Category Archives: David Whyte

Nov6

“Yes, I am Bono.”

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“Poetry is language against which we have no defenses,” David Whyte tells us. My life must be poetry. It is a question – one big, fat, ugly, precious question right now. The question that I don’t want to ask, the conversation that I don’t want to have. I cannot turn away. I do not know what is true any more. If I try to understand, nothing seems real. No one describes this surreal distortion better than poet philosopher David Whyte. He’s the only person I can stand to listen to at the moment, for he translates grief back into human language. Everybody else just gets on my nerves. I can’t talk to you right now; I don’t know how.

“Sometimes if you move carefully through the forest, breathing like the ones in the old stories who could cross a shimmering bed of leaves without a sound, you come to a place whose only task is to trouble you with tiny but frightening requests, conceived out of nowhere. But this place, beginning to lead everywhere – requests to stop what you are doing right now and to stop what you are becoming while you do it. ”

Stop. Anything you think you are doing at this moment is a performance of who you think you are. Of who you were. You are not that. You do not know who you are. Stop kidding yourself. Stop.

My brother Ward was so much like my Mom. They were terrible worry-warts. Small, wire-y, tenacious, intelligent and hilarious. They used to tell the rest of us, always tired trying to keep up, “sleep is highly overrated; you can sleep when you’re dead.” Which they are now. Both dead. Bright stars who burned out far too fast. I do not know how to live without them.

But the grief that has me paralyzed today is the loss of my cat, Chewy. Many – maybe most of you, might think, “a cat? Really? And you’re devastated?” Yes. I am. Devastated. It has been almost 2 weeks and still I can hardly breathe. I cry myself to sleep several times a night. My stomach is in knots. My world is in some time warp that does not allow focus. I can’t seem to get a grip on any semblance of reality, of my life as I knew it. I have changed. Life has changed. I don’t know who I am anymore.

This grief has gripped me in it’s talons like nothing I have ever experienced before. I don’t care that it isn’t logical. I don’t care that I cannot scale it into the size of my life. Perhaps I have lost the plot altogether. I’ve certainly lost my sense of sanity…speaking of something that is highly overrated…And yes, I can explain this deep chasm as an accumulated grief. Loss in my past has always been amongst family and many friends, during my work life, still having other pets to care for, while being busy. Even the loss of my last 2 dogs, elderly and ill, was during the pandemic, and about 6 months apart. Everything was surreal then and nobody thought anything of it. This is more understandable if I want to put it into that context – I don’t. I don’t want to allow myself to think my way through this experience. I don’t want to risk losing one iota of this opportunity to be transformed. And so I must feel my way through it. And I do not know how to do this.

Chewy came to me unexpectedly 8 years ago. I was not looking to adopt a cat. He was being displaced and a friend asked me to foster him temporarily. We had 8 years together, approximately 2,920 precious days. I pretty much wasted about 2,918 of them having no idea what a tremendous and powerful gift he was. Do not expect me to diminish his significance in any way. I will not. In many ways I am only beginning to grasp the scope of this loss.

In this fascinating and insightful interview, David Whyte tells the story of standing on a street corner in Dublin waiting for a bus. A young boy was staring, and finally mustered up the courage to ask him, “Are you Bono?” David paused. And in a prescient moment of absolute presence he responded, “Yes, I am Bono.” A meaningful exchange occurs, and David must admit that he does not know the importance of it. Perhaps that brief moment was why he was here, on the planet. We aren’t given to know all. In that split second he was exactly who the child needed him to be. His spirit was entirely available. He could be generous. It mattered.

And that is the essence of my loss. Chewy was entirely available and generous. His life mattered.

Sep21

until now

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“Enough is abundance to the wise.” – Euripedes

Do you have enough? That is a different computation for each individual; surely we know this much. I am struggling financially in the later years of my life, now moreso than ever. My friends are concerned and petition me to sell my house, invest that equity for some security in the event, or inevitability, of illness. Of the need for long term care. And no, I am not showing signs of dementia – not yet, anyway! My recent doctor’s exam revealed that I am much stronger than most women my age. I’ll take it. I’ve slowed down, and once you do that it’s difficult to get back to your previous pace. I’ve come to terms with that, as I have with my financial limitations.

