December 28:
"It's almost there," has been my painting mantra for the last month. I repeatedly imagined being a mere 3 to 6 hours away from completion of the 30" x 40" canvas, only to find after another 13 hour day or all-nighter that I've logged something closer to an additional 60 hours wedged in and around the requisite holiday preparations/activities... and then I saw it: Creative proximity is spirallic in nature, the linear distance to be traveled to the next turning is far greater than the visible gap between them. Just gotta keep putting one foot--or brush stroke--in front of the other...

December 30
Did you hear that? The pop and fizz of cheap champagne punctuates completion of a painting that has evolved out of a vision received during a meditation in Alex and Allyson Grey’s visionary art workshop 3 and a half years ago. I wasn’t too surprised by the female tree being at the time; the third breast, on the other hand, pressed a quizzical wrinkle into my forehead that persisted until, in the course of drawing it, I got the full download.

This image expresses the wisdom of a book that had a profound impact on my thinking, “The Cultural Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World is a nonfiction social sciences and sociology book by sociologist Paul H. Ray and psychologist Sherry Ruth Anderson,[1] first published in 2000.[2] The authors introduced the term ‘Cultural Creatives’ to describe a large segment in Western society that has recently developed beyond the standard paradigm of modernists or progressives versus traditionalists or conservatives.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cultural_Creatives .  (Asheville Magazine has an excellent article, Cultural Creatives Q & A: http://newfrontier.com/asheville/cultural-creative-faq.htm)

The idea echoed here is that beyond the either/or push and pull of polarized beliefs-- whether the political schism between conservatives and liberals, or the warring philosophies of religion and science, lies a third possibility: Mutual respect. Cooperation. Unity.

The flexible and expansive cultural creative mindset embraces paradox. It acknowledges the necessary balance achieved through seeming contradiction as left AND right, above AND below, light AND dark transcend the rigid dogma and limitations of EITHER/OR judgments and nourish an alternative paradigm that preserves worthy traditional values, while allowing human rights and planetary quality of life to evolve for the greatest good of all.

The idea is not new. Taoism expresses the dualistic nature of physical reality in the symbol of opposing and mutually defining yin and yang, receptive and assertive life forces unified in the classic taijitu symbol, here embedded in a mandala over the heart. After all, as Antoine de Saint-Exupery said, "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

The title announced itself after our trip to Bali in the spring. Damai is the Indonesian word for peace. The Damai Divina expresses the divine peace possible when we view the contrast that makes not only equilibrium, but growth, possible through the eyes of love that acknowledge the value of every perspective on the infinite spectrum of creative possibility.

*****************

This was a learning piece (the biggest lesson I learned was not to dry the canvas outside subject to grit and flying insects of a Texas summer *Sigh* but I was too far in to abandon the project when I saw my error...), and one that owes a debt of gratitude to my instructors in the mischtechnik, Amanda Sage, Laurence Caruana,  and Maura Holden, and to Timea Tallon and Daniel Mirante who introduced me to the properties of various pigments (saving me a great deal of drying time as my deadline loomed). I’m thankful also to my fellow artists whose painting continuously inspires me to keep reaching higher and deeper.

Namaste.

December 2006

It is Llea’s idea, to take Christmas to Mary Lane.  Jolly coconspirators, we load a miniature Xmas tree, a Currier and Ives tin filled with fudge and cookies, a set of pretty blue glasses, a poinsettia, spools of wired ribbon, sparkling cider and a zip-up sweater for our frail 70-something friend living alone in her 90 year old farmhouse.

Llea warned me before she first introduced us that it is best to visit Mary Lane when you have no other agenda, nothing you personally need to do or say.  Simply allow her to pour herself out, all those words and emotions with no other outlet, nowhere else to go since her heart condition  (and probably a series of mini stokes) has compromised critical connections between the conceptual and executive branches of her brain, slowly extinguishing her ability to express her self in any cohesive way.

