Swirly Girl

Squam Art Workshops :: On Creating

[The first creation:  Clay and small stones attached to a large boulder.]

In between the two days I taught at Squam Art Workshops, I took a class called "Sticks and Stones" with the talented and foxy (did I say that out loud?) Christopher Frost.  The class description said:

"Using sticks, leaves, rocks, mud, etc. we will learn construction techniques, the importance of site location, aspects of composition and documentation of ephemeral (made to disappear or transform) environmental artworks."

I am a huge fan of the work of Andy Goldsworthy and had never tried anything like this before, so basically, he had me at "sticks".  We worked on two small projects in the morning - one of which is shown above - and in the afternoon we devoted ourselves to one larger project.  On a walk through the woods before lunch, I spotted this:

...a lichen covered tree broken in half over a boulder.  The instant I saw it I had a vision, where I imagined something spilling out from within the tree.  When I came back from lunch, I went to work:

I decided to continue with the theme I started in my very first exercise, working with clay and smaller rocks.

I worked with the grooves and slants of the rock so that the flow of the smaller pieces followed the same path.  In other words, however something like water would have flowed out from the tree and over the rock was the pattern I tried to create with the clay and stones.

I had worked for about an hour before it hit me - I can use different sized stones!  And I ended up pulling out some pieces I had already laid down in order to incorporate larger and smaller stones.  This gave the entire piece more fluidity.

And I just kept going, getting lost in the process...

Spilling, spilling, spilling, and then:

TaDa!

The best part about the day was being outside and listening to the wind.  We even got some light rain in the afternoon, and I loved the way the drops changed the look of the piece.  It was also a special treat to be in the woods creating, lost in my own world, but being able to look up from time to time to see the other students in their own world as well, creating their own stories with branches, mica flakes, pine cones, acorns, rocks, and leaves.   That part of the campground became our own outdoor gallery by the time the class was over.

>>>>TUESDAY GIVE AWAY:  An Ordinary Sparkling Moments Postcard Set!  Enter a comment and the winner will be announced tomorrow.

Yesterday's winner is the lovely Violetkey.  Please email me Violet ([email protected]) so I can send you your PRIZE!

Squam Art Workshops :: On Teaching

[Day One of Squam Art Workshops :: Polaroid taken by the lovely Susannah Conway.]

OK, if I could have figured out how to do html editing on my title, it would have looked like this:

Squam Art Workshops :: On Teaching Learning

because my experience teaching two classes with my lady love Marisa Haedike (that's right, world, I don't care who knows - I'm madly in love with Marisa!) felt more like an exchange rather than a one-way transaction.  The experience was like a cozy house, where every room had something comfortable, warm, and inspiring to offer, and when I walked out and shut the door behind me as I boarded the plane back home I felt rejuvenated rather than drained, filled with gratitude, in awe of all the beauties who trusted Marisa and I to help bring their ideas to life.

The Living Room:  As a teacher, I felt totally provided for, where Marisa and I were given absolute freedom to structure the class how we wanted, and then given a extraordinary space within which to make it real.  On Thursday, Marisa and I walked into a room with twinkly lights and a sparkling fire, and on Saturday we took over a wide open space with sunlight streaming through the windows.  If you've been reading all the other blog posts here and there about Squam, then you already know - the lake, the trees, the sunlight...it was magic.

The Kitchen:  This is where Marisa and I spent a lot of time experimenting and playing in order to come up with a structure and plan for the class, play being the operative word.  I could write volumes about all the reasons I adore Marisa, but the story I found myself telling over and over again as Squam drew closer was of the beautiful way Marisa and I balanced each other.  If Marisa was the cat sitting still in a stream of sunlight by a window, I was the bouncy puppy running around in circles.  On one of our field trips to buy supplies for our students, we went to a huge antique mart that is a warehouse filled with dozens of displays managed by different vendors.  We walked into the mart together, and as Marisa enjoyed browsing the books at one display, I proceeded to do a lap around the entire building, scoping out where the best books were.  When I went to find Marisa to give her my full report, she was exactly where I had left her, taking her time with a stack of books on a couch. 

