Pink Coyote

Squam Part 3: BeaRaccoon

I'm still transforming and integrating back into home, as a friend put it, I've just walked  over a threshold into a very vital place and it's taking me some time to reassemble my home life/roles in a new way. Not unlike those dismemberment journeys I'm so fond of! I love the very concept of retreating in order to step through another door, to have that last little experience that issues permission to cross into the next adventure. So for now, I can only offer some personal anecdotes of what it was like on my end as I catch up with what's downloaded.

I wasn't planning on making a mask of my own when I packed my supplies for one of the classes I taught at SAW last week, Muse As Mask. I figured I'd be busy helping everyone with their masks. Made sense.

However, as the circle began I discovered that what I was asking each of my beautiful students to do was to deeply trust her self-guidance, even the bits that felt like mistakes on the piece. To check out of her left-brain analytics and quietly peruse with her intuition leading the way. And so it turned out that I sang them a Native American song and pretty much was no longer needed. *grin*

I cut my mask out of heavy blue cotton duck and then promptly sewed a piece of bright yellow felt over it. My third chakra spoke right up and I felt that I was working with the energies of my power center. Certainly just teaching this group was a test of how I could do what I set out to, and so I felt a Bear coming into being as I stitched, glued and assembled unconsciously alongside these women. I've painted, written and talked about Bear a number of times here-and she felt like a strong, natural guide for me to sidle up to and also embody. She is brave, sure of herself, plods along at an easy pace, and also very protective. I became aware of how protective I felt of my students and of the space we were working in.

Then I pulled a lamp over on myself, burned my hand at the fireplace and tripped over a cord.

My mask started to take on another face- still an ominivorous, curious creature with a penchant for scavenging through discarded treasures, but one who is known for...his mask. Was it Faulkner who said something akin to having to read what he's written about something in order to know what he thinks of it?

In this application, Raccoon uses the positive aspects of his Mask to become something he is not, or is not yet. He knows when to share information with others and when to hold it close. His mystery becomes magic when used thoughtfully and with good intentions. A little Merlin, he is an expert at disguise and secrecy. Raccoon is a powerful animal when change is sought. He can thrive in any environment, making his dreams attainable if he will but name and pursue them. Working under the cover of night, the nocturnal wizard finds tools for transformation in unexpected places. Shamanic journey, active imagination and work with the dreamtime can produce magical results when practiced diligently, and with care and reverence for the medicine. Raccoon's tricky nature can commit to this work, by making personal growth a fun and thrilling puzzle to be solved. As his dexterous fingers pick the locks of the soul's desires, wisdom and booty are uncovered with glee. At his best, Raccoon does not hide who he really is. Rather, he sets himself up for success, and follows through without revealing his methods unless it serves him. Raccoon people can avoid becoming overly secretive, isolated and surly in old age by being social and having fun with their friends. Deep change is inspired by what Raccoon discovers when he is out of his comfort zone, exploring and seeking treasure.

It would seem as though a tricky messenger wanted to let me know that just because I was teaching, I did not have to be perfect. In fact, I try so very hard not to try to be perfect, I felt comfortable in the discomfort of my bumblings (!) and actually, was able to become a bit more dextrous just by doing *what I do*. Silly me for thinking even for a minute that I needed to show up as anything other than a student of life myself. Together with my students, Raccoon and Bear reminded me that I can be in my power and show up as a strong guide and explorer just as I am. I am already outfitted for this job. This is the beauty of wearing our Muse, our inspirations, on our shirtsleeves.

In a nutshell, we can let ourselves off the hook. Once and for all.

Turn to the Harp

There was a time when I was all about doing it right. When I had no other tools other than thinking it through, writing it down, hashing it out, forming opinions, making a decision and going for, or against it.

Again with this turning forty business- is it just me? Or is there a whole life that exists between the lines of logic?

photo by Terri Fischer.

Outside of helping my business test it's wings, paying the DMV their dues, and occasionally checking on my children's hygeine, I find myself hanging onto reason by a neglected thread. Books with decidedly un-western tales of where the divine feminine is hiding seek me out, and it is into these realms that I sail, diving deeper than ever into the place where there is no push, and even fewer answers.

When one side of human nature grows out of balance with the other, it becomes a tyranny on the soul. That is the tyrant Duke Morgan. It drives its complimentary opposite into the unconscious. That is Blanchefleur. But the unconscious will not tolerate this kind of imbalance; we have already learned that the greatest force in the psychic universe is the demand for completion, for wholeness, for balance. The feminine will return. Across the seas, Iseult is waiting. And when Iseult comes, the self-satisfied patriarchal world will never be the same.   --WE, Robert Johnson.

I read a thread of opinions recently that brought into sharp focus how removed I'm becoming from...well, strong opinions! As odd as that may sound. I did not even know how to respond or chime in. I think I would have had plenty to say about a subject like this a few years ago, but I checked in with myself and came up with...yep, nothing.

I'm not trying to come up with nothing. I'm really not. I see myself as having been overidentified with my own inner masculine (animus) for so long, that though I'm not trying to reject this part of myself- but rather bring it into balance with my healthy feminine aspects- at this point in time I have very little use for it. Perhaps because I'm gestating a big project? Maybe. It's quite like being pregnant again and reminds me of how ambivalent I've felt, even at election times-which used to get a hot rise out of me before I had children.

