John O'Donohue

For all of you John O'Donohue fans, I've come across a podcast interview with him, which is even more precious because he died at the way-t0o-early age of 52 early in 2008. The interviewer is Duncan Campbell at Living Dialogues and you can find it by scrolling to podcasts #87 & 88 in the box toward the bottom of the home page.

O'Donohue speaks the same poetry as he writes so these podcasts are a gift. There are many other interesting podcasts available at this site also.

About the image: For the past dozen years, the Christmas season has begun at the Meek household the Sunday after Thanksgiving with the building of gingerbread houses. My friend Emily assembles the basic house from a kit and puts out a ton of icing and candies so people just sit around and decorate, talk, eat and create a unique holiday decoration. After awhile, the kids get restless and start throwing candy and icing and bedlam begins. But everyone knows this is part of the fun so they wear their "icing" clothes and soon adults, kids, dogs and passing photographers are looking a little "snowy."

The Story of We

Yesterday I had an experience that reminded me of something I wrote several years ago. Here it is ...

The Story of We

Once upon a time, not so long ago,
in a land, not so far away,
there were two types of people:
The "We’s" and the "They’s."

The We's were good, pure and predictable.
The They's were a strange and disturbing breed.
Whenever the We's and They's gathered to play,
Squabbles and brouhahas always broke out.

Because of this constant bickering and fighting,
the two groups stopped playing together.
The We's only played with other We's
and the They's only played with other They's.

However, a strange thing began to happen.
Every time the We's went out to play,
they would find someone
they thought was a We
but who turned out to be a They.

It was very upsetting,
but one by one the traitor We's
were sent off to be with the They's.
Until one day there was only one We (Me)
and all of the They's (Them).
Which meant that there was
no one left for the Me to play with.

At the same time on the other side of the land,
another strange thing
was happening with the They's.
One day, the They's woke up and saw themselves
as good, pure and predictable.
"We're good! they shouted. We’re pure!"
"We're We's!" they proclaimed.

So the new-born We's gamboled and played.
Until …
they noticed a few We's
who were acting a little strangely,
playing in a way
that was just a bit disturbing.

Swiftly the We’s took action.
"You're not We’s," they cried.
"You're … why you’re They's!.
Be gone!" the We’s demanded.
And the false We’s slunk away,
sad and lonely.

Each day the We's discovered
more They's in their midst and
quickly sent them away also.
Until one day …
there was only one We (Me)
and all of the They's (Them).
And, once again,
there was no one left for the Me to play with.

This time, however, a wise old woman,
a crone with a face crinkled and kind,
sat down by the lonely Me and listened
as he poured out his sad tale of We's and They's.

"I'll tell you a secret," whispered the crone
as she patted the sobbing Me.
"There are no We's …
and there are no They's.
There are only Me's,
and while each Me is completely different,
we are all Me’s … just like you.

“Each Me is lonely … just like you.
And each Me is looking for a playmate …
just like you.
So why don’t you just play together
as Me’s without trying to make each other
a We or a They?
You would have ever so much more fun.”

The little Me sniffed,
Wiped his little Me-nose on his sleeve,
Then he looked around and suddenly saw
that the playground was filled with Me’s
all wanting to play.

So he ran off to join the fun and
he may be there still
in that magical land of Me’s where
no one worries about who’s a We
or who’s a They.
And no Me is ever lonely
when he wants to play.

About the image: This is my granddaughter Reyna, age 4.

On this day of marking all that we are grateful for, we typically celebrate with a bounteous meal with family and friends ... our tribe. This meal seems to be a tangible act of feeding our hunger, not only for good food but for time with those to whom we "belong" ... a small bridge in time from "isolation to intimacy." In his book Eternal Echoes, Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong, John O'Donohue offers us these wise and beautiful words:

"Our hunger to belong is the longing to find a bridge across the distance from isolation to intimacy. Everyone longs for intimacy and dreams of a nest of belonging in which one is embraced, seen and loved. Something within each of us cries out for belonging. We can have all the world has to offer in terms of status, achievement, and possessions. Yet without a sense of belonging it all seems empty and pointless.