Marisa, without ever saying the words out loud, always reminded me to take a deep breath, stay in the moment, and trust the process.  She was the calm force in our partnership - reliable, strong, peaceful.

The Studios:  Marisa and I taught two classes, and I am still in awe of all the beautiful, heartfelt creations made over the course of those two days.  The way I see it, Marisa and I provided a very basic foundation, and every person who took our class built their own unique structure from that.  Everyone in both classes added their own special flair to their books, and I would love to invite them all to be guest speakers at any future Book in a Day classes.  On that note, it must be said that we even took a binding technique Jenny Doh shared with us in our Thursday class and incorporated it into our Saturday demonstration.  I hope that we taught our students something new and inspired them to go a little farther along their creative path, because they certainly did the same for me.

It is my hope that I am able to teach again at Squam Art Workshops, but if the gods don't have it in store for me that will be OK, as this experience was absolutely enough.

“Teaching is the greatest act of optimism”  ~Colleen Wilcox

>>>MONDAY GIVE AWAY:  A copy of Ordinary Sparkling Moments!

Enter for the drawing by leaving a comment.  All comments for today's entry will be entered; winner will be announced tomorrow!

Unlearning

It is now Day Three of my re-entry back into my "normal" life Post-Squam, and I am still getting things back in order, unpacking, doing laundry, downloading photos, etc.  The week has felt easy and slow, with naps and movies on the couch, a feat that doesn't come easily to me no matter how tired I am.  My tendency is always to push farther, to say to myself, "I'll just do this one more thing and then I'll take a break," only to find a handful of other "one more things" waiting in the wings for my attention.  Like those annoying drivers who cut in line when lanes merge, these little tasks usually push themselves forward and win out, causing the time I thought I'd have on the couch with my magazine or crossword puzzle to evaporate without my realizing it.

But this week I am committed to shifting this intensity down a notch.  The summer was an exercise in movement and discipline, when I got so much done in three months I felt slightly inhuman.  I became one of those people who was "super super busy", which isn't a crime against humanity, but isn't who I want to be on a full-time basis.  So this week is my week to set a different intention, and to let the mile long list of ideas and inspirations in my head do something I don't usually let them do:  Sit there.  And do nothing.

At least for a little while.

I woke up this morning when it was still dark, and when I looked at the clock it said 5:48am.  My first thought was, "Great!  I'll get a head start on the day!" but then remembered my intention and crawled back into bed.  These are the kind of moments I am having this week, where I am consciously pulling away from the mindset I was in until the morning I left for Squam.  I am trying to unlearn the habits that ruled my life from June to September, reminding myself over and over again that I don't have to get everything done today, and if some of my ideas remain ideas and nothing more the world won't collapse.  My intention is to create a softer flow in my life - to find the gentlest current, slip in quietly, and let it carry me like a leaf beneath the trees of Big Sur.

“You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.”

~William Stafford

{For more musings on this subject, visit my latest post over at In the Wish Studio!}

On Squam Art Workshops

When I looked up the word good on dictionary.com, it listed 41 variations on the definition.  Good is a word that can mean so many things within so many different contexts, it can easily be dismissed as generic, trite and vague.  But on the first leg of my journey home, which was the drive from Elizabeth's haven on the hill to the Manchester Airport, it was the word that filled my consciousness.  This week was good.  These people are good.  What we shared was good.  And as tired as I am...I feel good.

As I rolled this word around my mind for over an hour, I realized I usually see it as a tiny, bouncy word that flits and floats about like a little bird.  And while this isn't a bad thing, it was a different experience to see it as a word with weight and depth and substance.  It had the consistency of a warm, hearty stew in the middle of winter, and the weight of a hand-knit blanket.  It was something I could dig my fingers into, like a mound of red clay; it was a solid foundation that could hold all the moments and memories of the past many days.  It was a rich word, a solid word, a word that could hold everything I wanted to bring home with me.

The word is good - like an egg, like milk, like the first leaf that bursts forth from the earth in spring - pure, clean, whole, enough.

