from something that we cannot quite pin down?
Part II: What Happened After
My husband was watching the radar screen to track my plane on the way home, as it went around a gigantic storm. That night we heard the loudest, deepest, reverberating roar of thunder ever. It was so imperative that it reminded me of Laurens van der Post's book, The Voice of the Thunder, where he describes thunder as"an urgent manifesto for renewal in the human spirit".
Part I: The Calm Before the Storm
Madeline Island is one of 21 Apostle Islands in Lake Superior. This was my view arriving by ferry:
When I arrived at the Madeline Island School of the Arts, I gave myself time to be still and take in the vista from my window. In the mornings I could hear the loud, resonant wooden rattle of the Sandhill Cranes calling. I brought a couple books with me– including World Enough & Time by Christian McEwan. I was struck by this quote from Kafka:
Ordinary Magic
"The true voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having fresh eyes." -Proust
I have been reading World Enough & Time by Christian McEwen. She interviews the Scots poet, Thomas Clark. She asks him his advice on homework for her students that are aspiring poets. His answer was not what she expected, and applies to any of us who wish to make room for whatever it is we are reaching for:
Diving into the Wreck
Diving into the wreck is from a poem by Adrienne Rich. I find diving a necessary, and often inconvenient, part of being a maker.
For example, right now I am in the middle of big paintings, medium-sized paintings and small paintings, and various sketchbook studies. Everything is out: Watercolor, acrylics, ink, house paint, and oils. I have dreams of swimming laps with layers and layers of clothes on, and how slow and heavy it feels! There are moments of illumination in my studio, but I am burdened with all these unnecessary and heavy clothes. My dream illuminates those familiar mind struggles: This isn't working! What about some cadmium red? Is this finished? Shall I change my vocation? What about becoming a private eye?