When we moved to the Central Valley of California four years ago, I was full of fear. It was all my rednecked, oil-field laden, pesticided, anti-creative, dustbowl nightmares come true. But something strange has happened, as I've come to realize that where I live is more like the rest of the world than the hidden hippie mountain communities I wish I lived in. What I think I'm learning is that the world needs the kind of healing that isn't happening through politics or lobbying. What I'm learning is that I'm surrounded by people who WANT to heal and who ARE healing, despite appearances that have long left me feeling suspiciously otherwise. Perhaps this is why I don't have many opinions anymore. Basically, I've learned that I don't know shit. *Logically* know.

On another level completely, the deepest recesses of Self that we can touch inside of us, a marriage is trying to take place. The lost and knowing feminine is calling up, and she is dark, mysterious, silent, and ocean wave-like. She is transmuting poison, transforming shadows, applying the salves of the ancients, reminding us that to begin in our own injured hearts is to allow the medicine to trickle out effortlessly. It requires a kind of trust that has, in the past, made me very uncomfortable, because I am a big ole control freak. I've had trouble having faith that I'm protected from within. But I think I'm getting it now. The control freak seems to be a one dimensional warrior who misses his queen and is drenched in longing for her to rejoin him. She is Deep Trust, and she is Unwavering Faith, and she has been all but missing for the first half of my life.

No wonder I'm so eager to embrace her.

Each of us needs the sword power. There are times when we need to be logical and analytical. At times, we must be assertive and strong. But there are also times when neither logic nor force will avail; then we need to turn to the harp.  --WE, Robert Johnson.

 

photo by Stacy de la Rosa.

Breadcrumbs

I'm so grateful for your responses to my humble video, thank you, all. All over the webs I've heard your resounding feminine voices of support and the yearning to bring more sacredness to your experiences. This fills me with love of humankind, to know that healing, releasing, and growth are finding even more ways to thrive, and die, and then sprout up again like a determined vine and shoot to heights yet unknown by previous generations.

I know that I'll never stop finding reasons to deepen my love of Wild Woman, even when I feel spilling-over sated.

I do want to share a meandering clump of thoughts about being mama to a twenty-two month old and a five year old, as I attempt slowly to deepen my practice and offerings. I'm thinking, as I write this, of a few mothers I heard from today who want to live a spiritual, self-fulfilled life while sucked into the black hole of motherhood.

It may seem as though I live a double life: my dream life as an artist, writer and healer, and my life as fully accountable and nurturing mother. But this is not the way it is. I'm blessed with an open floor plan, a flexible schedule plus lots of counterspace, not to mention very accommodating grandparents two parcels down.

Also, at the very good advice of an elder years ago, I threw my husband to the wolves early on, having to trust he would figure out what to do -which he survived, of course,  allowing me to escape the demanding clutches of pudgy fingers now and again. The condition is that I can't critique the job he does if I'm going to claim solitude. It works brilliantly. I don't care if they eat popsicles for every meal and ride the dogs into town bareback. What I do know is that I have to get away and recharge or I will freak the hell out. Letting go gets easier as I practice it.

When I'm at my best, I don't see my two or three jobs (let's face it, the house is another job entirely) as mutually exclusive. I think I'd resent one or more of them if did.

Often, my work is done while children eat, nap, build marble runs, fight over toys, scream for a third squirt of toothpaste, bathe, pee on the floor when I'm not looking, feed their lunch to begging canines, and most effectively, when they lay their precious heads down to sleep at night.

The children come along to snip herbs in the garden with me, learning as they go, as every moment around here is an opportunity to teach or explore. They get dragged along to metaphysical stores to buy stones, and shout from my aching hip as I consent to pay, onehanded, eleven dollars for a heart shaped piece of jasper to quiet her. They come along feather collecting at the nature center, as I take a hundred shots of the Hawks and Coyotes, double timing them while they slurp sugary push-ups and devour those cookie/ice cream sandwich nightmares. On nights when they can't sleep with restlessness or the result of too much cookie ice cream, I pace between their rooms and my studio thinking about how Snake and Moonstone would really go well together and...hmmm... what might be a great Valentine giveaway?

My spirit practice, my artwork and business, my children and my home are all my babies. Isn't it true for you? Women are the great multitaskers. Does any one of them get more time than the other? Blending and integrating has been the only thing that has saved me as I've set out to fulfill my own soul and keep them all humming peacefully.

Except the reality is that nothing operates peacefully because they are all restless beasts, every one of them. Simultaneously draining and feeding me like on-demand morphine. It's pure chaos, and my adrenals scold me mercilessly.

All I can think to do, when the nerves are frayed at the ends, and there isn't enough of me to go around, is to throw love at all of them-the babes, the unfinished paintings, the jobs, the grungy baseboards. Just fling it. Heap it on and roll in it. I mean, do you have a better suggestion? If you do, I want to hear it. I figure if I trust that there's a bottomless well of love within me, then that is my greatest ally when one of us needs me. Patience and sleep I fall short on, but love I got plenty of. The part that gets tricky on this program however, is giving it to ourselves.

