What does fashion, storytelling, and sleep all have in common? This week I’m hoping you will join me on a little curiosity journey. I wish to explore some of the homes of artists, beginning today with the New Orleans home of Debra Shriver. I am also going to explore our personal development using our intuition, or psychic abilities. AND THEN, because I cannot separate these things in my own mind – I think we will discover the common denominator here. I believe there is an integral link that creative thinking has with intuition, or psychic awareness. Furthermore, I not only believe they are all part of the same function, but entirely dependent on one another. And, I am also convinced that our very survival depends upon us recognizing this. As it happens, this awareness is also intricately connected to our sense of safety, physically and psychically, and to our ability to rest and relax. They are all components of freedom, and I want more of that.
If you will indulge this exploration with me this week, I believe we will all feel better about ourselves a few days from now. Ready?
The military has used visualization techniques since WW2. Olympic athletes practice them daily. Grief counselors know this works as well in reverse; they will tell you that having faced a life-threatening situation you must grieve as if everyone involved did, in fact, die. Your subconscious cannot tell the difference between the threat and the reality.
Einstein knew it. I posit that it was the truly valuable discovery he made – far more valuable than splitting atoms. He said, “imagination is the language of the divine.” In more recent scientific studies, since the ability to map the brain while neurons are firing, we now know that intuition and imagination are the same brain function. So, psychic ability can be taught, and it turns out daydreaming is one of the ways to learn it. (Hence the value of the tarot, of storytelling.) Being busy and “productive” all the time is the way to lose it. This brings us full circle around to “Rest As Resistance” – the only way to have freedom from oppression is to mentally remove yourself from the culture; to learn how to think freely again.
I’ve had it all my life. I suspect that being the eldest of five children in a chaotic, abusive household required my “Spidey senses” be hyper-vigilant. And so the natural sixth sense was not un-developed, but allowed to function. Maybe I’m not dysfunctional so much as I’m super-functional.
I remember watching the movie Brainstorm in the theater in 1983 and getting it. This was no longer science fiction. It made for a good screenplay; I knew better intuitively. It was what my son calls “soft disclosure,” meaning it is preemptive propaganda being presented to the masses as fiction so we will readily accept the reality in the near future. And we did. We’re living in someone else’s reality (or dystopia) now. Let’s take back our own.
So, why are each of us not experiencing absolute joy and prosperity? And the answer, as far as I can surmise, is that we don’t practice. We are scared out of our wits of our own power. The only truly meaningful question becomes: WHAT IF? What if time is NOT of the essence and money IS no object?!
What do YOU want? Have I got some stories for you…
I have often felt like my Dad was born in the wrong place and time – for which I’m grateful, of course (because…well…me.) He was gay, for one thing. He confided that to us after my parents 27 year marriage ended in their forties. But that was not something he was safe to disclose as a younger man, born in 1933, working in the factories of Detroit. He and my Mother both were talented beyond measure, both visually and musically. They never had much opportunity to be artists; they nurtured and encouraged it in us children. The expression that could not be contained, or even managed, was their rebellious spirits. You’ve heard me say that my parents were beatniks in the 50’s and became hippies in the 60’s…he did like to sport a colorful bandana around his forehead.
He played the piano, daily. We had a baby grand tucked in the corner of the living room where you would often find him tinkering. He played all the classics, but honky-tonk was his passion, and I suspect his sanity. I’m not exaggerating that his voice sounded like Frank Sinatra, and he was extraordinarily handsome throughout his lifetime. Circumstances being different, he’d certainly have given Sinatra some competition.
My father was not a particularly kind man. In fact, I’ve identified him in my older years of therapy as a narcissist, a sociopath. A man of extremely high intelligence and very low empathy. But I can’t help wondering who he might have been if born in a more tolerant time and culture, were he given even a bit more freedom of expression. Repression forces our personality out sideways in unhealthy choices, into addictions and immature abuses. I’m but one child of that fact. Please, God, may we finally learn that now, if we are to have any chance at all of a healthier future. Preferably before another world war. Preferably before the complete collapse of this empire. We have all suffered the consequences of oppression. Our society, our country, is bereft because of it. Our collective spirit is bound by grief, but we shall each know it personally. It’s our wake-up call.
