MuSe

 

Welcome 2022

Oh, to be rid of 2021. It started January 6 with crazies storming our capitol building trying to topple our democratic government. It ended with a catastrophic fire ten miles from where I sit and type this, destroying 1100 homes. Last night a blanket of more than a foot of snow covered everywhere around me, and I am going to go out and rejoice that finally a new year with new beginnings awaits in this clean white world that has fallen from the sky.

This year I:

--learned to do ceramics, a saving grace in a lockdown year

--wrote this in my journal: "It would seem we have been admitted to the spheres of dreams and magic." -Goethe.

--remembered many dreams, and revisited them to learn patterns and teachings from deep in my own subconscious and perhaps from elsewhere as well. Payed a dream shamanic counselor to help me refine the teachings, invaluable.

--welcomed my second adorable grandchild, and got to visit them both on her first birthday. We went to a petting zoo, picked pumpkins, walked to the playground to swing and play, hiked a beautiful Fall New Jersey trail, read books and cuddled on the couch, sang some songs, and I felt it was the best weekend of my life.

--continued my gardening with plant teachers and allies: lots of sage, some rosemary and echinacea, always roses and peonies and hellebore and daffodils. A few hot peppers, not enough to justify the watering I gave them. A first crop of apricots, most of which I got before the squirrels did. A overabundance of apples, plenty for us and all the critters. Only several raspberries (not enough water.) Catnip everywhere. Compost bags from the grocery store which created a food source for rodents, and then visits by owls and hawks. The wheel turned and created food. The teachings of the plants has always been women's work, and time in my garden helped to unbind me from the political realities of this difficult year. Green things rooting, rising, wilting, and falling teaching me that we will continue to expand and contract in order to grow. Joy arriving in the explosion of color in flowers.

--walked my dog on quiet paths, did some yoga, stopped anti-depressants, got a cataract fixed, ate mostly keto then lots of chocolate, started a new job and got a new (to me) car, tried to look forward hopefully instead of backward with despair, read a lot.  Spent lots of time alone: "I and me are always too deeply in conversation, how could I endure it if there were not a friend?"  -Nietzsche.

Observe the wonders as they occur around you.
Don't claim them.
Feel the artistry moving through, and be silent.
-Rumi

Travels

In these strange times, travel is hard to plan, difficult to execute, scary to embark upon. I always have used dreams of travel to alleviate stagnation. I read somewhere that the anticipation of a trip is more of a joy than the actual trip. Making travel journals with photos and notes of where to go and what to do always preceded any big trip I had. Then while on the trip, I would fill in pages of photos and activities. I treasure these travel journals and go back time and again to enjoy those adventures. Memories are preserved and kept alive for things I long ago would have totally forgotten.

After being homebound for two years, we did venture on two short journeys - a birthday trip for a long weekend, and a weekend to New Jersey to see precious grandkids (ages 1 and 2.)

Now with new variants of Covid lurking, new mask wearing restrictions, and inevitable travel plans halted, I am forced to get my fix from books.

Here is one fabulous book I am enjoying: "Eighty Days, Nellie Bly and Elizabeth Bishland's History Making Race Around the World" by Matthew Goodman.

The year is 1889, and two rival newspapers challenged two young women journalists to race around the world in opposite directions, trying to beat Jules Vernes' fictional Phileas Fogg's "Around the World in Eighty Days."

One of the young women got to meet Jules Vernes and he was delighted in her adventure. I was lucky enough to spend time in his hometown of Nantes a few years ago, so I loved that he got to meet someone actually attempting his outrageously ambitious idea of going around the globe in less than three months. 

How is it that in less that 130 years, we have gotten to the point where we expect to hop on a plane and be wherever we want in less than a day?

This book makes me want to book passage on a freighter and leisurely explore the globe. Will that even happen again in this day of viruses?

In the meantime, the book is a great escape.

Here's to future journeys.

Literary whales, from the archives

 

precious soul . . .

 

Become birds, poems.

My mom turns 92 tomorrow.

I found this beautiful poem fragment by our Poet Laureate, Joy Harjo about a friend's 70th birthday:

So, my friend, let’s let that go, for joy, for chocolates made of ashes, mangos, grapefruit, or chili from Oaxaca, for sparkling wine from Spain, for these children who show up in our dreams and want to live at any cost because

we are here to feed them joy. Your soul is so finely woven the silkworms went on strike, said the mulberry tree. We all have mulberry trees in the memory yard. They hold the place for skinned knees earned by small braveries, cousins you love who are gone, a father cutting a

watermelon in the summer on the porch, and a mother so in love that her heart breaks — it will never be the same, yet all memory bends to fit. The heart has uncountable rooms. We turn to leave here, and so will the hedgehog who makes a home next to that porch. We become birds, poems.