Lighter

[My uniform at Squam last year; my uniform at Squam this year.]

It has been a week, I tell you.

Good.  Intense.  Prayer-full.

So much of everything.

My husband and I saw "Julie and Julia" last night, and I was weepy throughout the entire movie.  I had read and heard that the Julia part was much more fun and interesting than the Julie side of the story, but I found every inch of the movie just lovely.  After what might have been my most hectic summer yet, I walked out of the movie realizing I have, in many ways, forgotten to keep the joy in everything I do.  Julia Childs loved eating, loved cooking, and followed that love fearlessly; learning more about her journey and the ripple of joy and inspiration she created helped me see how far I've strayed from that...lightness.  It was the exact reminder I needed at precisely the right moment.

During this same 24-hour period, I also got inspired by Marisa who has, I believe, started a movement.  In the midst of having to tie up all the loose ends for my journey to Squam Art Workshops next week, I could not wait a single moment to do a massive household purge.  This created two carloads to Goodwill and a total re-arrangement of my studio.  I am now sitting at my desk with a whole new perspective, literally, feeling like I can board that plane to New Hampshire with...less.  Less clutter in my home, my studio, my mind, and my heart.  For as I've released boxes and bags of material items, the end of the summer has also provided me with a number of opportunities to release unhealthy stories, patterns, habits, and feelings.

As I said, it has been a week.

But the trash has been cleared, perspectives shifted, so much of what I have and know moved around, passed along, or maybe just slightly adjusted.  And in 48 hours I'll be on my way to the magic gathering in the forest that is Squam Art Workshops...feeling light.

"Courage is the power to let go of the familiar."  ~Raymond Lindquist

What Are Your Prayers Today?

[Kyoto, Japan :: September 2007]

[Kyoto, Japan :: September 2007]

[Tokyo, Japan :: July 2005]

On the grounds of temples in Japan, there are structures that hold small panels of balsa wood, paper, or colorful items like above.  Visitors can pay a small fee to write a personal prayer on one of these items and leave it at the temple.  I was fascinated by these collections of wishes, dreams, fears and hopes.  What stories do they hold?  How many of these prayers were answered?

"Courage is fear that has said its prayers."  ~Dorothy Bernard

In Every Journey

[Photo taken on the South Island of New Zealand, March 2009]

In every journey there will be days like I had yesterday, when I spent a lazy afternoon lying on the grass with four dear friends, two giggly babes, cupcakes, sunshine and gentle breezes.

In every journey ideas will be born, goals will be set, and dreams will be made real, and all of these manifestations will light the way for others to forge their own creative path.

In every journey there will be failures - experiences that might initially give birth to feelings of shame, but hopefully, in the end, will reveal themselves as lessons that needed to be learned rather than endeavors that should never have been pursued.

In every journey there will be moments when a dear friend will say, "Today I buried my father."  In those moments we cannot reverse the ticking of the clock, cannot change the passage that is inevitable for each and every one of us, but we can pick up the phone, call our friend, and listen to whatever stories our friend needs to share.

In every journey there will be days on the road of pursuing a dream such as I had last week, when the demons come marching in, with their chorus of "You're not good enough," and "Who do you think you are?".  In those moments, a choice must be made:  Either give in and give up or keep on working.

In every journey there will be nights of insomnia, mornings with headaches, afternoons of grogginess, weekends of laziness and months that feel like a freight train of fun and productivity.

In every journey balance will be elusive and perfect calm rare.

In every journey there will be love, there will be tears, there will be hunger and there will be questions.

In every journey there will be an ongoing struggle between the ego and the soul.  No matter how uncomfortable or unsettling it might sometimes feel, any time the choice is made to release the ego we are one step closer to our very best selves.

Lighter

Over the past many years, as more of my creative energies have been poured into writing, I have tried to pull forth the tiniest of details from a wide array of memories, from a chilly breeze I felt in high school to the first moment I held a copy of Ordinary Sparkling Moments.  I have done brainstorm after brainstorm of stories, memories, feelings, experiences and ideas, trying to decide which ones merit the commitment it takes to plow through upwards of 10-20 drafts in order to get it just right.  And through it all, I keep trying to nail down an exact definition of my voice as a writer, not entirely confident I have that figured out yet.