May today bring each of us into a greater sense of belonging with our own spirits, our family and friends, and the world around us.

And, Richard, wherever you are, may you feel a true sense of peace and belonging. We love you and miss you.

Thank you, Facebook!

The great question of Facebook seems to be "Is it worth the time and effort?" Connecting with high school chums is a pleasant enough activity although the actual payoff in renewed friendships is spotty at best. And, it's all too true that as people discover its marketing potential, many posts seem to be ill-disguised sales pitches. However, this past week, I've received two messages from Facebook that lift it from a simple, pleasant indulgence to a true gift. The first was from a woman whose friendship I lost almost 25 years ago. After a brief reconnection, we decided to have lunch in two weeks since I will be in her part of the world anyway. With so many years and half a continent between us, I have few expectations of a true renewal of our friendship but it will be fun to meet and exchange stories.

The second message came completely out of the blue from a name I barely recognized as a colleague from a former employment. I was still in my accounting career (which seems like multiple life-times ago) and Bruce was the warehouse person. Day-to-day work issues brought us together frequently and I began to notice his work ethic and intelligence shining beyond "just a warehouse guy." We talked often and I encouraged him to go back to school. Nothing grand, but today, after briefly introducing himself, I received this note: "I am married 30 years and 4 kids. I have a fantastic computer career that I owe to a wonderful person who pulled me out of the warehouse and inspired me."

It reminds me again of the great web of connection we live in and how little we know how much we affect each other. There must be thousands of stories like these that happen on Facebook every day. If we ever manage to change our world to a more peaceful, loving place, it just might be Facebook and it's sisters that facilitate that change.

About the image: Recently I re-watched the movie "Bagdad Cafe" and fell in love with it's haunting soundtrack featuring "Calling You" by Jevetta Steele. As I was driving across country, a friend told me that the real Bagdad Cafe was on Route 66 very close to where I was traveling. So I made a short detour and had breakfast there. It was everything it should have been ... colorful, friendly, good food and a guest book (number #27) filled with comments from around the world. I highly recommend the movie, the song, and the cafe.

Fallen Leaf

For those of us of a certain age, today marks a dividing line. On one side was innocence ... a belief in the perfectibility of the world ... and a youthful hubris toward mortality. On the other side was loss of all of the above and a gnawing ache where carefree optimism once resided. November 22 was our generation's first wake-up call that the world was not an entirely safe and rational place. It was the death of a dream. We will never know if JFK would have been a great president; we can only grieve for what might have been.

Today's youth have already been marked by a similar blow to innocence that rocked their, and all of our, confidence in the safety and security of our world. May this day mark a new beginning.

Hard Words

"My most creative work seems to be on projects where I'm inexper- ienced and uniquely unqualified for the job." -- Paula Sher

If someone asked me to define "artist," I would reply that it is someone who makes art. I would not include in the definition that it is someone with an MFA from a recognized art school or that it was someone whose work is shown by major galleries across the globe or someone who came out of the womb paintbrush clinched tightly in tiny fist.

Wikipedia gives us three definitions:

1. A person who creates art.
2. A person who creates art as an occupation.
3. A person who is skilled at some activity.

And, the Oxford English Dictionary states that the dominant usage is

* One who cultivates one of the fine arts - traditionally the arts presided over by the muses (Calliope - epic poetry, Clio - history, Erato - lyric poetry, Euterpe - music, Melpomene - tragedy, Polyhymnia - sacred poetry, Terpsichore - dance, Thalia - comedy and Urania - astronomy). Notice that none of the muses reigns over painting or the visual arts.

So, if experts old and new, agree in concept with my own definition, why is it that I have such a hard time saying the words, "I am an artist"? The Wikipedia definitions carry a hint when they mention the words "occupation" and "skill." I do not make money with my art so it is not an occupation and, while I am becoming more skilled, I can't yet claim that I am skilled. And OED uses the word "cultivates" as though it's an ongoing process. That works, I am cultivating my art.

This difficulty with self-identification as an artist is not new. I remember being in a workshop years ago and, as part of an exercise, having the workshop leader encourage me (almost forcibly) to say the words. My throat slammed shut; my heart pounded and tears flowed. The words were almost impossible then and they are still hard now. It was almost the same situation twenty years ago when I was trying to become a "writer." It wasn't until I had a contract for my first book that I felt entitled to call myself a writer.