In a recent post I talked about denial, but I don’t believe that is this. I think, I meditate, I read and study upon my circumstances; I cannot muster a sense of poverty. The bank account, the numbers, say I’m poor by whatever standards economists measure. I don’t feel poor. In fact, quite the opposite. I feel abundant, blessed, overwhelmingly grateful. My body does not seem to harbor any fear. At least not at this time. That could change, certainly…let’s not plan for it. Let’s not project fear, or False Evidence Appearing Real. Let’s not make shit up.

Just this week I heard Elizabeth Gilbert quote an acronym I’m adopting as my new motto: PAUSE: Perhaps An Unseen Solution Exists. Or as the Mad Hatter (or was it Alice?) would advise: always leave room for magic. Carolyn Myss, one of the most respected Christian mystics of our time, would say: always leave room for God. This attitude toward life has been serving me well thus far for over 70 years now. Maybe there is something to it.

Would I like more? You betcha I would. More money to live on and share, more security, less stress. More room to paint and more paints. More flowers in the yard….”more.” “Of what, Eeyore?” asked Pooh. “Everything…” But do I have enough? I do, indeed.

Am I willing to give up my peace of mind and embrace fear? Nah. It’s not my style. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this morning I found this to share with you. A beautiful artist and writer walks us through her home, built for “every open soul that finds it’s way here.” This 12 minute video has so motivated me. I’m up on the step ladder, singing to the music playing, painting my living room and rearranging all the furniture this weekend, while soup simmers on the stove. It is making me so darn happy. My home, my sanctuary, my altar, my endless source of beauty and inspiration.

May our open souls always find their way, regardless of our circumstances. May we always know we are loved. And may we always know we have enough. Thank you for being here.

Aug3

one way only

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Success! My rain spell worked. Which is to say, I left my laundry hanging out on the line all night. Never underestimate me.

A beautiful friend came to visit yesterday afternoon. I was a bit verklempt. I almost cancelled, but I really wanted to see her. It’s been too long. The overwhelm was only because it came at the end of an insanely busy week. By insanely busy I mean 2 things: 1) I had at least one activity scheduled every day, and 2) I never got a nap all week. I usually nap every afternoon.

As it happened this past week I had 2 medical appointments scheduled which had been weeks on the calendar, and I had to cancel them for more pressing medical issues which required immediate attention. I also had to cancel lunch with my friend on Tuesday as I couldn’t drive to meet her. She was concerned about me and drove the hour out to my house on Saturday.

My house is very purposely located on a spit of land that elbows out into Lake Michigan, affectionately referred to by locals as The Land of Oz. I say purposely because I moved here precisely because it is a destination of some determination, ie; not on the way to anywhere. Nobody just drops in. I detest dropper-inners.

When I moved out here on this precipice of life and beauty I had to drive to the post office for my mail. They didn’t deliver mail here just outside the village limits. Yes, that was 2018. I had to join with 3 neighbors and petition the post office for mail delivery, clear and level a path next to the road and install mail boxes. We get mail delivery now, but not necessarily daily. They will deliver your mail when they darn well get around to it. It’s a privilege, and don’t you forget it. I do appreciate it. I know they are short staffed, and I appreciate having a local post office. Many villages around here do not.

Friday I received a new deck of tarot cards in the mail, so I opened them after lunch with my friend. We sat on my very long, deep sofa (a.k.a. Mom’s Cosmic Healing Sofa) and shuffled, talking, laughing and kvetching…and we each drew a card, which took our mundane conversation in a deeper direction.