During the past year in particular, I have worked on stories that are, shall we say, less than pleasant - some of my darkest recollections, in fact, stories that dredge up memories that make me literally recoil, where I pull my chest inward and close my eyes, as if to brace myself for a punch in the face.  I have felt compelled to work on some of these stories for two main reasons.  First, because in sharing them I hope to provide a voice of hope and light, a voice that says, "Yes, this is what I went through, but I went on to create a beautiful life."  Second, because I got the idea in my head that in order to be a "serious" writer I had to write about "serious" things, and that if I didn't stand before my readers naked my stories wouldn't have as much meaning, impact and gravity.

But then a funny thing happened when I was in Hawaii recently for my husband's son's wedding, where the word family was thrown around like a beach ball and I became hyper-aware of what stories I was bringing to that environment.  There was one evening when I held on to all the stories that made me afraid of that word family, when I stood quietly in a crowd of revelers and focused on whatever memory I could find that would ensure I felt like an outsider.  The next day, I thought about that, and realized it was entirely within my power to let those stories go and step fully into the stories being created right in front of me, stories where I was an integral part of this family, and the only person who doubted that was me.  From that point forward, everything was about one thing and one thing only:  Joy.  And that joy was possible because I made the choice to let it in.  It was just that simple.

It hit me today that I have the same choices with the stories I choose to write, and that I need to let go of feeling like I "should" write about certain things because I think they might somehow "serve the world" (and hence, earn my place in it.)  If some of my stormier memories come forth in a story organically, fine, but I decided today that it is OK if I choose not to expose them.  I can still write stories and essays that are meaningful, thought-provoking, and poetic even if they don't touch upon heartache, loss or sadness. 

In what I write, and how I live, I get to choose which stories define me, which stories fill my heart and mind and guide me through each day.  Sometimes painful memories serve me well, reminding me what is important and what I do not want in my life, but if they play no such role, then it is totally reasonable to simply let them go.  As I look around my home, in a kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee, an aqua blue tablecloth, fresh flowers and a dear friend about to arrive from an ocean away, I see that my darkest stories have no place here.  They are roads on the map of my past, and as such they helped me get to this exact moment - so in that sense I have reason to be grateful for them - but right here, right now, I choose to let them stay in the past, where they are no longer real, and no longer capable of casting a shadow over my life.

Prayer

[Bee at work in Kauai]

[News Ticker:  My latest essay is up at In The Wish Studio!]

Our home is empty for the first time in weeks.  After two weeks of non-stop wedding-related visitors, plans and events, my husband and I took the bride and groom to the airport Sunday night and then crawled into bed before 8:00pm.  It was still light outside when we fell asleep, and the next morning it was still a challenge to pull myself out of bed.  I had big plans to wring every ounce of work I could out of this week, as it is the only week of the entire summer when my calendar is clear, but yesterday morning I saw those plans melt like morning fog when I finished my coffee and still felt like crawling back into bed.  So I gave into it, and took my time getting the house back in order, catching up on email and phone calls and taking a long walk.  Last night I was asleep by 9:00pm, and even though I feel better today, I am still not buzzing with energy like I'd hoped I'd be.  But I'm in my studio and getting to work, and right now that feels momentous.  I'm here!  I'm working!  Ta Da!  Or at least it looks like I'm working; part of me still feels like I'm just sitting here staring at my keyboard and looking around at all of my art supplies thinking, "What are all these peculiar objects for, anyway?"