C L A Y !

 Let the beauty you love be what you do.   --Rumi

Red Rocks

We did a thing. We went to hear Get the Led Out, and sat outside in Red Rocks Ampitheater with 6000 other people.

Like most of us, it's been a year and a half since we have joined any gathering.

and it felt good. Maybe we are getting back to normal.

God bless Led Zeppelin.

 

If whales could fly . . . .

 

I'm a little teapot, short and stout

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wheel thrown body and spout, hand built lid.

When I glaze I will return to show results.

Ceramics is pure therapy.

C L A Y !

I am smitten.

I simply love throwing on the wheel, trimming, firing to bisque, glazing, and firing again.

How did I not start this sooner?

Better late than never.

Out of Sheer Rage

Have you ever read a book so good, that as soon as you read the very last line, you turned back to the beginning and had to read it all over again?

Early this morning at 3 AM (when I am chronically awake due to teaching at that time) I finished Out of Sheer Rage by Geoff Dyer, a memoir about his struggle to write a critical analysis of D. H. Lawrence. Then I turned back to the very first page to start all over again.

Here is the opening line:

Looking back, it seems, on the one hand, hard to believe that I could have wasted so much time, could have exhausted myself so utterly, wondering when I was going to begin my study of D. H. Lawrence; on the other it seems equally hard to believe that I ever started it, for the prospect of embarking on this study of Lawrence accelerated and intensified the psychological disarray it was meant to delay and alleviate. 

and here is the last sentence of the book:

The world over, from Taos to Taormina, from the places we have visited to the countries we will never set foot in, the best we can do is to try to make some progress with our studies of D.H. Lawrence. 

I, just like Dyer, am a person who can't always face the work in front of me, and often uses another creative project to delay what it is I am SUPPOSED to be doing.

The only time in my life I have been disciplined enough to actually hack out a rough draft of one of the many, many novels floating around in my brain was when I was supposed to be writing my Architecture thesis. The thesis certainly did eventually get written, but only in fits and starts whenever I was tired of working on that silly novel. I have found one of the best ways to get some big project done is to use it as a distraction from OTHER work you have to do!

The brilliance of Dyer's book is not really this recipe for procrastination, it more is how he weaves in the amazing (and challenging) person of Lawrence; visiting places in his life, Rome, Paris, Greece, England and Taos, New Mexico. Lawrence and Dyer are both people who always long to be somewhere else, and this resonated so deeply with me.

But why do we long to travel when it is so expensive, exhausting, and difficult? I think I have more understanding of this after reading this book. We are looking for something, that even though it is actually right in us, we will see more clearly when we are in new, challenging, inspiring surrounds.

Taos is where Lawrence's ashes are scattered, and where he took up painting and seemed happiest in his life. He had TB and died young, and Taos was the last place where he felt healthy and productive. My daughter lives near Taos, and is a painter, and the energy of this place exudes spareness, creativity, natural beauty.  It also allows emptiness.  I think Dyer admires Lawrence's ability to just BE, doing nothing. He also, of course, admires the boundaries Lawrence broke in his writing (Women in Love was banned for its 'pornographic language' and 'inappropriate content'.) The courage to just do something for sheer pleasure, not for any praise or critical success is huge in Lawrence, and perhaps the biggest lesson I get from him.

In fact, I have a memory of an experience of pleasure thanks to D. H. Lawrence. I lived in NJ at the time and there was a film opening of a three hour Lady Chatterley's Lover at a small art theater in Manhattan. Boarding the train, riding the hour into town, then walking to the theater, I passed an extravagant chocalatier, and on impulse went in and bought a perfect little box of truffles. As I enjoyed the movie I nibbled on these amazing chocolates. The beauty of the natural scenery in the movie, the poignancy of Lady Chatterley discovering pleasure, the taste of those chocolates. . . . all of it, divine. When the movie ended, and I stopped in the restroom, a beautiful young African American woman looked me in the eye (she had obviously been in the same movie) and said to me "Now, that is how we all need to live life!" We smiled conspiratorially at each other, and it was as charming a moment as any in the movie.

Thanks to D. H Lawrence for writing about pleasure and the pursuit of art.

Thanks to Geoff Dyer for knowing the seeking of the answers is actually as worthy as the finding of them.

Thanks to that beautiful young woman in the theater for bonding with this middle age woman over the glory of film, art, nature and chocolate!

Thanks that this strange year of quarantine is coming to and end and I can dream of travel once again.

Now to go read this book a second time. . . . .