For the mamas who mailed feeling not-enough yet, and are buckling under the creative inspiration that being a mother brings, mixed with the lack of time it suckerpunches you with, this is for you.

Our job as mama is so important, especially in the early years- but our job taking care of ourselves is equally important. All the hungry souls need fed, including our own. We have to find a way to be kind to ourselves as we begin to trust the new trail, while designing the day that allows for cacophonous meltdowns and total clinging dependency on us, but which carves out a bit of sacred solitude, too.

I am thinking that we must love our way through it all, though no one taught us to do such a thing.

It takes time, but the wild one always finds the trail back home, the one that is marked with her own magnificent breadcrumbs.

 

 

 

 

 

When the Dogs Find You

 

Sacred Balance. Mixed-media on 1/2" maple plywood, 22" x 22".

This painting has just been completed and will be listed tonight in my etsy shop, along with one other. It has been a very interesting experience, as usual. What I find most fascinating about this whole spirited process of creation is that in a sense, I do what I feel soul directed to do. Then I sit with the image and try to see what it wants to convey, and recall moments while I was creating it. Then I go on a little mission to see what I can find out about the things that want to be seen the most, in this case the Mexican Wolves, the structure, the way the figures appear in relation to each other. What are they teaching me? Or sometimes it comes to show me that they are documenting something- a motif which I am currently living, but which is universal.

When the message jumps out, as it always does, and I intuitively know that I've heard it correctly, I feel so excited. I usually shout, "Of course!" or "Yes!" and if someone is around at the time, they may look at me like I'm off my nut, which I'm happy to be in that moment.

Just as I was dreamily sorting out the last of the visual elements, I made a little video in which I explain a little bit about my artmaking process. Since I'm teaching a mixed-media painting class at SAW in September, I thought it would be helpful to share a little bit of my voice and process with you. I liked making it, though laugh with me in the beginning when I realize there is a hideous pink earplug lying in the shot and quickly remove it. :)

 

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

Blizzard

 

 

Bring the Flood

Weeping Woman, 1937.

Need I even note his holy name? He's my favorite, you know.

I've been feeling dried up like a forgotten old raisin under a carseat cushion. Needing hydration, rain, emotions. Somewhere between the summer madness and the committing to of next year's plans, I've forgotten to stay connected to some vital aspects of my own feelings. And here I thought I'd been so good about loving them up and down. The reality is that I hold a lot of space for others to have feelings, read: little ones, clung to my leg like static, who erupt into tears about fifty times each in a day. And friends who trust me enough to shed tears in my ear. I envy all of you.

I get to and need to cry, too. How could I forget this?

Tonight I melted down but good, and sadly, it came at the cost of yelling at Miles while he putzed endlessly, picking at his dinner. A meal that the rest of us unsurprisingly weren't having. I gave him a consequence I had to shortly thereafter recant on, and once cleaned up between he and I, I retired to check in with myself about how shitty it all felt and how awful I made him feel.

It wasn't easy to connect. I knew there was a well of emotions ready to come up out of hiding, but I had to conjure, dig, lie down for, and cajole. I just store it up so that it forgets what it's like to come out as tears. As frustration, no problem, I'm topped up on hair trigger frustration these days.

Once they began to flow, I marched out into the living room, blankie around shoulders and cried right in front of the children and B, instead of hiding my feelings away and trying to appear like the one who has it together- the one they can trust and lean into when they feel sad. Very sensitive Miles has said to me since he was very little that he doesn't like to see or hear me cry. When I do, he bursts into tears. Tonight, he was fine and gave me a little kiss at one point. To think of how long I've been adjusting for him, so I wouldn't have to investigate that or deal with what it meant. It reenacts the policy of not crying in my childhood, lest I be given "something to cry about." Wouldn't want that.

Tonight's tears felt very cleansing and like a mini spa for my soul.

Twice this week, I've heard feedback from two women close to me that I give, but I don't allow myself to receive. I'm turning it over, at first a bit reluctantly, because there's a whole family story there that I can't deny. It's out of balance, to say the least. And holding space for my own emotions is something even I reject the notion of. To allow myself the gift of tears is to acknowledge that there is space available in the cosmos for them. They're not in anybody's way. I'm not in anybody's way.

I do not have to be The Strong One. The Big Sister. The Oldest Child. The Old Soul. And all of those things disguised as lacking in human vulnerabilities.

So this monthly moon week, I'm bringing on the tears! I'm going to cry about everything that makes me sad until I no longer feel like crying. I'm going out to buy Kleenex tomorrow and I intend on using it.

 

Rite of Passage: The Goddess of Calamity Meets Venus

photo by the boho girl, denise andrade.

I picked Denise up in front of her home on Saturday afternoon. Rain had threatened to cancel the playdate we'd made a month earlier, and the best gift that we *concerned* Virgos could have been given was to let go of our expectations and agree to meet anyway-that there would be something magical simply in the act of showing up and surrender. The weather turned out to be just perfect, and the meadow we spread our picnic and props out in was earthy and the grass begging to be laid upon.

the extraordinary boho

I came to this project with simple photographic goals in mind-to freshen my website up, and to be able to provide professional photos for the projects I'm working on which require grown-up bios unlike my snarky in-the-moment self portraits.

