“Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason, you sing.”— William Stafford
My attention turned to sound when I heard the great horned owls calling this morning. I went out before dawn, as if they were summoning me, and listened. One was a tenor, the other a bass. Back and forth they sang, with long pauses. Once the tenor came in early, blending their voices together in harmony. The owls were hidden in thick shades of green, and the air a moist medium of song. When it began to get light, I thought surely this is the last verse. But the sun rose, the songbirds chimed in, and still the owls continued their duet.
"Come, let's stand by the window..." — Danusha Laméris
Each morning after meditation when I head down to my studio, there is a process of re-orientation. I used to think that after I had been painting this long I would walk into my studio and know what to do. This hasn’t happened yet. So I begin with my opening ritual — a way of re-orienting a mind in chaos. I take a glass from the altar and fill it with clear water. I light incense and ring a bell. Above the altar I have pictures of my guides, friends and family. I express my gratitude. An old greeting card is also posted on the wall, with a child’s drawing of a train climbing up a hill with the caption yes you can, yes you can, yes you can.
The Invisible Driver
All these dreams about being in a car — mostly as a passenger with an invisible driver, headed for disaster. There is always a tragedy about to happen: the car is on the wrong side of the road or careening out of control down a steep incline, or in a sudden slick ice blizzard.
Just as in the “impossible tasks” theme in the old stories, there is no apparent way through. It is terrifying. I am in one of these dreams; this time I can see the driver, but he is facing backwards. His hands are not on the wheel, and he can only see where we have already been. I am in the passenger seat, looking, and unlike the driver, I see what is ahead. The road has a hole in it large enough for a truck to fall into, and deep enough for a dozen. The faraway caw of a crow draws my attention to the distant hill, where a crowd has gathered. Then, somehow, the crowd vanishes. The driver and I are alone, heading at rapid speed toward the cavernous opening. When I try to speak, no sound comes. At the last moment, the driver, still facing backwards, adeptly navigates the car over the hole with the compass of a blind seer.
As in the old stories, help comes from unexpected places. In these dreams it is the invisible driver, as most often I cannot see who is driving — I only know it isn’t me.
"Tree, Stone, Eye" | Student Images from Taos
Before I left for Taos to teach the opening classes at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, I was pushing against the inertia of our long, long sequester. I felt the uncertainty that had grown in many of us about going into the world. I felt the reluctance to move. The poem below made me smile:
My head was heavy, heavy;
so was the atmosphere.
I had to ask two times
before my hand would scratch my ear.
I thought I should be out
and doing! The grass, for one thing,
needed mowing.
— from “Inertia,” a poem by Jane Kenyon
Now I have returned from a few weeks in New Mexico, teaching the classes that had been postponed for almost two years. We were the only ones at the retreat, and the classes were small. The landscape was beautiful, christened with desert showers and new blooming flowers. Everyone had been through something significant in our long period of sequester. There was rejoicing — the fresh newness of being together in a room. This rejoicing was helped along by spectacular food, made by our chef, Sophia, and her team — and good wine.
I began, as always, with the conviction that each student who shows up has a particular gift, and is in class to enliven and strengthen that gift — the seed they were given at birth. Everyone is born with a gift. I believe, and am privileged to witness, that the making of art for its own sake will “bring into realization the self most centrally yours” (William Stafford).
Lying Fallow: "Something in us does not erode." — Mark Doty
“ … that there is
something stubborn in us
— does it matter how small it is?—
that does not diminish.
What is it? An ear,
a wave? Not a bud
or a cinder, not a seed
or a spark: something else:
obdurate, specific, insoluble.
Something in us does not erode.
— Mark Doty | from “Manhattan: Luminism” in Fire to Fire: New and Selected Poems
I have not disappeared; just took the month of April to lie fallow, or take flight. Fallow: left unsown for a period in order to restore its fertility. I set down my work— brushes, paint, ink, canvas, classes— and was, for a while, a student and wanderer.
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
— Mary Oliver | from “Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?” in West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems
My husband, desperate for an adventure, got the idea of driving to the nearest shore, which from here in Kentucky is Alabama. The picture above is from the ferry we took from Dauphin Island to a small spit of beach on the other side, whose only name we could find is “Grass Island.” On the way there the children on the ferry were joyfully throwing bits of their lunch in the air, which the gulls caught in frenzied dives, mid-flight, just above our heads.
Laurie Doctor Newsletter: Current Online Classes and Work
Responding to requests, we are going to offer another session of “Speak to Me From Everywhere” the week beginning March 15. Our intention is to support the lovely Taos retreat, Mabel Dodge Luhan House. We will donate 5% of all the proceeds to Mabel Dodge Luhan House in Taos, New Mexico, where I hold annual retreats.
Thank you for your enthusiasm, encouragement and participation. We are delighted with the level of connection that can happen online, in spite of the longing to be in a physical place.
The focus in the class is on exploring our “near environment” through writing— using four aspects of landscape: scale, value, movement and pattern. My intention is to create an online class that mirrors, as much as it is possible, the contemplative atmosphere of the physical classroom.
Click on this link to register for “Speak to Me From Everywhere”.
Examples of student work from our most recent online class follows!
Study in Blue
The first question from the students in my January online class was:
What do you mean, it’s the small things that are important?
I paused. This simple question struck unexpectedly deep. What I was thinking about was beginning the new year with something small, slender or secret— rather than pledging to do something big. Rather than make a splash, make an offering. Something you can hold in your hand, or your heart. After a pause I thought, that is where the power is.
What do you mean, it’s the small things that are important? She asked.
What I found myself saying was:
I just watched my father die. When someone goes, they leave a space behind. What does one who goes leave you? What memory strikes your heart? Is it their accomplishments, their possessions, their image? I saw clearly, it was not my father’s inventions or belongings, his work, or his beautiful hand-crafted Japanese knives. It was the small acts of kindness.
"A brave candling theory I’m making for you, little lamplight, believe..." — Mark Doty
Once again, I am reminded of the power of pausing, especially today on the winter solstice, when from ancient times, people recognized as the time to collaborate with the stars to bring back the light. Ancient peoples understood that “creation” is not something that happened “out there”, once upon a time, but is continuously happening by our choosing to participate. Our intentions, this moment of pausing and choosing to point ourselves in a certain direction, matters. The word solstice is derived from the Latin sol ("sun") and sistere ("to stand still"). Stand still and listen to the stars. The Bushmen could hear them singing. Knowing that we live in collaboration with this earth, the trees and stones and stars, matters. Imagine that invisible force we call gravity, holding us in place. Without this help, we would all spin off into space. It is a time of remembering what it is so easy to forget: we can call on trees and stones and stars, and the invisible force that brought us here, and will take us away. We can call on these presences to help us bring in the light. There is a profound feeling in this conjunction, visible from millions of miles, of other forces at work.
And how do we navigate all the loss? How can we take solace in the age old wisdom that the gift is received by being willing to dive into the abyss?
Online Course: Images from "Speak to Me from Everywhere"
Someone said that to not hurry is rest. We all need, as Gottfried Pott said, time under protection of the muse. How do we do this remotely? The paradox for me is wanting to design a course through this screen that sets up a structure for you to work, for a while, without any screens, watches or interruptions. My feeling is that this is a deep need, and essential to creativity.
My first online class is complete, and made possible by all you adventurers out there who decided to jump into this experiment. I am deeply gratified by the sense of participation that was palpable throughout the week.
Each day we worked, through writing, with a different principle of landscape. I want to show you some work from students.
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.