 

 

 

Turnings

I have been learning to throw pottery on the wheel. I am taking a ceramics class at our local Rec Center, and it has been amazing for many reasons.

First - it is the first time in a year I have been in a room with more than the people I live with. We take precautions, like wearing masks and staying mostly 6' away from each other. But the casual conversation while we work is just a treat. The six other women in my class range in age, and it always surprises me that I am actually the oldest one! When did that happen???

Second - I simply love the wheel. The slow process of centering, the up and down coning to get all the air bubbles out of the clay, the wetness and smoothness of the surface. I love the way the clay bends and moves according to very slight hand pressure. With very subtle, even motions, the lumpy ball turns into a graceful, elegant form. It is so pleasing.

At this stage, half the shapes I start with end up collapsing, or rotating off center, or being too lumpy or thick or thin. But with more practice, I am growing in skill, and this growth really is satisfying.

Now and then, something catches, I move too quickly or lose concentration, and the whole shape goes off.

Trimming, as well, has risks and just a little push too hard makes the whole pot go wacky.

Third - I am not always upset with the surprises. After trimming, there is glazing, which always brings unexpected results. I spend hours watching you tube videos on throwing, trimming, decorating and glazing. It is a lovely new world of creativity.

Even the off-centered or thick-walled or drippy-glazed pots thrill me. And although I really admire the perfection of production potters, (who I spend hours watching on you tube) I know I will continue to be a person who experiments and admires the happy accidents.

Turnings of clay, of seasons, of years, changes that are expected and many that are not, it feels like a spiral of growth toward some peak. I am looking forward to what that might be. 

Whale Road

Something I learned today: A kenning is a figure of speech in which two words are combined in order to form a poetic expression that refers to a person or a thing. For example, "whale-road" is a kenning for the sea. Kennings are most commonly found in Old Norse and Old English poetry.

Isn't that beautiful? Whale Road.

(I am putting more whale cards in my Etsy shop, if you are in the market.)

Dream time.

I'd like to tell you a story.

A true story.

Several years ago, I was driving in my car to Boulder, Colorado, to attend a two day dream summit. It was led by Robert Moss, an amazing dream teacher and writer of many books about using dreams as a shamanic practice. 

I was feeling quite stagnant and quite uninspired in my life at that time, and was deeply hoping this dream summit might point me in a new direction. I knew that imagination creates reality so I asked my imagination to activate right at that moment.

Is there anything you want? Anything that would inspire you, fill you with joy, make you feel alive? I asked myself.

The answer:  A horse. I would love to ride a horse, to be connected again with this sport/hobby that I have always deeply loved, but rarely had time or money for in my life.

Half an hour later, I am sitting in the circle of 60 or so attendees, each one a stranger to me. I turn to the lady on my left, "and what do you do?" I ask.

"I teach therapeutic riding with my horse." came the answer.

The Universe is more magical than we realize if we only give over our reality to it's playfulness.

Remembering gathering with friends. . . .

 

Pandemic predicted, a book to read.

Dale Pendell, author of the brilliant Pharmacopeia series, wrote a novel called Chronicles of the Collapse.

Written in 2010, 8 years before his death, here is the Amazon description:

Based in scientific reality, Dale Pendell presents a powerful fictional vision of a fast-approaching future in which sea levels rise and a decimated population must find new ways to live. The Great Bay begins in 2021 with a worldwide pandemic followed by the gradual rising of the seas. Pendell’s vision is all encompassing—he describes the rising seas’ impact on countries and continents around the world. But his imaginative storytelling focuses on California. 

A “great bay” forms in California’s Central Valley and expands during a 16,000-year period. As the years pass, and technology seems to regress, even memory of a “precollapse” world blends into myth. Grizzly bears and other large predators return to the California hills, and civilization reverts to a richly imagined medieval society marked by guilds and pilgrimages, followed even later by hunting and gathering societies. 

Pendell’s focus is on the lives of people struggling with love, wars, and physical survival thousands of years in California’s future. He deftly mixes poetic imagery, news-reporting-style writing, interviews with survivors, and maps documenting the geographic changes. In the end, powerful human values that have been with us for 40,000 years begin to reemerge and remind us that they are desperately needed—in the present.

Dreaming.

I am attending an on line dream summit hosted by the JungPlatform.

And just as I have immersed in thinking and writing about dreams I have come to the end of my latest dream journal, I filled the last page just this morning.

Luckily I had a "big dream" just as this summit started, so I have had rich images and ideas to work with and put these dream working theories to practical use right away.

Last night before sleeping I asked my dreams to clarify the "big dream" of yesterday. The new dream did not seem to connect, but putting the lessons together in a sort of Haiku form does make some sense.

