“You are in the right place.”
I have been in so many places the last six weeks, from the Alabama shore, to New Mexico, to Berlin, to Basel and a little village in France. My head is bursting with ideas. I won’t explain my dream (from the title) to you just now, but the woman who appeared in it assured me: you are in the right place. Wherever I am, when I remember this, along with bless everything that happens so more of the right thing will happen — the space opens and I have freedom of movement. Of course I only remember this when I have gotten stuck somewhere….
I want to show you work from a few of the students in Taos, New Mexico and at the Akademie der Kunst in Berlin:
The creative act begins with planting one seed.
There’s a song sparrow that taps at our window every morning at dawn. Our window looks out over a ravine and gives the feeling of being in a tree house. The sparrow stands on the sill with his striped body tap-tapping at his own reflection — a would-be intruder in his territory and threat to his nest. I am struck by his diligence, as for over a month he has been tapping with his stout gray bill, going to all the windows on the north and west side of our house, facing an enemy in each one. I watch from the window as he flies away, wondering if he will reveal the hiding place for his nest, somewhere in the ravine.
Then I wonder how often we humans, with great diligence and sincerity, tap at imaginary dangers, fearing would-be enemies and what could happen next? How can we be ready for what comes, both the bad and the good, if we are tapping at our own reflection? It seems that many of us are still recovering from the isolation of Covid, from the despair of the world. And yet we know that tragedy, danger, and adversity are best met with a mind restored to clarity, to a condition of ease in spite of circumstance, and against all reason, a mind willing to welcome what comes.
The Lit Corridor
How do I hear my own voice in the midst of the world’s clatter and disaster? The truth of change and impermanence leads me back to the same question: Where do I find refuge from all the heartbreak of our world? There are so many competing demands that it is a struggle to preserve some sense of order, quality and dignity.
I ask myself these questions heading into my studio to write and paint. For me, the answer is always the same — get still enough to hear the voice inside. In my studio, I get quiet with my hands. I reach for my favorite fountain pen, or that tube of Vermillion. This is the way I can eventually come down from my head-full-of-doubt-and-fear, rest in my body intelligence, and open my imagination.
Consolation and imagination can also be found by paying attention to night and dreams. Even if I don’t remember a dream, staying still when I just begin to wake up, staying in that liminal place, is a lovely way to catch ideas and dream fragments. Solutions come unbidden that don’t occur to me in full daylight. Any thread of thought or dream will do — there is nothing too small, too ugly or too silly — and then I make a note of it. Or sometimes I just notice how my mind has already begun to spin and worry, and stay put,
refusing to get out of bed, until I find one moment of delight.
What sustains you in collective loss and anxiety?
If you are not exhausted by months of Covid, the upcoming US election, and the uncertainty and tumult that has visited our world, then you are among the few. What sustains you and replenishes you in this time of collective loss and uncertainty?
The answer, of course, is mostly known. But how often do we pause long enough to hear the voice inside, and the answer that is waiting? I make an effort to begin the day by reminding myself to wake up slowly, to extend the time between waking and sleeping. I just don’t let myself get out of bed with my mind racing ahead like it wants to … and there is plenty of time for screens later. There is an implosion of “newspaper truth,” which by its nature needs to be dramatic or dismal to get our attention. My only hope is to begin by extending the morning quiet. Just this morning, in the wee hours, the full blue moon got me out of bed, and outside in it. What a comfort she is in her constancy and change, unceasingly waning and waxing, departing and returning, from total darkness to lambent light. Millions and countless millions of years of gliding across the night, witnessing every kind of disaster and miracle. I feel certain we all have a moon inside — a witness, something that returns and brightens after every darkest night.
Hundreds of years ago, Leonardo da Vinci wrote in his journal on the necessity of slowing down, gazing … looking long enough at something until that something itself becomes alive. Any of you who have beheld the object you are drawing long enough know what I am talking about. Stones, apples, lamp posts and books — all things have their presences.
The Revolutionary Act of "Doing Worthy"
Doesn’t everyone have a day when things fall apart? When it takes more effort than you think you have to put one foot in front of another? When even your technical devices seem to collude against you?
My reverie, pure joy, after my exhibit was done, ended abruptly with a letter from the IRS announcing they are coming to audit my business next week. On top of this, my intrepid father, at 96, fell for the first time and broke a bone.
So my retreat here at St Meinrad, scheduled so long ago, has been infiltrated with dread and piles of papers. The amount of sorting and retrieving of records is overwhelming, seven detailed pages of requests from the IRS … which calls to mind, once again, the old Greek story of Psyche. Her first impossible task was to sort seven different kinds of seeds, filling a gigantic room, floor to ceiling, before nightfall, before Aphrodite announces her time is up. I am thankful for these stories, and for the way a story puts the human dilemma in perspective. Just this morning, on my first day of this retreat, my son, who was born a muse, called. Ma, I had this dream. In a big room were all these small piles of seeds neatly sorted, and a spiral of seeds floating upward.
There are a few spaces in my classes at ABC 2020 in Alberta, Canada this summer:
Images from student work at Ghost Ranch
I am devoting this post to showing the work done by students in our recent class at Ghost Ranch. Please forgive this long absence — all my attention has been given to my class, and to finishing my paintings for my upcoming exhibit. Another post will be coming soon with some images from my show.
It is impossible, after a rich experience, to convey it all in words or images. This will give you a glimpse of the place, which has its own power and presence, and some of the work that was done.
It is not my job to praise or blame, only, in the end, to be envious of your work.
— William Stafford to his students
In the atmosphere of New Mexico high desert, we combined working with the Tarot cards (to strengthen intuition and inner imagery), with writing, painting and bookmaking…