One of my many withdrawals in recent years has been from the practice of reading and channeling professionally. Because, well, people. Most people don’t really want to be challenged to grow, to face their shadow, to look at the habits no longer serving them. They don’t want to sit in the present moment until the tears come. It isn’t comfortable. It is, however, priceless. The tarot is so beautifully designed for exactly this work, and I cannot use it otherwise. I mean, sure, you can use it to access any information you want to know. I can astral travel anywhere and spy on anyone. I won’t. I can psychically answer all your questions. I won’t. Those are parlor tricks. As Geraldine Jones would say, “that is not my job!”

During her visit, we talked about my friend’s daughter-in-law, who has also been living with chronic Lyme disease. She is much younger than I and has suffered far worse for much longer. We spoke about healing, but my compassionate friend asked about how I deal with pain and not being able to function some days. I told her it has been my greatest teacher. When I am ill (sometimes on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m.) I pray. It’s the only help. I pray with each breath. All I say is: “Thank you.”

Thank you for this body. Thank you for this pain in my liver. Thank you for my life. Thank you for my home, for this bed, for this sweet feline companion, for my beautiful son. Thank you for my big, violent, fu#ked up family – and for the fight in them. Thank you for friends, long-standing and patient, brand new and welcoming. Thank you…for the purpose this illness serves though I do not understand it. Thank you.

Thank you…”so that I can have this one way, along with every other way, to know that I am here.”

Jun24

the temple of my belonging

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Well, it’s been Crisis Intervention 101 here again. S’always sumpin, innit? But we’re through it intact and life is calming down. And cooling down, finally. Although we are still at 98% humidity. Normal for Michigan this time of year. As we say here, we only have two seasons – winter and July. July just began a week early. The crowd of tourists are all back in town. So I avoid town. They do serve to remind me to get out and enjoy the beauty around me.

This is the draw, and I’m so close to the shore that I can see the tip-top of a 400′ sand bluff from the bottom of the driveway (above the trees). It’s about 1/4 mile to the lake as the crow flies, or a mile downhill to the beach. I love my views, downhill in 3 directions. I have one immediate neighbor to the north, but this is a weekend summer home for them. Because I don’t have many windows on the north wall, I often realize they’ve been and gone only because they set out their trash bin at the street for Monday morning, and I gladly roll it back up the drive for them. They do many nice things for me, like mowing the back 40. I may struggle financially, but I am wealthy beyond measure surrounded in this beauty.

If I’m honest, it is a constant worry that I no longer seem to have the physical strength or financial means to maintain my home or property. We are both tired and worn. So often I will look at the real estate online to see what I might find that would be easier to grow old in. But every time I become overwhelmed with sadness. I love my home; I just want to take proper care of it. I love where I live. The ashes of my sweet pups are buried in the garden, their final romping place. My elderly kitty is the mighty king of his domain and I’d love him to live out his days here. It’s quiet and peaceful and safe. And the roof has started to leak…

I’ve often wondered why home means so much to me. Other people I know seem far less attached emotionally to the place where they dwell. In my dreams I am frequently in my childhood home on the Detroit River, long expanse of lawn lined with 3-story-high willows swaying in the breeze. Hundreds of peony shrubs perfuming the air, sunrise over the river. In a surreal way I felt somehow more connected to the natural surroundings than the people I lived with. There’s more than a few therapy sessions needed to unpack that realization!

And in hindsight I confess that I stayed far too long in an abusive marriage because I didn’t want to give up my home. Home. It’s really all I have ever longed for…a home of my own. Heaven for beginners.

Oct20

the cherished outcome

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“Oh love, bring every grief you’ve carried with you as a door you’ll walk right by / if you don’t stop to look with that loving heart and a troubled eye.”

Our troubles feel as if they are like stone, a compacted, impenetrable medium which will not allow us in. It’s time to “put my money where my mouth is…” so to speak. Time to show up, front and center, and face that stone inside, standing steadfast between me and my own liberation. I talk a good game, don’t I? All this wisdom about getting free. As if I had a clue.