Yesterday I discovered a fabulous new (to me) YouTube channel. Sorry (not sorry) to report – but I am a YT junkie. And home tours are my guilty pleasure, but I’m ever so picky. I want a lot of visual grist. This channel features restored historical homes of New Orleans, post Katrina. Let’s explore a few of these treats this coming week, beginning with this story, which brought me to tears for obvious reasons. THIS was so much like my childhood. Freeze this video on any frame at all and I will point out at least three things that spark memories. I am an endless fount of story, and I’m done apologizing for that. What awareness does this treasure spark for you?
My Mother used to say, “Mother’s are a sorry lot.” That’s a multi-layered tru-ism. She was an extraordinary person, one of the big loves of my life. And my son, too, of course. He asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day. “You, healthy,” as is my usual reply. When he was fighting for his life with lymphoma 20 years ago I couldn’t even think about not being a mom.
But the truth is that I am not really interested in Mother’s Day. I celebrate every day as if it were a holiday. Isn’t it? I guess you could say I just don’t get the holiday thing. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It all seems a bit contrived to me, thank you, hustle culture.
I have an almost gleeful sense of accomplishment when I can manage to spend any culturally-assigned holiday in an ordinary way. The more hours of ordinary-ness I can accrue, the better. Hence, people accuse me of being a party-pooper, a sad sack. I’m not. I just love ordinary life; it’s enough for me. Big dramatic gestures and contrived efforts make me nervous. Let’s lose this habit of making our days something more than they need to be. No more big deals, unless they organically happen that way. Peace doesn’t require peaks and valleys. Calm down people.
My son, a fabulous cook, asked me what I want to eat for Mother’s Day. A big salad, same as every day. Do? Take a nap. I may be boring, but I’m surprisingly okay with that. Let’s celebrate being human, quietly – and a Happy Mother’s Day, whatever that means to you.
I’m kind. Until I’m not. And lately, I’m not a lot. Something happened to me. I’m not sure when. I know it began about a decade ago, living in Manville. Only those closest to me know what that means, but here’s the short version: I was in an unhappy marriage – again. And feeling like an enormous failure for being there. Would I just never catch on? We had moved my elderly father in with us as he could no longer live alone. He came with Hospice care, which is only available with a terminal diagnosis. He would be taken off Hospice before the six months expired. Fortunately, he did not. In fact, he would live another several years.
Then my brother came to “stay” while getting his feet back on the ground. He stayed for three and a half years. He, my father, and my husband (17 years my senior) all hung out together quite happily while I went off to work. Their idea of fun was going to the casino and playing the slots, which they did regularly.
They did not clean the house. I did that. They did not grocery shop. I did that. They did do most of the cooking. Because all 3 of them were “meat and potatoes” men. They ridiculed me while I chopped greens for my salads, laughing accusatorily that I was part rabbit…that never got old. They would ignore any pleas for help, or even kindness. At one point in time I’d gotten myself a camp counselors whistle, which I would blow at the kitchen table and announce, “Ass-hole retraining bootcamp begins now!” They rolled their eyes and each went back to their televisions…I’d have been invisible were I not so irritating.
You know where this is going, don’t you? Suffice it to say I was in my own special hell. Then I became ill. Deathly ill. I didn’t realize how sick I was until I finally got myself to the doctor once I was recovered enough to drive (they were busy) and was told that I was lucky to be alive. Apparently I had a blocked duct from passing a gall stone. Helllllloooooo….
In one of many fever-induced nightmares I had been driving cross country alone and my beat up old car broke down (someone call Dr. Freud.) The creepy desert town I was stranded in had become intolerable. I’d realized that they had no intention of fixing my vehicle. In fact, they were fattening me for the slaughter. I waited until after dark and snuck out my hotel window unnoticed. But I did look back once over my shoulder and saw the arched sign above the road into that town: MANVILLE. And I woke up.
I’ve never been the same since. It took a couple of years to fully extricate myself from Manville. Thanks for asking, but no, I have never recovered. And as my sister would say, now I’m “meaner n’ a snake-bit coyote…” Now I’m a lot like Mother Nature: you won’t like me when I’m mad.
I thought that if I survived that nervous breakdown, I’d soon get back to my kinder, gentler self. It didn’t happen; I’m not the same person anymore. But I did have another health crisis less than two years ago. Another wake-up call. And something remarkable also happened then. Hooked up to IV’s in a hospital bed, the nurses were so very kind. And it touched me to my core. It was as if a cellophane capsule growing inside me suddenly burst and all the bad drained out. I had never known kindness like this. Let me say that again: I HAD NEVER KNOWN KINDNESS LIKE THIS. I’m sure it’s been offered many times throughout my life. But I hadn’t really understood it until then. Perhaps we can only assimilate kindness proportionately to the hostility we’ve been faced with. And until that day I wasn’t ready to let that in, to relinquish the bubble that held hostage all my human-ness.