To be with Mary Lane is to enter her “world,” as she herself calls it, a psychological space devoted to the nature she has nurtured on her 50 acre farm and other transcendentalist and often romantic sensibilities: philosophy, prose, poetry, art, and music... Altho her thoughts scatter and roll in all directions like a broken strand of pearls, they are still pearls. Her manic monologues are rife with references to “beauty,” “depth,’ and “mystery.” And, sadly, with increasing frequency, “regret” and envy.”

The small shady yard looks a bit wooly and overgrown, but the pots on the porch have been painstakingly clustered together and covered with a sheet against the light freezes we’ve been having.

Llea pushes the front door open, calling out loud to Mary Lane. It is dim inside, more so than the three windows  would suggest. A dusty film of age and neglect blunts edges and dulls colors. Spider webs lace the window frames while the detritus of ancient floral arrangements, faded, brittle and drooping combinations of synthetic and dried flowers and grasses, slowly compost on the table tops. The walls barely remember white. Scuffed now, the porous old pre-laytex paint has absorbed the stains and shadows--material and emotional--of decades of living. Heavy dark wood lintels and beams, also filigreed with spider webs, fight the light for supremacy in the high ceilinged room.

I remember when the furnishings of the 60s and 70s were shiny new and oh so modern, but nearly 50 years later remnants of that era are tired. The earth tone florals on the matching love seat and sofa need to be refreshed. The pink polyester blanket on the sofa is pilled and forlorn. Still, there are telling treasures here. My favorite thing in the room, a  gloaming forest abstract painted by Mary Lane’s own hand, begs to be hung on a rich colored wall, deep warm blue, ochre or blood red that would reactivate the nuances of color on the canvas. The dusty baby grand piano and worn guitar and violin cases, deep cut crystal bowls, and a singular carved antique chair suggest once keen ears and eyes, but like Mary Lane herself they tend to get lost now in the haze of Havisham-ish loss,  great expectations disappointed...
 
Mary Lane comes thru the kitchen door with an “OOOHHH” of pleasure on her lips and two open arms. I’m struck anew by the birdlike delicacy of her bones inside her oversize pants, layered shirts and her small stained powder blue quilted nylon jacket held together by a safety pin across the breast bone. The absence of the makeup she usually dons for visitors speaks of hastening decline. Her full head of black and grey hair is missing its normal curls as if it is too weary to hold its once graceful arcs and curves. Llea and I hug and pet her, feeling how insubstantial she is inside the old coat, under the salt and pepper cloud of hair that is softer than it looks. She is so excited, “OOHHH, OOHHH,!” she exclaims joyfully at a loss for words that scatter before her like a flock of starlings. “I, I, I don’t know what to --oh my--I can’t believe--OOHH, this is so wonderful--I feel like I could cry...”

She does cry before the visit is over.  In the midst of watching us plug in the tree lights (altho it is a fake tree we’ve attached miniature old-world glass ornaments to it), pour cider and drape gold edged wire ribbon, (Mary Lane’s decor has fallen victim to time, but at her heart she appreciates the finer things, and it would be cruel to impose tacky or garish commercial decorations on her artistic sensibilities) Mary Lane, unaware that she has lost one lilac slipper buries her face into her hands, shuddering and weeping while we wrap our arms around her yet again, rocking her and  stroking her head as if comforting a child...

“Oh, oh, you don’t know how much this means to me. I’ve been so so, so-- I didn’t even want it to be Xmas...  since I can’t... I had--” She stammers, talks in starts and stops, struggling to remain on track, making it obvious how easily overwhelmed she is by even the simplest task these days. When words fail another hearty hug says it all.

The wood floor is lost beneath layers of blankets and carpet remnants Mary Lane put down for her labradors during their final illnesses.  The layers of synthetic fibers caked with the black and brown fur of dead dogs triggers steammatic carpet cleaning fantasies in Llea and I. In fact we both itch to clean the  room that speaks far more eloquently of lost powers than its mistress can. Ironically, Mary Lane’s obsessive compulsive tendencies have derailed her from basic cleaning tasks. Llea finds a washcloth and, giggling like kids about to be caught smoking in the girls room , we do some quick cleaning, swiping at the heaviest coatings of dust when Mary Lane mumbles her way in and out of the room, looking for some of her own Xmas decorations.