But I also brought along a need to integrate some of the archetypes I've been working with all year. I had a loose idea of a visual and journalistic approach to aspects that show up as motifs in my life. I brought my favorite memories of my grandfathers, both having passed on this year (one in Spring, one in Fall). I carried Wild Woman with me, the wild canines, and my connection to the earth and how she has helped to heal me. I brought color and playfulness, femininity and strength. I even brought vulnerability along on the four hour drive south.

photo by denise andrade.

I trusted that Denise would help me overcome my suspicious and cameraphobic furrow lines, the things which cause nearly every photo taken of me to look like I'm constipated or being solicited to by a door-to-door salesman. My brief experience of her talents a few years ago dazzled me. I wouldn't take no for an answer as I sought no one else for the job. With a bit of flattery and some begging, I was thrilled to pull her out of Cedar sabbatical and coerce her to shine her mad skillz on my self-conscious being.

I digress as I write this because my feeling is that I'm going to try to tell you how she nurtured me and loosened my uptight places- taking great care to make every shot count, -my fear is that I won't be able to articulate satisfactorily what a day of self-care it was. I loved her art technique; her ability to see the composition and make decisions that were important to me, because she has an incredible way of listening to the artist she's working with and sensing her way through the work. It was like a spa day in that we made it relaxing, fun, luxurious -and as artists, we were both able to experience beauty in a way I never had before. My own beauty-egadzooks.

The truth is that I didn't feel very beautiful when I got to her. I'd washed my dreads the night before and they were extremely fluffy and crazed. I was hot and cold, drank too much caffeine on the way down, I felt sweaty and clammy, I'd forgotten the makeup that I wanted to bring. I was learning more than I wanted to know as I drove along about what makes me feel insecure, and more about what I still feel perfectionistic about (the weather, wearing mascara), negative image issues (I have a zit! Don't reveal too much of my stretched out baby belly! Try to avoid shooting the crows feet-nay, the crows have been stomping around my eyes since Ivy was born-do you really need my eyes in the photos?). It was always going to be so much more than collecting photos to update my professional portfolio, wasn't it?

Because I have a connection to the beloved Boho girl, I trusted that our co-creation would be deep and soulful, and honoring of the divine process of opening up the bits I yearned to share. I craved for someone to look at me without judgement, so I could learn to do it more, too. I felt comforted and eased by how she adored and nurtured me. As with my Blessingway before Miles was born, it unfolded to be one of those landmark moments in the history of my life where a rite of passage occured...so naturally.

With Denise holding space and faciliatating, I experienced embracing my own wild feminine, the me that is full of vitality, strength juxtaposed with vulnerability, and the beauty of my own life-a reflection of all life.

It was very powerful to gain this tool in the context of our day of retreat together. I'm on a mission to find more ways to embrace the wild feminine archetypes that bring me inspiration in my creative work and within my family. So my date with Denise was seriously like dancing with Venus on the day of her birth, and it seemed to bring a ceremonious close to my thirty ninth year on this orb-one that has been full of transformation, releasing and stepping into a more light and surrendered life of comfort in my own skin.

  

photo by denise andrade.

Just as we stood up to drink one more slug of wine out of our little metal cups, the coyotes began to sing up through the canyon. Dark was falling over our sacred gypsy campsite, and two women who had created something lovely together, received one more blessing-the last of so many that day... straight from the wild ones themselves.

 

 

She's The Moon

A few months ago, my energy was high and I felt productive, engaged with everything around me, inspired, connected. This is the life cycle-the Springtime of the creative process which makes me thrilled to be alive, affirmed on my path, open to all that wants to pour in and fill me up, allowing me to give back out and keep the generous circle moving.

When the death cycle begins, that Skeleton Woman time when the moon disappears for a few days, I feel depleted, blocked, disconnected, disengaged. I don't even want to be in the same room with anyone. It feels like grieving. Nothing works. The discomfort of being dormant causes me to seek solitude in a near-desperate way.

This has been a fucking hard year. A year of loss and surrender. All of the shedding and letting go of the outmoded has left me feeling stripped, raw, vulnerable. Everything feels outmoded-babies are going out with bathwater left and right.

I ask myself, what am I left with? It's surely how a tree feels when all of it's leaves have fallen off and the bitter cruel of winter shuts down it's warm bark, sending it into dormancy. “Don't look at me!”, I imagine it to say. Which is about how I feel tonight. Leave me alone to sit quietly in the dark and the cold to sit and wait for Spring to come again.

In the early days of pregnancy, it's unbelievable that anything is actually happening in the womb at all, (until the queasy desire to smell nothing and hurl at the thought of everything provides a subtle reminder). Those first six weeks are spent hoping, waiting anxiously, feeling a bit grouchy, peeing on sticks and not believing what they say either way.