On a cheerier note…well, I did not mean to go ahead and publish that previous post! I was working on it… My dyslexic ADD wishes the words Post and Publish didn’t both start with P. But here we are. Let me tell you another experience I had several years later, shortly before my father passed away. I had to travel over an hour to visit him. He was living with my brother by this time, and while my brother worked during the day, my sisters and I were taking turns checking in on him and making sure he had meals and was doing alright.
But he wasn’t doing alright, and neither was I. I was going through one of the worst times of my life. I was grieving heavily. I was going through a divorce, and I was losing my Dad. I felt like everything had been ripped away. I was having a nervous breakdown.
Driving was difficult while crying. I kept having to pull off on the shoulder of the road to compose myself. And then a simple silly thought came to me – how I often pray for others, but why couldn’t I also pray for myself? I guess it had never occurred to me. I guess I thought it was selfish. But this day I went right into it. And as I was turning onto the long dirt road that lead to their ugly rundown house in the middle of nowhere, I asked for something I never had: “If you are listening, God, if this is real – then show me a ray of hope.”
Dad and I visited over lunch. I washed the dishes and put away a few groceries. We watched some inane cooking show on afternoon tv…and when he was ready for a nap that would take him through to evening, I tucked him in and left. When I got to the highway where I would turn off the dirt road I waited for traffic to clear. And pulled out behind a huge black SUV. As I came up behind this vehicle I noticed it had a vanity plate. No numbers, all letters. I couldn’t read it until we were stopped at a traffic light.
Today is a dear friend’s birthday. I sure am glad she was born. She has been a constant inspiration to me for decades…how lucky am I? What if the gift of her in my life is just a simple metaphor for God? What if EVERYTHING is conspiring to help me?
Years ago I was driving north with my sister in the car; I don’t remember why. It was just getting dark and we were still about an hour south of home. Suddenly a police cruiser was behind us and put on his flashers. While I slowed and prepared to pull onto the shoulder my sister went off with her own emergency signal. It went something like: “oh what the hell?! You weren’t speeding! Why is he pulling us over?! What did you do wrong?!” I calmly turned to her and said, “Why would you assume something is wrong? How about we wait and see what this is about?” As it turned out, I had a tail light out. I explained to the officer that we had just picked up the vehicle from the dealer the previous day, as my husband had hit a deer last week (unfortunately a common problem here.) He said, “oh! I know exactly what the problem is. Pop the trunk and I’ll fix it.” Soon we were on our way, safer for the help. My sister, btw, made some comment about how lucky I am and how I never seem to panic (don’t believe it) because I always assume I’m in the right place at the right time. I’ve had far too many experiences of divine intervention to possibly believe in coincidence. Sadly, my sister would write in her memoir years later that she feels abandoned by God, that she “even knows a tarot card reader he blesses more than he blesses me.” I’m that tarot card reader, evil as she thinks that is. She can’t begin to comprehend how I seem to skirt the extreme hardships of the rest of the family. I could tell her, but she would never believe me: I HAVE MORE FAITH.
I don’t care who you pray to, or spell with, or your name for the divine within or without. Faith means that you know that you were “made this way,” for just “such a time as this.” (Esther 4:14) – that somewhere along the way, likely early in childhood, you decided that God doesn’t make mistakes. You decided that everything – EVERY SINGLE THING serves a purpose here on this planet we call home. And that you are not given the entire plan on purpose. You don’t need to understand. It’s NOT YOUR JOB to police the human experience, and NEWSFLASH! – you are not the gatekeeper of Heaven. Isn’t that a relief?!
Let’s spend a week asking “what if?” and be one percent more curious than fearful. Let’s be one percenters. And let’s celebrate those wonderful souls whose lives bless ours. Happy Birthday!
To say that I’ve been in a funk lately would be quite an understatement. My beloved family is really struggling, facing homelessness again. I’m heartbroken, and I can’t help. My friends are having a hard time, juggling hardship and trauma far more elegantly than they realize. My cat has been ill and I wasn’t sure he was going to make it a couple of nights ago (he has improved now.) My bank account just seems to be empty all the time no matter how hard I try to get ahead of the deficits. Unforeseen expenses come out of nowhere. I haven’t felt well, having another flare-up of chronic Lyme and wondering if I will ever feel alright again. I have had no energy.
