Sea of Joy

My favorite blogger has done it again. Tone Deaf inspired me to write a post. 

I started commenting on his blog a few years ago. Okay, I don't really know how long ago it was. Does it matter?

Robbie may be as old as Methuselah, you know, 969 years old. He is scary honest, and starkly opinionated. There is no one else like him. Consequently, I had to force myself to overcome my trepidation when I first commented on his blog. I expected to be ridiculed and outed as a hack. Sometimes that happens, but mostly I learn a lot. Most of his comments on my or other blogs make me laugh out loud.  

He writes about many things, just about anything really. Sometimes he writes about aging without apology or fear. When the spirit moves him, he doesn't hold back. He probably wouldn't anthropomorphize the creative spirit. But I will.

He wrote today about the various restrictions aging has imposed over time. That was interesting, but then he included imagination in that lot, which gave me pause. 

Now this post becomes about me, because that pause turned me inward. I'm hoping the creative imagination is the last to leave. Coy as she is, withholding, and then bam! A Muse holds us close to her heart and the words flow.  

I think creativity is an act of faith.  Surrender.  Blind Faith.  Sea of Joy.

Just following my Muse where she takes me.  

Birthright? part II

How many people see creativity is their birthright? Who assumes it is forbidden fruit, out of reach, not there for people like them? Who feels a creative moment must be stolen when no one's looking, especially when no one's looking?

I think creativity IS our birthright. There are so many ways to be creative, not just the arts. We all have certain gifts. Some lucky dogs have the means to develop those gifts. Some poor souls don't, unless by some inexplicable act of cosmic grace they are presented with an opportunity and run with it. This is the stuff of legend. 

Others do not get an opportunity, for an infinite variety of reasons. Then there are people who have the means but waste their talents.  Why? 

You say with blinding arrogance "Why didn't they pick themselves up by their own bootstraps?" Really? You know that's physically impossible, right? Show me a successful person and I'll show you a person who had some sort of help along the way. Even if it was only a teacher who encouraged you, an employer who took a chance and hired you, a grandmother who whispered affirmations in your ear. Or maybe you're one of those lucky dogs who ran smack dab into that inexplicable freaking opportunity referred to above? 

Still, I'm writing from privilege, aren't I? There are places where hope has no home. Try to imagine. Little wonder that there are so many angry, bitter people. What a sinful waste of talent exists in a world of haves and have nots.  

Is it naive to hope for a world where each and every one of us could expect to reach our creative potential? Of course it is. But still, I hope for that better world. 

Birthright? part I

I'm in the midst of a New Yorker article about Emma Thompson and I need to come up for air. It's one of those articles so dense and chewy you never want it to end. 

Thompson has had a full life, complete with joy and sorrow. She's bright, articulate, hard working, funny, creative; absolutely amazing, really. What strikes me is how matter-of-fact she is. What she is missing is anxiety, the absence of which is stunning. 

Emma's had bad things happen, everyone has. She reacts appropriately to any given situation, then moves on. I could be wrong, but I don't think she has spent significant time cowering in the recesses of her psyche, damaged and anticipating the worst. How did she escape that? Or does she just do a good job of hiding that part of herself? 

Perhaps it's that she was born into a family of actors? She had parents who valued intelligent expression, encouraged an appreciation of comedy, and were of reasonably comfortable means. They were supportive of her. Having "enough" money helps. Knowing one will have the means to achieve a dream IF one has the talent must be comforting. Creativity would seem like your birthright. My shoulders relax just imagining.  

And I begin to think.

Butterscotch

Sometimes I make ice cream. I bought an ice cream maker about a year ago, after watching The Great British Baking Show. It looked easy. It is. Yesterday I made butterscotch ice cream. Oh, how I love butterscotch. There's a story there.

As a teeny bopper in the late 1960's I imagined I was the reincarnation of my maternal grandmother, who died before I was born. Don't ask me why, it was a conceit born of teen frenzy, a countercultural whim. There might have been drugs involved. 

Creating this self-serving fantasy took a lot of creative energy. I picked my mother's brain for information about Grandma. What was she like, her favorite foods, flowers, colors, I asked. Apparently she loved butterscotch. Hey! Me, too. THERE was the proof of our metempsychotical* connection. 

That set me on a path of exploration. Mom made Grandma G's butterscotch pie. If I scraped the meringue off the top and only ate the bottom part it was heaven. When I went to the Dairy Queen I'd order a butterscotch sundae. Also heavenly. When my mother bought butterscotch swirl ice cream, my happiness was near to bursting.  

I no longer believe I am a reincarnated version of Grandma G; however, I do feel connected to her because of butterscotch.

*Yes, metempsychosis is a word.  Do you love it as much as I do?

Watercolor?

I signed up for an online watercolor class. I paid $175 to take this 6 week class. Each Friday the teacher releases a new lesson with text, video, and assignment. The lessons are well thought out, well laid out, and I am learning things. 