Working as an artist to me is no different. It requires so much trust, as well as a courage and willingness to take risks, some which will disappoint. It also brings quiet periods of reflection, nurturing, and contemplation without getting too attached to outcomes. Birthing is exhilarating, but exhausting. It's easy to forget that this cycle never ends. As soon as creative energy comes to fruition for me, it births, and the whole process begins again, in a dark and quiet emptiness. The vacancy of possibility exists, but I cannot see it or even feel it. I can only trust it.

During the various emotions of life-death-life-death-life, trust is the only thing that gets me through the death part. I'm not afraid of the dark and quiet. Perhaps it's that daily life and relationships don't mingle well with the death phase. In moments of doubt, employment as a barista starts to sound heavenly.

I'm wishing I had a profound conclusion to insert here so that I would sound wise and all-figured-out. But this is where I'm at. Standing at the dark, uncomfortable crossroads of stripped and vulnerable. My walking stick, which helps me tap tap my way across the intersection, is forged of trust.

 

Crossroads, Jen McCleary.

 

Doors

“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is - infinite”. --William Blake

I've been photographing doors like crazy these summer weeks. Each time I see an old, weathered door, a big red door, a yellow art deco door, I must stop to take its picture. There is something about the draw to open and go through them that I am taken with at the moment. Perhaps it speaks of risk-taking, which for me comes back to faith. Faith that if I walk through, I will accept what comes with my choice and be glad that I chose to try something rather than play it safe. Going through most portals into unfamiliar territory has always taken me on fine adventures.

I think that becoming a mom has caused me to try to be far more careful about which doors I choose to go through, for fear of what the repercussions might be that would affect the children. And with the weaning of Ivy, which is now complete, the call to enter more adventuresome realms is just a bit louder.

The quest to seek, play, discover and uncover is strong for me. I keep trying to find a way to integrate my need for these things with my need to be an undistracted mother.

I'd love to hear how you do it, that is, balance your idea of what kind of mother, partner, friend you'd like to be with the things that call out so persistently. This is classic feed-the-wild-woman-archetype territory, so please throw your ingredients into the pot and let's swirl them all together and see what magic may come.

Lightbringers

I'm still having an inside laugh that this beautiful creature showed up when it did, and was pointed out to me by my friend with whom I'd just been having a conversation about drawing more light to us and having more to shine out. In other words, shedding some of the bullshit that crops up in thinking and relationships that have lived themselves out in order to welcome in new energy.

Here is my take on what Ted Andrews has to say about this magical fairy being:

Dragonfly's bright colors take time to develop, reflecting that with maturity our own true colors come forth. They inhabit water and air, and undergo metamorphosis when they change from nymph to fly. As they gain their big-girl wings (totally not Ted's words) they learn to balance passion and emotions with greater mental clarity and control. Because this transformation takes two years, Dragonfly may be showing up to indicate a two-year period of growth and full color emergence. Summer is the realm of light and Dragonfly thrives in the warmth and light of the sun. Being near sun and fresh water restores health, while the power of light infuses it with magic.

"Dragonflies remind us that we are light and can reflect the light in powerful ways if we choose to do so. Dragonfly can help you to see through your illusions and thus allow your own light to shine forth. Dragonfly brings the brightness of transformation and the wonder of colorful new vision."

I can't think of a better reading from Spirit and mama Nature than what our flaming friend brought, as we stood among the ancients in Maezen's garden.

It seems like there are such promising little scents on the wind for the rest of the year and the coming one, too. I feel more inspired than ever to allow the changes that are wanting to come in. I feel fearless about it, in fact. Many of the changes I thought would happen this year are not going to be. But others jumped up into my frame of vision, convincing me that there is so much that the unknown can show us when we are open.

If you are a woman with wild and colorful inclinations, this is the time for you to howl your voice and hear your pack. Summer's light and long days are ripe with possibility for you to find others like you, and bond and spread your magical light. All illusion can fall away, and you can feel safe just being you.

shadowmama

working with my own shadow has been something i've been doing since i attended a retreat about seven years ago and became really familiar with what a shadow was. for me, being in a shadow meant that i was believing something about myself or my life that was essentially a lie, based on repressed bits from childhood, or fear of repeating mistakes i'd made in adulthood. if there is a part of me that i just really don't like, then it would likely show up, leaking-out-like in a shadow behavior or state. this is totally my rendition of what being in a shadow means to me, and of course master jung can fill you in properly textbook if you care to read any of his brilliance. (man and his symbols is still my fave).

my recent funkification has brought up a lot of things to look over. i'm weaning ivy, and that means that (any chance of  oopsy not being considered here) when she comes off the boob for good, it will be my final goodbye to that particular stage of life where i am nurturing anyone with my body's precious natural resources. i fear feeling cut off from the archetype of the milky mother i have so come to identify with. for a cumulative time of nearly three years over the course of four and a half years, i have been nourishing and comforting a babe this way. and this is hard for me to let go of.

i find myself drawing inward to search out what is next for me beyond this stage. it's a little death, which i seem to experience so often. i'm at peace with the frequent turning over of cells here, but it wears me out, this path. though i have not been experiencing much typical shadow talk (from the "gremlins" so often referred to in bloggieville), i have been feeling very alone at the end of each day. not LONELY in the sense that i believe someone can fill this place, but on a solitary mission which can only be designed with my soul in mind, and surrendered to by me.

there is so much that's changing, as if with ivy's wean and summer solstice, the sky is opening up with possibility and transformation.

the photo makes me think of clint eastwood in the "man with no name" trilogy, and sort of captures what this past week has been like. the good, the bad and the ugly! well, just a little bit of ugly, retrieving messages from the oozing swamp hag :)

thank you all so very much for your love and comments as i fell down the hole again. though not frightening or dark feeling, it did cause me to leave my ordinary writings in the dust in favor of private time in my journal. it's been good to take in the air and re-ground. i think i'm ready to come back to the land of the living...

bless and so much gratitude...