When I am lost as I am this week, in the rock hard grief of my own making, I have few places I can turn. I can always turn to David Whyte. Ironically, I was introduced to him long ago by a friend I no longer have any contact with. She chose to stay in the comfortable captivity of her abusive marriage, and I had to stop pretending that I could be her supportive friend. If you read this journal once in a while, you’ll realize this theme has carried throughout the 13 years since I began here. I’ve gone no contact with more people than I have in my life anymore. Every single one has been a death I am mourning. In retrospect today, this seems an obvious theme. After all, I began this outlet as a means to help me process my divorce and separation from family, from everything I’d ever thought I wanted. To come up against that rock hard resistance and face the unknown.

C.S. Lewis is quoted as saying how shocked he was to realize that grief feels so like fear. There is good reason for that. Grief is the last doorway between us and our freedom, and we are terrified of our freedom. How, exactly, do we manage to be in the world, but not of it? Get back to me on that, won’t you, please?

It turns out that ignorance is never bliss; it’s really only ignorance. It also turns out that bliss was never the goal. It has always been awareness, whether we care to admit that or not. Bliss would be, well, blissfully easy by comparison. But awareness is how we get to freedom – which is our one and only job here. We like to pretend the god ate our homework. Yes, you read that right. So what is all this angst-ing about? Well, I have come up against the biggest boulder my heart has ever encountered, and I’m guessing you have one, too.

Since my teenage years, all of my relationships have been hard. I am hard. I have always been difficult to get along with. Something inside of me has always been as uncompromising as a boulder. I was the eldest of five children, and the scapegoat in a narcissistic family system. Yada, yada, yada…I married young. I got out as soon as I could, and I wasn’t going back. At the age of 24 I had my son, and he has been the light of my life. In many ways, my salvation. I don’t think I’d be alive today were it not for him, and I certainly wouldn’t be the person I am. He inspires me endlessly. But we are at odds right now, and it is breaking my heart. It has shaken me to my core.

Intellectually, I can explain everything. To tell the entire story, I have to begin with the health problems which impacted that pregnancy. I was always a nervous and thus scraggly kid. In high school I was diagnosed with bleeding ulcers. I struggled all of my young life to keep weight on. So I was considered medically malnourished when I became pregnant at 23, and I proceeded to lose 24 pounds. I gave birth to a healthy 9 pound, 6 ounce baby with teeth coming through his gums, but I left the hospital at just over 90 pounds. I’m 5′ 6″ tall. Perhaps because of this, he has always had some (miraculously mild) learning disabilities, despite an extraordinarily high I.Q.

During his first year in school he began to show behaviors that we would now recognize as autism. I took him to every doctor of every type that I could think of. We checked his eyesight, we checked his hearing, we checked his cognitive abilities. The doctors all told me exactly the same thing: this child is a genius. He is bored. With the wise counsel of some teacher friends we began a discipline of working through a daily checklist. I would write and draw it out on a blank sketchbook page at night, and he would work through it after school the next day. He had to complete it before he was allowed to play. It always included 2 or 3 light chores and 2-3 fun, creative activities. It always included Hug Your Mother (because I’m not above manipulation.) Then, an hour before bed we sat together and read a story or watched a favorite cartoon while I massaged his feet with a grounding oil, usually sandalwood. This routine was working beautifully. To this day, when he becomes stressed he will often create a checklist.

I am telling you this now because he has been struggling again. As mentioned recently, he is quite depressed. The aftermath of the recent natural disasters seems to have impacted him deeply. He is a highly sensitive person. But I, too, am struggling terribly as a direct result of interacting with him, in his mental and emotional distress. And because I am literally the only sober person he knows, I’m the sole voice of reason in his life right now. I must make mental health the priority of our lives.

And yesterday, I suddenly felt terribly helpless. I was consumed with fear, and I blew it. He came out of left field touting some wild conspiracy theory about the corrupt government having created the weather disaster and being out to get us all – and I lost my shit. It isn’t even that I necessarily disagree with everything he was saying, but I absolutely cannot – cannot – function from that perspective. It is mired in fear. It is entirely divisive. And it is utterly hopeless. Talk about a conspiracy!