She comes back with a hand=made nativity from “South of Mexico.” I don’t know what that means exactly as I came into her life too late to hear more than fragments of her stories, but I like to imagine her in her prime, studying art, playing guitar with passionate young beatniks, a beautiful woman in Mexico wearing large silver and abalone earrings... Our humble offerings have sparked something and you can see it on her face, the memories that come flooding back to return her to herself however briefly.

That is why I invest so much time and energy into holiday preparations for my family, going to the trouble to dig the boxes out of my own attic, that crude and cramped time machine that takes me into Christmases past. A few bars of Nat King Cole singing The Christmas Song and the ritual unpacking of lights, garland and ornaments floods my brain with endorphins. (However my mother might believe she has failed, she feasted us with her version of beauty for the holidays --the home baked goods and handmade ornaments, colored lights, fresh crows foot evergreen wrapped around the bannister, the rare experience of family unity as we decorated the tree together... Later, aroused by our interactions here today, I will call to tell her so, surprised by the raw emotion that clots my throat when I try to thank my mother for the precious memories and traditions she gave us.)
           
Mary Lane clasps her hands together in pleasure at the tiny changes in the room making the cider, cookies and fudge all the sweeter. Standing on the porch to say goodbye she gestures at the yard around us and says emphatically that she couldn’t see the beauty even in this, her heart’s delight before, but now--she gestures again forcing me to read between the broken phrases--color, texture and the simple grace of trees and nodding narcissus have been restored to her.

Mary Lane frets that she cannot give us anything in return. She confesses that she can’t even write a thank you note. She is sincerely bewildered by our loving regard as she has been stripped one by one of the layers of competence and identity she felt gave her worth. There was a time when we wouldn’t have had to explain the mysteries of love to her, but now...

She thinks we’re here as a Christmas present to her, but I know this natural high is one of the best gifts I’ll give myself this year.

It’s been a full work week, but sulky and disruptive, the Writing Muse is not impressed  by the overflowing carts of ankle-twisting brambles removed from the muddy yard, the freshly sorted recycling bins, wave upon wave of dishes washed, counters, windows, and walls wiped, floors swept, workmen answered, paperwork organized, deadlines met.



Nor was she entertained by the episode of Christmas tree wrestling when an attempt to straighten the artificial trunk resulted in inadvertently dismembering it, a not so wily Coyote moment --actually more like seven minutes--of staggering under the top two thirds of the 7’ tree still attached to the bottom boughs by the tangle of mockingly cheerful lights, ornaments swinging wildly like shrunken heads on the Night Bus over my head while I tried to reinsert the top tube into the bottom obscured by the branches and lights filling my arms and mashed into my face.

I imagine this as a comic episode, but the muse is... unamused.



The Writing Muse was not distracted by the walk intended to stimulate my butter and pie saturated blood flow, nor was she appeased by the yoga aimed at unifying my body, mind and spirit, either. Jealous of the seven hours allotted to refining what I hope are among the last layers of brushwork on The Damai Divina, she’s stamps her dainty foot on my attempts to sleep. She looks at me accusingly.

We have work to do.


I know.
I know!



There have been breakthroughs in 2013: my re-birthday tattoo, art and myth workshops, travel to Seattle, Bali, Toronto, Italy, Fiji, and Austria, reunions and readings, all yielding insights, "aha"s tumbling into place unlocking new possibilities as I step--sometimes fevered and wet--across the threshold from motherhood to crone.

Not all visions, however, wish to be rendered in paint. Some ephemeral psychological states require words to jell.



Never mind the boxes of decorations strewn across the living room, the ringing phone, the unmade bed. The joy in creating order is that order clears the way for emerging creation... but order is a castle built of sand, and what is the point of living by the sea of creative potential if you don’t let those life-renewing waters wash over you now and then?



Right now it is Art’s turn. Word art.



And so I surrender. My ears and hands are yours--for now.