Swamp Hag Days + New Work

Trooper, 2010. Mixed-media on 6x6 birch board.

OH, people. These are strange times indeed. I am in a funkity funk like no other funk, and the voices would have me believe that it is going to be this way forever. I am marching as forward as I can, dragging my paws as little as possible, but this is a tough one. It's got me hanging upside down for certain.

The show was really fun-I got to see art and also friends I haven't seen in nearly a year. I love the idea of actually going to the shows where my art appears because it's such a ceremony and celebration for the energy that goes into preparing the work. It's really one of my favorite things about this job.

I've been painting my way through, because this is one of them that there are no words for. I needed strong partners and look who showed up? My old friends, and constant companions, Owl and Coyote.

I wish I had some poetry for this one, but it hasn't come yet...the dark side of the moon always comes around again, and I feel safe here, but I need serious grounding. My feet have been up in the air for far too long. 

Tell me your stories about what you do when the swamp hag comes knocking. It's our shared stories that save us, isn't it?

Warrior, 2010. Mixed-media acrylic on 6x6 birch board.

Fed By My Feet

I've always wondered why I love to go so much. My parents tease me about loving to "go, go, go", as if I am a freakish gypsy or hobo that must move to feel sustained. I do believe that wanderlust is out of the ordinary around here, out of fashion since the dust bowl days and deluxe coupes.

I crave adventure. I want to live in other places. I want to live out of the country with my family, to speak another language poorly. I want to eat learn to love the food that other cultures eat. I want to do things that frighten me a bit. I like to push the edge of my comfort level because I thrive on learning new perspectives and all about the world's people. And creatures!

And also, because I am wild. Not so buried inside of us many, there is a brujita living in a hut which runs around on chicken legs. I don't know where she came from. Up from the generational pipeline, I suppose, having gone dormant in some women before me, and for plenty of fine reasoning. I'm glad she's with me, and that I can hear her.

I read recently that, "The wolf is kept fed by his feet". To wit, a wild woman's soul is kept fed by answering the call when one feels restless.

Up, now.

Out the cage door we must go.

In the Den

I am working on two pieces for an upcoming group show and tonite was really my first official night back in the studio to work on..."work" since January. It is unbelievable how much time can pass between creations when destiny has many other ideas for what life is really about around here.

I must say, though, that I am really excited about these two pieces. They involve a topic that I am very intimate with and so wrapped up in my heartstrings. This is unusual for me-painting a statement. The messages that come from my subjects when I paint are fun to receive, and tonite more than ever, I am feeling the hairs bristle up on my neck and my wild bits sniffing the wind while I work on bringing them to life. These dogs have been a long time comin'.

I have been dreaming more than usual about these creatures since we lost Blue, (who is so generous to visit me in the dreamtime) and I was gifted an extra serving of inspiration from Anna Marie last week, which is helping me knit up my vision with even more gusto. It also helped that I reached into a random bag of collage papers, not even knowing if collage was what I wanted to do... and pulled out a very old map that fit perfectly into the scenes. I love it when the Muse is guiding my hand!

In minutes, I'll be piled up with my pack: a gangly, long-legged loner and a feisty, yet snuggly yearling pup. In my dreams, I hope to hear the yippings of these paintings telling me where we're headed next on this adventure...

Vasilisa the Beautiful

Imagine my delight when I opened up the beautiful gift sent to my daughter for her birthday by her Aunt Stevie (who hand-felted the doll):

Vasilisa is the story of a young girl whose good mother dies, and her father remarries a wicked stepmother with two horrible daughters who treat Vasilisa like a slave. Sound familiar?

As Vasilisa endures their torment and receives no protection from her weak, naive father, she keeps the doll her mother gave her tucked inside her apron.  The new regime of commanding voices which berate her, and keep her enslaved, are never ending and Vasilisa is not yet experienced enough to stand up to them.

She is sent on an impossible mission for fire one night, deep into the wilderness, to scary Baba Yaga's house. Vasilisa consults with the doll to find her way there and is comforted by it's presence in her apron. When she finally reaches the hags hut, Baba Yaga barks a list of unreasonable chores at her, planning to eat her when she fails. But the doll provides the magic help, and day after day, she guides Vasilisa and helps her meet Baba Yaga's requirements and is eventually given what she has come for.

The maid survived her dangerous journey, and that which tormented her was burned away in the fire she returned with, thanks to the blessing given to her as a birthright. Her inner knowing and guidance, symbolized by the doll, sends her the message again and again that "The morning is brighter than the evening". She alchemically transforms her own destiny by trusting and following her inner voice.