Learning things is the easy part, I find it hard (painful, even) to do the work. I want to skip school. I want to throw $175 away.  I also want to learn how to paint a damn apple.  

Lesson 1: Fruit was released on a Friday. The following Sunday night, I still hadn't started the assignment. I keep my materials in a box. Before going to bed that Sunday night I put the box on top of my keyboard so when I woke up the next morning I would know I meant business.

Voila! The somewhat pathetic first step. The frame around the painting was required. It is not meant to be in perspective. It is just a frame, the instructor's whimsy, ostensibly to add interest. Surely I could do perspective if required? Right? Well, maybe. We'll see.

Today is Sunday again. I haven't started Lesson 2: Leaves. I can't believe I have to do this again.   

That lovely boy!

Grandson N (7) is crazy about Monopoly, so we play it often. He wheels and deals with abandon. I fear he’s a natural capitalist, although he is somewhat of a bleeding heart liberal when it comes to his old Grandma. He insists on being the banker, and he WILL slip me money when I start to run out. On the down low, of course. I try VERY hard not to accept his largesse. 

When he and I play alone together, we go by N's rules. He brilliantly proposed that we each start out with a monopoly over one neighborhood on the board so we can immediately start buying houses. It speeds the game up considerably.

We can’t let Grandpa know, because he would disapprove of altering the rules. N refers to Grandpa as “Mr. Play-By-The-Rules Pants.”  N and Grandma disdain “the rules.”

We play on a 40 year-old board.  The same one we played on with his mother.

Turning the Tables

Recently, two Jehovah's Witnesses came to my door. They gave me literature hoping they might save my soul.

Grrrr, invasive strangers knocking on doors to proselytize or sell something is one of my pet peeves. They usually catch me off guard, and I get "cranky." Afterwards I feel bad. This time I saw them coming. I was prepared. 

I gave them my shiniest whole-face Grandma smile. I listened politely and took their literature. As they turned to leave I asked if they were registered to vote. FYI: JV's are not allowed to vote. They looked at each other with some discomfort and silently kept moving. I yelled after them,"Ya know, sometimes God could use some help!"

Later that same day, a young salesman knocked. I saw him coming, too. I almost knocked my husband down trying to get to the door first. I have no shame.

Again, I listened politely. After I told him I wasn't interested, I asked him if he was registered to vote. He looked down, shamefaced, and said "No." I replied "You really need to vote, bad things are happening right now." He agreed and started to back away. I then said "Your generation needs to step up and help save the world."  He assured me he would, but didn't look me in the eye.

I'm making flyers with voter registration information. I'll give them to the invasive strangers who come, unwanted and uninvited, to my door. I'll refuse to take their literature unless they take mine. It's not like they can slam the door in my face or say something rude.

Feel free to join me in this reverse political canvassing. You'll be surprised what you can get away with saying if you say it with a big smile on your face, and gray hair.

Turnabout IS fair play. Especially if you're saving souls.

The incomparable Maggie Kuhn! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maggie_Kuhn

Looking for change

When I was young I fancied myself an artist. After I became a mother, I lost my passion for art. Still, I always thought I would sketch and, perhaps, paint in retirement. So far, I have not.

Then I started working outside the home. I discovered I could be creative in other, non-visual ways. That was an eye opener! I made the most of those years, and I was fulfilled and satisfied in return. I loved working outside the home, and I learned so much about myself in the process.

Quilt design and hand work were my passion for a time. Unfortunately, my last job was a snake pit. I was there for the final 8 years of my work life. It was a problem solver's dream, but it was all consuming and left little energy for personal projects. When I was home I only wanted to rest and recover. I lost interest in quilting. I figured I would get back to it when I retired. Nope, not yet!

In NYS I was an absolute fiend for perennial gardening. Florida is not a perennial gardener's dream. I lowered my gardening expectations. I dabble now for color and ambiance. I am not "really" passionate about gardening in Florida. 

During the 40 years I worked outside the home I was passionate about my job. Work defined me. I am grateful for the jobs, and the people I worked with during those middle years. The role I played became who I was. I eventually lost my passion for the job, too. Then I retired. 

It was harder to retire than I anticipated. I kept thinking I was on vacation and would eventually go back to work. I came to realize this was no vacation; this was my life. Doing nothing became tedious. However, I did NOT want to go out and find a job. I needed to reinvent myself.

Now I write here. I also started contributing to a new feminist blog collective (more on that another time). I continue to moderate for a large, political Facebook group which is part of the great political awakening of women in the U.S. since that unfortunate election. Becoming politically involved has been a game changer for me in retirement.

We moved to Florida to become a meaningful part of our grandchildren's lives. We gave up home, jobs, gardens, and friends to move to a wild swing state filled with alligators and bugs. I find grand parenting immensely satisfying. I also find myself loving Florida. It has all been worth the sacrifices.