But if I, or anyone else, makes art but never sells it, shouldn't we still be allowed to call ourselves artists? Or is that term reserved only for "professionals?" A friend suggested that I create and use some artist affirmations to strengthen my self-identification as an artist. It sounded like a good idea so I asked several of my artist friends for affirmations that they use and started prowling around the internet to see what other ones I could find. And, I found many keepers:

I am an artist.
My creativity is a divine gift.
I have time to make art.
My art heals wounds, mine and others'.
My art is my gift to myself and the world.
My art is an expression of my gratitude.
My creative work is an expression of truth, love and peace.
My art creates new and joyful connections.
My art expands the world.

The problem that launched this stream of thought came when some of the affirmations claimed "quality" ... such as:

I am a brilliant and creative artist.
I am a truly gifted artist.

I would have no trouble telling you how bad an artist I am but telling myself that I am brilliant, creative or gifted is rather mind boggling. As my blogger friend Louise might say ... it creates a kerfuffle in my mind. I am going to create affirmation cards out of all of the above ... even the truly hard ones ... and we'll see what happens. In the meantime, I'm going to take one small step ...

You may have noticed that I have moved the About Me from the bottom of the blog page to the top and included an Artist Statement ... not quite saying "I am an artist" but almost. And, I will keep in mind Georgia O'Keefe's amazing admission:

"I have been absolutely terrified every moment of my life and I have never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do."

I want to do art ... I want to be an artist ... so I am not going to let the fear of saying the words stop me. I am an artist. (emphasis intended)

Letting Go

This summer as I was beginning to pack my stuff for the transition from one life to another, I picked up a book titled Shed Your Stuff; Change Your Life by Julie Morgenstern. I never buy books like that but I was walking through the airport and it almost jumped into my hands, so I read it and began to follow its advice. I got rid of tons of stuff ... literally tons ... stuff that I had been carrying around for years ... stuff that was no longer serving me. In the introduction, the author states:

The theory behind SHED (the process you will learn about in this book) is that by releasing your attachment to obsolete, tangible items in your space and schedule, you will gain the energy, insight and clarity to make decisions about the big stuff. SHEDing creates the space to think; it fortifies your identity and eliminates old, unhealthy belief systems.

I don't know if I can give complete credit to "SHEDing" for the changes that have happened in my life, but I do know that new doors are opening and I feel a deeper sense of peace ... (most of the time ... ;-) ... than I've felt for a long time. But, now as I contemplate how to develop greater "equanimity," I wonder if I also need to shed some of the intangibles I've carried for so long, intangibles that may be weighing me down even more than the 600 tangible pounds of books I let go of this summer.

This morning I let go of the fantasy of resurrecting an old relationship and in dissecting the carcass of that fantasy, I realized that I've been carrying around the belief that I need to live someone else's life ... that somehow I can't or don't deserve to live my own. It's probably the residual from childhood where I was living my parents' life and then from two marriages where I was basically living my husbands' lives. That's a lot of years of fitting my wants, needs and beliefs into a structure mainly created by someone else. For the first time in my life, I'm living in a structure that I created for myself ... a scary, exhilarating, overwhelming at times but ultimately freeing experience. Letting go this morning felt like being a trapeze artist who lets go in mid-air and turns ...

Will I catch the bar coming toward me and swing into new space? Or will I miss and fall into the safety net below? And, is there a safety net below? At this point I don't know but I feel like I've made an important step in shedding this old belief. I will live my own life. I will follow the path that calls to me. I will live MY life to the fullest extent possible.

And it is scary ... I don't know if there is a safety net but I do know that I have dealt with everything that has come my way so far and that I will be able to deal with whatever lays before me. And, just like in the picture above, I don't know where the path leads but I know as soon as I round the corner, I will see a little further and all I have to do is keep moving forward and following the path ... my path. I am on the journey of my life and it might eventually connect to another's path but even if it doesn't, the important thing is that I'm now on my very own path.