Being a woman is to go on a long journey, up and over frightful mountains and through dark valleys, listening to harsh voices that we eventually discover do not serve us- and hopefully arriving triumphantly at the place where our intuition speaks louder and more clearly, and our hearts take direction eagerly.

Today I am so grateful for the strong women and new life that surrounds me: for You, who are triumphant as you listen evermore closely to your own guiding voices. You, who enjoy knowing, more than pleasing others.

I am comforted to run into you now and again on the mossy and sometimes shaded foot trails of this path!

River Santuario

"The creative force flows over the terrain of our psyches looking for the natural hollows, the arroyos, the channels that exist in us. We become its tributaries, its basins; we are its pools, ponds, streams and sanctuaries. The wild creative force flows into whatever beds we have for it, those we are born with as well as those we dig with our own hands. We don't have to fill them, we only have to build them.

Once  that great underground river finds its estuaries and branches in our psyches, our creative lives fill and empty, rise and fall, in seasons just like a wild river. These cycles cause things to be made, fed, fall back, and die away, all in their own right time, and over and over again.

Creating one thing at a certain point in the river feeds those who come to the river, feeds creatures far downstream, yet others in the deep. Creativity is not a solitary movement. That is its power. Whatever is touched by it, whoever hears it, sees it, senses it, knows it, is fed. That is why beholding someone else's creative word, image, idea, fills up, inspires us to our own creative work. A single creative act has the potential to feed a continent. One creative act can cause a torrent to break through stone.

Wild Woman's river nurtures and grows us into beings that are like her: life givers. As we create, this wild and mysterious being is creating us in return, filling us with love. We are evoked in the way creatures are evoked by sun and water. We are made so alive that we in turn give life out; we burst, we bloom,, we divide and multiply, we impregnate, incubate, impart, give forth."

-excerpted from pgs 322-324, Women Who Run With the Wolves.

Selkie

The funniest story has been unfolding in my world today about the story of the selkie in "Sealskin, Soulskin" from WWRWtW.

It is likely my fave story in the book, so I return to it like a buttery blankie when I'm feeling like I need a little fix, but don't have time for all new concepts at the moment. I'd just read it in bed last night.

It began when this LOVE mentioned *selkie* in a note to me and I was like, "What is Selkie? is that like a swamp creature that eats little children?" (No, that would be a Kelpie, silly). Both are mystical and charming, hear this. But one of them lures children and one of them is far more benevolent.

Please just go and read this. It will do your soul some good. Especially if you've happened to have misplaced your skin...

**And please enjoy these pics of Ivy as she sings, yes SINGS her little heart out on a wagon ride earlier today (while I was searching high and low for my growing short-term memory).**

 

"When we are in our rightful wildish nature, we all feel this bright life. It is one of the signs that we are close to Wild Woman. We all enter the world in a dancing condition. We always begin with our own pelts intact."

-Women Who Run With the Wolves, p.289

Emerging

Bear. Acrylic and mixed media on board. $5 from the sale of each print will be donated to relief funds for Haiti through Partners In Health.

Every creature on earth returns to home. It is ironic that we have made wildlife refuges for ibis, pelican, egret, wolf, crane, deer, mouse, and bear, but not for ourselves in the places where we live day after day. We understand that the loss of habitat is the most disastrous event that can occur to a free creature. We fervently point out how other creatures' natural territories have become surrounded by cities, ranches, highways, noise, and other dissonance, as though we are not surrounded by the same, as though we are not affected also. We know that for creatures to live on, they must at least from time to time have a home place, a place where they feel both protected and free.

 (p.287)  -Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves.

On The Wind

This is a time of year when I start feeling really bold. I wonder if it's because the promise of the new year excites me so much? It feels like getting a new pee chee folder at school, crisp and ready to write I Heart So-and-So five million times on it, a perfectly clean slate with the potential for any number of wonderful things to happen. The earliest days of manifesting in action!

Last year I decided to carry  A Gift from the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, around with me everywhere I went in order to allow her messages to infuse me. I didn't end up carrying her everywhere, but I did stuff it in many a satchel during the earlier part of the year. Without being overly intentional about it, balancing this act of mothering and turning the creative wheel did end up being the motif for my year. In other words, it all worked out as I'd originally hoped.

This year, I'm going to take the easy route and carry my all-time favorite book with me. I own two copies because I can't bear to walk to the other end of the house to find it if I want to read in bath or bed. I'm sure it comes to no surprise that my favorite book in the ENTIRE WORLD ever written is Women Who Run With the Wolves. When I open the stinky pages of this aged thing, the hairs stand up all over me and I know I am finding the words that are blueprinted on every inch of my own soul. 

This is the work of my very favorite photographer, Sarah Maingot. Can I bottle this?

It doesn't matter how many times I read it, I still find myself jumping up and down in confirmation that I am a criatura, that the aspects of woman that have been coerced and driven out over the centuries are not whispering under my skin, but screaming to pick up the *stories, the bundles for healing, the dreams, songs, signs and symbols* and feel, as CPE refers to it as "the sureness of their soulfooting". My hope this year is to reconnect with the archetype that speaks to me the most.