Reinventing myself is fun. As long as I am lucky enough to wake up each morning, I have time and plenty of it. I still imagine one day I will thread the damn sewing machine, or sketch a still life. 

Let's go out in full glory, okay?

Cool Jazz and Buddhist Chants

Last night T and I went to hear Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock play jazz. In the context of jazz music I am merely trying to be a supportive wife. Imagine my surprise when I found I liked it.

Truthfully, I have always enjoyed listening to contemporary jazz more when it is live versus when it is blasting from our CD player. There is something about our small house being bombarded by disembodied dissonant chords that sets my teeth on edge.

All the music was improvised last night. I was amazed they could sustain a creative dynamic nonstop for almost 90 minutes. In front of an audience of strangers, no less. It made me think they had discipline, confidence, and faith.

Herbie Hancock worked his magic on a grand piano and a synthesizer. It was crazy, the musical noise he made. I lack a musical nomenclature, but I could almost follow what he did because there is something seemingly linear about piano. There is at least the appearance of a beginning and and end with whatever they play. Please don't assume I know what I'm talking about. I am just writing this trying to figure out what I think.

The musician who knocked my socks off was Wayne Shorter. Jazz sax players do NOT seem linear to me. They are explosively expressive and endlessly, belligerently creative. It was nuts how he played around the piano music, how he filled up space with bursts and bleeps. Like I said, I do not have the language to describe it. I certainly don't "understand" what they were playing. I only know these two guys are in touch with some deep creative groove and I enjoyed watching and hearing them settle in to it.

T reminded me that we saw Wayne Shorter perform a million years ago, when he was in the band Weather Report. I have no memory of that performance. It was the early 1970's and believe me, at that time I was way more interested in David Bowie than jazz. I am still more interested in David Bowie than jazz.

Wayne Shorter is a jazz saxophonist, one of the best. He has been referred to as jazz's greatest living composer. He is also a Buddhist, as is Herbie Hancock. They both practice Nichiren Buddhism through an organization called Soka Gakkai International. I knew nothing about this religious discipline before starting this post, so I am absolutely not writing this to promote SGI. I just reference it so I can try to understand what motivates these two guys. Pretty much all I know is what I found on one of the SGI website pages:

"The core Buddhist practice of SGI members is chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo and reciting portions of the Lotus Sutra (referred to as gongyo), and sharing the teachings of Buddhism with others in order to help them overcome their problems."

Okay...

When I heard these guys playing I knew they were plugged in to something heady. It must be nice to have a spirituality that encourages you to lose yourself in abstraction and beauty. I kind of envy them that.

Mucky stuff in the lake

Dreaming and the unconscious mind

I had an interesting dream last night, wherein my unconscious mind sent me a very clear message about what to do next. I think that is almost always what dreams attempt to do, but this dream was actually clear enough for me to understand.

A little over a week ago one of my best friends, ShS, died of lung cancer. It was unexpected. She lives up North, so I have not seen her for almost two years, but we talked on the phone. She was an integral part of my group of friends, and has been since about 1993. She was also an amazing person, almost always positive and up for a laugh. We had such fun over the years. I am going to miss her terribly.

Her first marriage was difficult and ended in divorce, twice. Her second marriage (or maybe it is her third since she married that first husband, the raging asshole, twice?) was to a kindly man who loved her completely. They were together for 36 years. 

I have been concerned about her husband, K, since her death. At 70 years old, and with health issues of his own, I worry about him being alone. I know grief can be brutal. He is probably numb right now. How will he cope?

In my dream K sent me photographs he took of winter scenes via email attachments. There were at least a dozen of his lovely photographs, appearing almost black and white only because that is what winter looks like in Upstate New York. Perhaps also because that is what grief looks like? The subject matter was simple, stark, cold, and beautiful. He took pictures conveying his loneliness and sorrow. He did not turn away from his pain; instead, he made a picture of it and made it beautiful.

I was awestruck by those photos. When I awoke, at 3 a.m., I could not wait to send them to K so he could see what he needed to do. As I returned to my conscious state, I sadly realized I actually didn't have the photos. They were not in my email in real life. They were part of the dream.

It occurred to me that was what art therapy does for a person in crisis. It allows a suffering human being to plug into the creative imagination and find some relief from pain. It frees the symbolic to work on our damaged psyches, allowing that great archetypal world to soothe and begin to heal us. We experience the symbolic most purely without words, without language. I wonder if truth is easier to accept in that form?

I am going to share this dream with K. However, I know that the dream was also for me. Dreams are always for the dreamer.  Everyone who appears in a dream is a symbolic part of the dreamer. I am pretty sure that is true. So this message about managing grief with the visual arts, although universal, is one that I need to embrace and explore as well.  

Footprint and pansy in the snow