Reality
Trespasses on imagination
Don't get overloaded

 

 

Do dreams ever need to make sense? Maybe the non-sense is the point.

I have always loved the idea that we can live in a "story telling consciousness"  an idea written about by Anais Nin. Dreams are a sort of story telling our sub conscious gives us to lead us into that deeper, more connected way of being.

I am learning a technique of being a naturalist in your own dream, observing deeply and with patience and no judgement. 

It's pretty great. Try it.

How we ended this difficult year

We recently visited my daughter in New Mexico, (following quarantine protocols, since neither she nor we have been interacting with anyone.)

She lives in a neighborhood founded by Buddhists and artists some 50 odd years ago, headed by an artist named Herman Rednick, who painted many beautiful portraits of ascended masters.  These paintings are in a retreat building/gallery open to the public for meditation and contemplation. This portrait spoke to me.

Part of my shamanic practice is to meet spiritual teachers. Shamanism allows us direct revelation from other entities, and the portraits hanging in this room helped me envision these beings. In my journeys,  I have ventured to the upper world, to a panel of Ascendant Masters, seven of them. They correspond to the colors of the spectrum (ROYGBIV) as well as the seven whole notes of the heptatonic scale. I loved that this painting shows the rainbow behind the wise master.

The energy of this place is so peaceful. When Covid is gone, they will host lectures; right now a Tibetan Lama is visiting. There is a Tibetan Buddhist stupa with magnificent interior paintings. I am so thrilled for my daughter living here, and we hope to visit frequently.

They also are building earth bag cabins for guests to stay in, and there is a retreat center. We wandered through the snow covered/tree filled paths around these buildings, it was so peaceful and soothing.

 

This area is about 40 minutes North of Taos, and sits in a huge plain with mountains around:

I know we all are hopeful and ready for this year to be over, and 2021 to bring us health, happiness, compassion, and new focused energies.

Happy New Year to all!

I've been making soap, here's why:

A few years ago, I learned (reading wikipedia about soap making) that Marseilles, starting in the 15th Century, was the leading soap manufacturer for all of France.
This makes sense to me, because back in 1982, when I was an exchange student in Aix-en-Provence, I discovered that the big fat bars of unscented Marseilles soap, sold in the farmer's market, was the best thing I'd ever used on my skin.

Here is how it happened:

My story starts, like many, once upon a time in a land far away. I was an exchange student in France, living in Provence, loving the local market produce, the bread, the shops, the way of life that included slow meals and lots of walking. I lived with a family with 6 boys (not so strange for me since I have 3 brothers) and I got to immerse myself in the language and culture, and endure some amount of daily challenge. One challenge was the food - I always have to watch what I eat very carefully, and I just could not resist the bread. There is just nothing in the world like a crisp crunchy French Baguette.

Here I must digress a bit - I have Celiac disease, allergy to wheat gluten. At that time, I did not know it. So here I was, a stranger in a strange land, eating what was poison to my body unknowingly.

So we come to skin. 

Celiac disease often expresses itself in skin problems. I could not get rid of persistent itchy rashes, Wandering in the market in Aix-en-Provence, I found wonderful large blocks of "Marseilles" soap - which by French law must be a minimum of 72% vegetable oils and have no fragrance or color. These bars are made with ancient recipes, cooked for days, and poured directly into molds in the concrete floors, before being lifted and and chopped into chunky bars.  My skin LOVED this pure, natural soap. I bought what I thought was a huge supply when I left (3 large chunky bars or so) but never have found it here in the U.S.

Another amazing health-saving product I discovered while in Aix-en-Provence was Vervain. Even though I am a true coffee addict, I found a digestive infusion/tea that was served in all the cafes was very helpful for my symptoms. I replaced my coffee addiction with the vervain addiction, and it soothed my Celiac symptoms and was very helpful.

Vervain is a member of the Verbena family that is grown in the Mediterranean, used by Druids and Romans as a sacred herb, and one of the original Bach Flower remedies. Vervain is closely related to the new world Lemon Verbena, but the latin names are different and the healing properties of the plants are slightly different. Vervain was another product I never could find here in the states. Our life paths have a funny magical sort of way of unfolding, and I found myself in very dry Colorado 30 years later with a greenhouse, a burning desire to grow Vervain, and the urge to finally make myself some soap that my skin would love. My experiments resulted in these bars. Super moisturizing, full of olive oils and shea butter, no fragrance or dye or any drying chemical additives which commercial soap is made of,  I finally can hold that ancient wisdom of Provence that heals right in my hand in a bar of soap.