About 2am last night something shifted, through no direct effort of my own. I have been meditating and praying more consistently (I haven’t been able to do much else) and doing my little magical feng shui “cures”…getting rid of yet more clutter and cleaning in small spurts as I learn to pace myself and accept that perhaps this may be the way it is now.
The cat woke me at 2. He let out a big sneeze and then crawled right up and stood on my chest staring at me. I reached over and turned the light on. Immediately I knew something was different; he was talking to me. He was letting me know to pay attention. He was better. I was better. The damp, mouldy old fog of fear and desperation had lifted. It was that experience you have when you feel so much better that you suddenly realize how far off you’d been.
What if…what if we just allow things to be easier? What if we re-member ourselves? What if we take the easy way out because EASY IS RIGHT…and right is easy? Have I been unconsciously making things harder than they needed to be? The circumstances haven’t changed, not yet at least, and they are still difficult. But FEAR makes everything harder – in fact, it makes things impossible. From fear I can’t see creative solutions to anything. From fear there is no hope of improvement, everything will go downhill from here. Sorrow has overwhelmed every cell of my being.
And how many times have I said you don’t need to figure it all out? You don’t need to understand what this is for. You just need to have ONE PERCENT more curiosity than fear…you just have to accept the POSSIBILITY that there is LIFE at the end of this tunnel.
Everyone has a soundtrack, maybe more than one. You think of the soundtrack of your life as the music you grew up to, your favorite artists and songs, the songs that played during the events and times that later became fond memories. I have one of those, but I’ve also got a different kind of soundtrack. I call it “God’s soundtrack.” I say God for short: it’s consciousness, maybe spirit. Maybe it’s my ancestors. Sometimes I know who it is. Sometimes it’s a deceased loved one, usually my Mother or my brother. It’s from “beyond…”
It happens when I’m praying, or talking to someone invisible, or to spirit. And it comes out of nowhere, unexpectedly. And I know it isn’t my invention because it addresses a specific question or subject – and because it is often a song or artist that I would never listen to to. I’m not a fan.
It happened yesterday morning. I was in a snit, to put it mildly. I had logged into my bank account to balance it after being away and…what the heck?! I had a huge ($200.) charge I wasn’t expecting and hadn’t authorized. So I got to the bottom of that, but it wasn’t easy or quick. It was theft, and I was not guaranteed that it would be returned; an investigation is pending. I was mad. I threw what I call a “spiritual temper tantrum.” God got a piece of my mind. And when I prayed, (let’s just say, in a spirited manner,) I specifically said: “You tell me you heard this and that you are on this! You hear me?! I want to know I’ve been heard!”
It wasn’t long as I went about my house cleaning routine that a song began to play in my head. I didn’t know the words, but I recognized some of them, and the tune. I didn’t know who the artist was. It had been grocery store background music at some time in my life. As I said, not a fan. It took a bit of investigation to find it. I found a couple of similar songs with similar words, one by a country singer and one by a heavy metal band. And then I tried a different sequence of words and found it. I hope you comprehend…
when I’m dancing…I am free. I want Bill Nighy as my anxiety. But not really. I want free. Anxiety and pain have gotten the better of me this week. The lab tests came back, still and again, positive for Lyme. I’m not able to do much. Back on meds…ugh. These two remind me that art is the only way out of this mess – mine or yours, physical or emotional. And art is whatever you decide it is; whatever empties you.
I have to remind myself not to let fear take away my peace. This short film was made to help support the artists of Ukraine. Don’t we all feel helpless in the face of the world’s oppressors? And aren’t they oppressing to the best of their ability? My body can’t seem to fight off the bacteria from a minuscule insect, let alone war.
I think I broke a couple of toes last night, tripping out of bed. And I just started laughing (through the tears!) Oh my, how I take life all too seriously. Dear spirit will do whatever is necessary to get my attention. I will put on some music today and dance around if it kills me…and empty out my body and my mind of the debilitating anxiety. Get present. Get here now.
So what can we do in the face of oppression, of illness, of anxiety and worry? How do we switch off the solution driven thought machine and act creatively? Be our souls? We empty, we get outdoors, we go back to the old drawing board, we allow ourselves to be just a teensy bit more generous than feels comfortable right now…we expand.
We B R E A T H E….ahhhhhh. ‘Cause, don’t you wanna call it off?
A Painterly Home 