I don’t know that I have ever screamed that loud before in my life. I screamed at the top of my lungs – at him. I told him he was dead wrong about so much of what he has recently adopted to believe. And in no uncertain terms I told him that he is subscribing to cult behavior, and that I am afraid for his sanity. I frightened him, and I frightened myself.

And so, shaken as I was yesterday, I must ask myself some very tough questions. Do I want to defend my own personal beliefs at the cost of anyone else’s freedom, including my sons’? What if he and I become estranged and never speak, as the current politics has divided so many families? Can I live with that? Are my convictions that important? Are yours?

Do I have other options here, besides finding “the truth” of the situation? Of course. Firstly, I recognize that if I am not experiencing peace, I have given away my sanity. Somewhere in the hours/days/weeks leading up to this blowup I have assigned meaning somewhere it doesn’t belong. If every upset is a setup (and it is,) I bought into somebody else’s agenda. Or in this case, depression. I picked it right up because it’s a familiar habit. And if I picked it up psychically, so did my empathic son. We can put it down just as fast. I’m not going to give assholes my vote this election. My pussy is not up for grabs. Neither is my mind. Out, demons, out! Here’s to our better angels.

Both my son and I lost our sense of humor – and perspective! After all, that’s what depression is. I fell into that bad habit, and so did he. Now I want my funny son back. I want my kind, intelligent son back. I’m thinking that screaming at him isn’t the best approach. But I’ve been holding on too tightly. Too much fear bottled up inside. It is no coincidence that I am having a flare-up of asthma symptoms. I have been holding my breath. I’m done with that. You want to see what created weather looks like? Watch out for that boulder rolling downhill. Tomorrow’s forecast is warm and sunny.

“You too have travelled from so far away to be here, once reluctant and now as solid and as here and as willing to be touched as everything you have found.” Thank you, David Whyte.

Sep13

move along smartly

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Nearing the end of 2024 I am wondering if I will ever “bounce back” from the pandemic. Have you? Do you think there is any bouncing back? I think we are changed forever. I know I am. There are two distinctive reasons I will never be the same, and I would like to share them if you will indulge me. I’d like to hear how it has affected your life. Even if the changes aren’t obviously attributable to the pandemic itself. How has your life changed in the last (almost) five years?

This morning I am needing to chew on the left side of my mouth. I am going through a series of periodontal treatments in an effort to save my teeth. The first treatment was originally scheduled for March – 2020. That didn’t happen. It was cancelled due to the shutdown. By the time we seemed to be coming out of that horrific nightmare scenario and the dentist called to reschedule, I was battling Lyme disease. My face was disfigured by Bell’s Palsy and I was beginning a series of acupuncture treatments for that. Thankfully those worked to restore most of the muscle use in my face, although not completely. Acupuncture is not covered by Medicare insurance. Neither is periodontal work, but they’re both necessary.

The other event that was cancelled that spring was a huge luxurious and much needed mental health vacation. It was a workshop I was scheduled to attend near Scottsdale, Arizona. Led by two of the most revered influences in my life, Elizabeth Gilbert and Rob Bell, the spiritual retreat was titled How to Imagine.

One of my closest friends lives in Tucson and had decided to attend after I told her about it. She offered to share her room at the resort hosting the weekend. But I didn’t think I could come up with the workshop fee, let alone the air fare. When I spoke about it another friend offered an airline credit. I was yet undecided. It would be a stretch financially and I would have to arrange in-home pet care for my elderly dogs.

Meanwhile, it was a local friend’s January birthday and we met for dinner. She was so excited to tell me all about the workshop she had just registered for…you guessed it. By this time I knew I had to go. It was meant to be and I would beg, borrow, or steal to get there. I did a little of each and managed to get registered in time for an early bird discount. Now I had two close friends who would be there, and something inside me knew this held profound healing opportunity.