During the two weeks of all the wedding festivities, I had insane amounts of fun and ended up with armloads of moments that brought me to tears in the best way possible.  It was beautiful, soulful, transformative and joyful, and was a huge time of healing for many of us involved.  Like many weddings, it was a gathering where people came together with smiles on their faces along with deep, difficult feelings simmering beneath the surface, where any one of us could have made the choice to let those dark emotions spring forth and shatter everyone's hope for a close, connected family.  But we all came to this event with our best intentions, and we were all rewarded for our efforts, as I believe everyone who was there is now getting back into the routine of their day to day lives with a special glow inside their hearts, and the knowledge that we are capable of so much more than we once believed.  Perhaps we all made the decision to be our very best selves for the sake of the bride and groom or for our own sense of integrity, and perhaps at one time we believed that would be our greatest gift in the end - the knowledge that we made the newlyweds happy and didn't let ourselves down.  But what we ended up getting was so much more - the realization that in our own complicated, unruly way, we've created a family, and that over the past two weeks each of us truly saw each other...each of us looked at those around us and recognized the essence that stirs within our hearts and compels us to surround ourselves with beauty and love as deeply as we can.

And what a gift that is...to be seen, to know that all the people we were trying to be brave and soft and compassionate for saw how hard we were trying, how willing we were to keep our fears and sad histories at bay and stay in the present, where there was nothing but love to drink in and not a single dark cloud in the sky.  Sometimes, strangely, it is scarier to walk into the light and let it drip from our fingertips like honey, to send our demons away where they have no power over us, where we risk experiencing the greatest amount of love and joy, knowing that like everything in life, it won't last forever.  But what will last forever is locked in our memories - the knowledge that we all gathered together to celebrate the love of two people, and what we found instead was that this was about the love of a much wider circle, and that all it takes to stay in that space is to make a choice to see the beauty within each of us, despite our flaws and foibles and fuck ups.  We are each imperfect, we each have our own sad sack of stories, we are each wounded and vulnerable and delicate, but for a little while this month we were all whole, we were all cared for and adored and cherished.  And it is my prayer today that we always feel that way with one another, that this healing continues and we never ever forget the light we saw in one another as we swam, laughed, celebrated and loved.

My Job

[Plumeria :: Taken last week in Kauai, Hawaii]

It is not an easy thing to describe feelings, philosophies and ideas with mere words.  How often has it been said that "words can't express" x or y - that "words aren't enough"or "can't convey" what we hold in our hearts?  As I was thinking about all the different stories I would be bringing back home with me from a journey to a beautiful island where I drank sunshine, spent hours in the ocean, and felt love oozing from my pores every minute, this phrase kept coming up.  As I collected ideas, they came to me in bits and pieces like broken coral and seashells along the shores of Kauai.  When I picked them up to consider where they might take me when I got back home, I kept thinking about how difficult it would be to describe the texture and feel of my emotions, epiphanies and transformations.  But after reading the first short story in Bruno Schulz's The Street of Crocodiles and Other Stories, and nearly fainting over the way he turned words into a paintbrush, creating an image of a basket of fruit and vegetables like I've never experienced, I realized so much was possible, so much could, in fact, be expressed, explained and brought to life with words.  And that this is my job...this is my task now that I am back home at my keyboard, stories spilling out of my suitcase, still strewn all over the floor, having left a trail of scattered letters and images and thoughts all over my house.  It is my job to figure this out, and decide how to piece together all of these elements in way that leaves no doubt in the reader's mind what kind of joy swirled through my veins this week, and how it managed to seep through my skin in the first place.  That is my job, that is my task, to not just move beyond the "words can't express" roadblock, but take a sledgehammer to it, smash it to bits and find the way to create a connection between myself and whoever reads my stories, whereby the reader reads my unique arrangement of words and simply says, "Yes, I see."

"On those luminous mornings Adela returned from the market, like Pomona emerging from the flames of the day, spilling from her basket the colorful beauty of the sun - the shiny pink cherries full of juice under their transparent skins, the mysterious black morellos that smelled so much better than they tasted, apricots in whose golden pulp lay the core of long afternoons.  And next to that pure poetry of fruit, she unloaded sides of meat with their keyboard of ribs swollen with energy and strength, and seaweeds of vegetables like dead octopuses and squids - the raw material of meals with a yet undefined taste, the vegetative and terrestrial ingredients of dinner, exuding a wild and rustic smell."  -Bruno Schulz