Maybe I'm hopping up and down howling all the time because this trail of crumbs is not new or unknown to me. Rather because it feels so warmly...familiar. By some strange twist of lightening striking in the moment of my birth, I have always known that I would be on this path. It's almost as if the tiny little genetic code of wild trickled down quietly through the women before me, but lined up in a quick blast for me, so that there would be no question about why my fur twitches when the wind blows in two directions at once and why I'm passionately drawn to other bitches with sixth senses who prefer to preserve their instinctual nature over...

Photo by Sarah Maingot.

...let's just say that I can smell you on the wind, sister.

ANTLER + Unlikely Hero

Sleep is a cruel necessity, and last night there was none of it to be had. This project is crazy and really a lot of fun. However I was back and forth nursing Ivy four times before 2am and pretty much up all night. I am grumpy to say the least. Hello again, Coffee. If I could apply you topically, I would.

This visual narrative project is really interesting. After viewing all of the panels last night, I drove home planning my approach. I took the plot in a direction that creates some possibilities for the next six and final artists to redeem the main character, who is somewhat of a cult hero. With an unexpected exoskeleton...

 

And also...um...WOW...I'm at Antler Magazine's blog today. Yay! Be sure to visit their home page and scroll down through all of the curious and beautiful features. I have to have that glow in the dark Seuss!

This Beautiful Week

My piece for CORE which is seen here missing a couple of elements, such as it's deer antler button closure and wooden cap. Her capelet is also unpressed. She was prettied up for her debut, I assure you.

This piece evolved from a very different idea into one which symbolizes so much to me. She speaks about integrating all of the parts: Innocent, wise, vulnerable, fragile, ill, reborn, enchanted, rescuer, shadow, wild; parts that we split off of and yearn for until we can piece ourselves back together. I'm sure you can guess which fairy tale I borrowed from to make my point.

Here she is in her glory. The Goddess McCabe Russell took this photo and I'm so grateful because I took only two pictures of the piece and they're both super dark. What you can't see in either of these photos is the fox tail that adorns her back bottom side. Perhaps someone got a good pic of her showing it.

CORE was an unbelievably fun night, filled with amazing music, familiar faces and art. I'm so proud to have been a part of it. The women who came to this venue were divine on so many levels and I've learned so much from them.

These are snaps from the show. I can't recall the titles of each one, so I'll just have to list the artists only! I wish I'd gotten more photos. Shame my hands were full of people and wine all night!

 

Christine Mason Miller.

Outi Harma.

Marisa Haedike.

Liz Kalloch.

Photo of Miles and Erin by the illuminating Stacy de la Rosa. Brandon braved the traffic with both little ones and came all the way to Los Angeles so Miles could see the display and meet some of the artists. I love my husband. He is so courageous and willing.

Sarah Ahearn.

Kelly Barton.

I have to thank Anne Carmack ONE MORE TIME for her vision, her energy, her grace and her unfaltering sense of glee at organizing this show. If you were able to come, thank you for your support! It was a lovefest, man.

And I can't mention the week without raising my tea mug to the finest Alpha Goddess to walk the earth, my Girly Blue. You my love, are what dog history is made of. How I miss you and yearn to kiss you and sniff you nose to nose. I'm remembering all you've taught me, recalling your beautiful, gentle strength. We love seeing you in our dreams, so please visit often. Peace to your ever joyful heart, sweet hound.

Off You Go, Out Into the World

I drove her down to Santa Monica today, to introduce her to Anne, who will carry her to her esteemed destination. I'm talking about someone I've come to call Addeline, and though that isn't her official "title", it's this that I've called her when I've needed to connect to find out more about what it is this mannequin wants to say.

I'll be writing more about the mannequin phenomenon known as CORE this week, but here are my initial late-Sunday night-zombified thoughts:

She wanted to teach me about integrating some of my forgotten and neglected parts; the light, dark, the shadow, the wisewoman, the crone, the reborn, the wild, the innocent and vulnerable, the feminine, the gritty, the vibrant. Her title, "Concurrence" speaks of these types of aspects converging at one significant point, or specifically, on one curvy fiberglass torso. 

CORE has stirred many thoughts for me about how we split off from the parts of ourselves that frighten us or carry negative connotation. Working in 3D has also been a real challenge! Everyone I've spoken with seemed to hit points where they were lacking in confidence about their piece. Only one of us has worked with this surface before, so each experience with the mannequins was full of "firsts". I learned the hard way not to stick my arm into something made of fiberglass, among other things.

I leapt at the chance to work with this medium and there were many times when I wondered what the EFF was I thinking!? Today, over lunch with two of the participating artists and one just plain amazing lady, it became clear. Being an artist doesn't mean creating safe little works of art, it means hanging my ass out on the line and taking risks.

The funny thing about this whole trying ordeal: I highly recommend it. *Grin*

Now if I can just allow myself to celebrate that she's complete and not stress myself out with all of the new work on my plate that I'm so excited about! It's important to take a rest and recharge a bit, which isn't easy for me, but part of my self-care challenge.