When the airlines shut down the workshop was cancelled. I’m not sure why, but I have never gotten over the disappointment. Something inside me snapped. All manner of magical synchronicities had occurred to allow me that gift and I suddenly felt like a child whose dreams were never to be. I must have transferred a basketful of grief to this because I was disproportionately leveled. It was the straw…

Subconsciously I had decided that trip would be a pivot point in my life. By making that commitment happen, I could then give myself some unearned or undeserved permission to live creatively that I would not otherwise permit myself to have. I have not yet recovered that authority. Perhaps I won’t.

And here I sit, almost five years later, chewing on the right side of my mouth, still feeling like I’ve missed something. My Mother would say, “move along smartly.” And she was a very wise woman, so…watch this space…

Sep11

Dear House,

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The truth is that I don’t know where to begin…I bought this house for my beloved two little rescue dogs. Hariat was five years old when we adopted her from the Lakeshore Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rescue. I said we because I was married at the time, and we drove almost five hours south to pick her up from the farm where she was being fostered. Down and back in one day. When we arrived home that evening our sweet corgi Oliver was waiting with my brother and Dad, who lived with us at the time. We lifted Ariat, as she was named then, out to the driveway to meet Oliver at nose level. Oliver was the second corgi we had adopted a few years prior. They smelled one another and did a runner around the yard. Our mouths dropped open; they acted like they recognized each other and were the oldest of friends getting reacquainted. They were genuinely glad to see each other. Adjustment time = zero days.

Several months prior we had lost my darling Christie, or Arborglenn Pastel of Christie as she was registered with the AKA. Her mother had been US Champion of Breed, and she was the first corgi I had ever known. She was the canine love of my life and 15 years was far too short a time together. I was devastated losing her and had no intention of ever opening my heart to another dog again. At that time Oliver had been with us a few years. He was devastated, too. But during a routine checkup for Oliver the vet asked how we were getting along without Christie and I burst into tears. The vet admonished me and insisted I consider adopting another dog. A few months later we were blessed to find Ariat.

Ariat had been a working dog on a horse farm, named after a brand of equestrian gear. But her name was difficult for the three curmudgeon men of the house. And so she and I discussed the issue and agreed we would add an H to the beginning of her name. Problem solved. She would teach me that I could open my heart again. She was an angel in a dog suit.

We lived in a beautiful saltbox colonial in the lovely wooded suburb of Shorter Lake Woods. I not-so-affectionately called it the snub-division of Stepford Lake Woods. I loved the house itself, not the snooty neighborhood or the ridiculous homeowners association.

We had three neighbors, each a half acre away, including the HOA president next door. The homes on either side were barely visible through the mature pine trees unless you were actually outside in one of the side yards. The house across the road was visible through the western living room window. But it seems they could see us, and we were in constant non-compliance to one of the many rules.

One summer weekend I had a friend visit from downstate, a Michigan State University graduate with a degree in landscape design. She commented that the trees were past their maturity and in dire need of attention. I had no idea! And what do I do about that? “Well, she responded, we can do some trimming right now for starters.” And she was up and out, grabbing her very impressive lopers from the trunk of her car. And she and I worked all day trimming lower branches, her teaching me why this was good for the health of the tree and how it would benefit the canopy. We transplanted perennials I didn’t even realize would flower in some sun. We made mulch out of gathered pine needles. I hadn’t worked that hard in years. I would get a letter three days later from Mr. President informing me that I was not allowed to trim trees. It must be done by a professional arborist.

It hadn’t been long before that when old Christie had been laying out on the front lawn one day. She was quite lame by this time, and deaf and blind. Oliver had been an abused puppy before we adopted him, always timid and terrified of strangers. So he lay on the front porch well behind Christie. I returned home from work and turned in my drive behind a strange white truck. The county animal control. Seems they had received three complaints about our dogs. The officer got out of his truck and approached the house and neither dog moved. Maybe they attempted a muffled insincere bark. He asked if we could speak inside. He informed me that he had received three complaints, one from each of our barely visible adjacent neighbors. All on the same day. One at 11 a.m. The next one at noon. And – yep, you guessed it – the third at 1 p.m. Apparently the complaint was that our two small elderly dogs had been using their yards as bathrooms. There were dogs who did do that. They were large unattended dogs. One I recognized from a few doors down; most of the time I did not know them. I was always picking up after those dogs also. But even the county police officer acknowledged that we had a problem here with a bored out of work HOA president. He laughed about it. I didn’t see the humor. But I did know what this was about, and which husband was behind it (namely mine) and the political argument that had instigated the disdain.

Fast forward a couple of years and everything had changed. Christie was gone. Dad was gone. Now Oliver was deaf and blind and Hariat his constant protector. I was divorced, traumatized, and lived alone with both dogs. No living parents to appease, my brother now refused to speak to me. I had gone no contact with one sister. I had moved away from Manville. Yep. That house which I never named became known to me as Manville, after a horrible nightmare one night where I was stranded in a town of that name, fearing for my life.

Intuitively I have always felt a connection to every house I’ve ever lived in. I believe that, like a marriage, a third entity is created when these bonds are formed. It has a life all it’s own. We enter into a contract of care, and the commitment is not to be taken lightly. The home requires and deserves our attention and respect. It depends on us and in return it protects us. Treat it well and it will nurture our spirit.

A house becomes a home when we interact with it, when we feel safe there. When we express our gratitude for it. If we allow, it becomes a “thin place” where the veil between worlds is thin. I’ve moved twice in the dozen years since Manville. I cannot voice my gratitude without tears. I’ve since lost Oliver and Hariat and my brother. In my previous home I adopted a miniature beagle named Odie from the Kent County Animal Shelter, and I’ve since lost him. We agreed to take care of a Maine Coon cat named Chewy for a couple of months a couple of years ago. For over a year he and Odie were inseparable, and now it’s just me and Chewster. This house has enveloped us all, and a grieving adult son. This house deserves an affectionate moniker. This is the bright home in which I live.

Aug9

Into the River with Alpen Kelley

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Who said “Remember, ultimately, it will be the artists who save us.”? I did; I said it. You’ll recognize that quote if you’ve known me any length of time. I’ve been saying it for decades, in conversations, on social media, in my writing. I mean it, too. Let me tell you why I believe it is true, and why I think history proves it.

Artists are the truest reporters of the culture they are living in. They have never fit in, and they never will. They observe subtle, often unspoken, patterns. Long before we see them in everyday life. I’m not sure why that is the case. Perhaps by the very nature of the traits that make them artists they are slow moving, intuitive, and sensitive to nonverbal communication. They find ways to communicate that will bypass the obvious, that will sneak in the backdoor of our mind and get the point across before our beliefs have had a chance to object or rationalize. Think of all of Joni Mitchell’s brilliant lyrics. “Richard got married to a figure skater and he bought a dishwasher and a coffee percolator and he drinks at home now most nights with the tv on and all the house lights left up bright.” You instinctively know exactly what is going on.

This vulnerable transparency is true of visual artists; it is certainly true of musicians, and it is true in the healing arts. Where intellect and education will stretch to conjure a solution, a cure…intuition picks up and extends a loving offer: try this. It doesn’t have to make sense. And something inside us, and our body, recognizes the truth of it.

I remember a fever induced dream. Convalescing in my bedroom during a long illness, I looked longingly out the window – and saw a horse walking down the street. Oh, dear, I thought, someone’s horse has escaped. I grabbed an apple from the bowl on the dining table and ran down the stairs and out into the street, extending my arm to lure the horse. That’s when I realized it was wild, ghost-like, not from around here. The horse smelled the apple and nodded for me to eat it, and I woke. I knew I would begin to heal now, and that apples held some nutritional element I needed for that. I’m not sure that has anything to do with being an artist; however I did get right up and eat an apple. An artist trusts their intuition. They inherently know that God, or whatever you want to call spirit or a higher power, is at play in our lives all the time. And the more we honor that the healthier we will be.

Whether history being unearthed on cave walls or Lady Gaga telling us God makes no mistakes and we were born this way, the artists carry the declaration of our existence, of our why, of our “YES, and I will not be denied.” Because as the poet David Whyte reminds, the world was made to be free in.

Jul17

I am not knowing.

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My Mom’s mom, my Mimi, was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. They were dirt poor, meaning the floor was dirt in the one room cabin their father had cobbled together from found materials. He was often gone for days or weeks at a time following any work he could get. When Mimi was seven years old her mother died giving birth to a baby boy. Unable to care for him, the infant was adopted by a neighboring family and my grandmother, Mary Katherine, was raised by her older sister, Nellie, who was 11 at the time. The two girls were alone most of the time and had to trade or forage for any food they couldn’t grow.

That is all of their childhood story I know. I sure wish I knew more, but I was young when told this little bit of history. I didn’t know to ask more questions. Neither side of my family talked much about anything. Bits and pieces of that scarlet thread wended through conversation occasionally, only to be quickly brushed aside. There is so, so much I will never know.

I do not know how Mimi ended up living in Michigan, or married to my grandfather. Mimi retained somewhat of a southern accent all of her life. We kids teased her about it, but we loved it as we adored her. Whenever we did ask a question she couldn’t answer she responded, “I am not knowing.”

What is the question I didn’t want to ask? Oh, there were many, and I want to ask them now. Now that I am not afraid. Now I want to know everything. Every little thing about you, Mimi. Everything about you, Mom. Dad. I want to know my darling brother’s thoughts. Surely he had hopes and dreams he never shared. I never heard them; I never asked. Why didn’t I ask?

I can look back from the wisdom of today and know that I was always defensive. I was always being picked on, ridiculed, told that I was stupid or silly. In many ways I’m sure I was. I filled the role of family scapegoat exquisitely. They’re called family dynamics for a reason. They were not a safe space for me. I was not a safe space for them. Certainly I realize now that perhaps a braver approach would have shifted the dynamics, but hey, I guess we were all doing the best we could.

“They” say you have to drop your attachments to gain enlightenment. I don’t believe it. But I don’t believe much I hear anymore. I believe my body, my sweet animal body. Now I want all the stories. The happy, sad, true, or imagined stories. I don’t need to hold them, I just want to feel them move through me, to deepen my love for you, to know you better. I am not in the habit of asking. Please tell me.

Jul5

the leading creative edge of your incarnation

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Yesterday I wrote about my former husband, and about how sad I was, and still am, that we could never seem to be friends. If I have learned anything at all in this life, please God, it’s how hard friendship is. And how priceless. David Whyte says it best, of course, in his poem on the subject: “The ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the self, nor of the other. The ultimate touchstone of friendship is witness.”

My former husband would often admonish me for being so hard on him, for holding him to such high standards, and implore me to simply “accept me as I am.” He could never understand why that was difficult, and quite frankly, neither could I. Neither could I. It’s lonely at the top.

I understand it a lot more in retrospect. And I now believe that my standards were not too high, but in fact, too low. That if I had been emotionally intelligent, more mature, more self aware – healthier – I would never have entered into a marriage with someone that I was not, in fact, friends with. I no longer think marriage is necessarily hard. But friendship certainly is.

There wasn’t anything wrong or bad about either of us; we were just too different. We had different values. We wanted different things from life. And that has also proven true in many of my friendships, once we really got to know each other. There are few friends still around these days, but how precious they are to me.

One of the hardest qualities to come to terms with in both myself and others is an unwavering commitment to personal growth. I want someone to call me on my shit. Not because they aren’t getting their way, but because they recognize that I am making unhealthy compromises. Tell me when I’m making decisions based on need rather than strength. Help me become more self aware, and then when I know better, help me to do better. Lead me back to the high road whenever possible. Remind me of who I am.

“The point of a marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust.” – Rainer Maria Rilke