Category Archives: spirituality

Aug2

it’s never out of your sight

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Admittedly, I’ve never been good at separating out timelines in my life. It’s all going down at once in here. This morning at three a.m. I woke from some wild cosmic ride thinking about my RAYHOPE experience. And having an ah-ha I would like to share. It had me buzzing.

You may not remember reading the post about this (May 8, 2024). Here’s the synopsis: my father was dying. As I was driving to be his caretaker one day I had to pull over to calm down, overcome with grief and blinded by tears. It suddenly occurred to me that I was habitually praying for him but not for myself. And so I said a prayer for myself, a solicitation for help. And I ended it with, “show me just a little ray of hope…” Those are not words I have ever used. My Mother, perhaps, but I don’t remember ever saying them, let alone thinking them. I was desperate for some relief, physically and spiritually.

My father was living with my brother, way out in the middle of nowhere in some tiny cabin my brother had rented when I kicked him out of my house. Homeless, my brother had asked to stay for a few weeks, and over three years later I kicked him out. I was tired of his abusive behavior. But I wouldn’t see him that day, or ever again. So I took them groceries, cleaned the house, filled the refrigerator with prepared meals. My father was still able to get around on his own, and one of my sisters would be there the next day. Around the middle of the afternoon Dad said he wanted to lay down and take a nap. My brother would be home from work by dinner time, and so I said goodbye to Dad. It would be my turn on the caretaker schedule again in a few days.

Slowly I dodged the potholes of the dirt road for a few miles to get back to the highway. There was traffic to wait out before I could turn left. Once I did I was following a big black SUV, and as I got up to speed I couldn’t help noticing that it had a specialty license plate. A government vehicle? It wasn’t legible until we came to a stoplight miles later, and as I inched up behind it the license plate read R-A-Y-H-O-P-E.

Literally, a little ray of hope.

I had to pull over again, this time in a parking lot, to compose myself. I was shaking. Did I hallucinate that? How can that happen? There was no predetermined time frame for my visit. Imagine the complicated sequence of events that had to culminate in that exact place and time. The State of Michigan sells customized license plates. They run a check to make sure no one is already using that exact plate; there are no duplicates. What was it doing on a big SUV on a northern Michigan rural highway nowhere near anything? At some random time in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon? I did not hallucinate it. It was carefully orchestrated, perhaps over months or even years, for me. It had to be.

My father did not live but a few more weeks. My brother would never speak to me again. He was a gambling addict, and once my father was gone he would not be able to pay rent and would soon become homeless again. But he would not reach out to me. The day that had given me so much hope did not mean what I thought it meant. I have never understood it.

Until very early this morning – twelve years later – when I woke knowing something even more fantastical. Help me wrap my head around this awareness: that event was a glimpse into how the world works. It was not a miracle, not unique, or even unusual. It was momentary insight into how life works. All the time. It is all unfolding perfectly. In any given second. On any road, anywhere.

The past several months have broken me open. My days are consumed with unreconcilable grief. Maybe it’s been percolating under the surface all my life and only now has the time and safe place to express itself from my body. And this grief has simply sharpened my awareness to the point in time where I can almost grasp the enormity of this. There has always been a little ray of hope. There will always be a little ray of hope. Nothing here is happening by accident. Nothing ever has.

Sep3

home is a many-layered thing…

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First journal? Scrapbook? We were kids when we started, eh? With a diary in grade school. So, for me that was the 1950’s. Although I was drawing as soon as I could hold a pencil (per my mother), magazine tear sheets wouldn’t come into being until I was in high school in the 60’s. But once I discovered magazines a whole new world opened up, quite literally. The world became a much smaller place once it was delivered to the mailbox.

It began with Seventeen. Barbie grew up and dressed in Betsy Johnson. But it wasn’t long before art and shelter magazines like Metamorphosis and Architectural Digest and Rolling Stone broadened my horizons. And then The Sun.

Suddenly my life was too small. I couldn’t wait to leave the boring suburbs for real life in the city. Little did I know…I wouldn’t get too far too fast, probably a good thing. Family kept me close and I set aside the acceptance letters to RISD and Parsons and New York School of Design for Wayne State and Center for Creative Studies, known then as Arts and Crafts. It was across the street from the fabulous and inspiring DIA, to this day one of the best art museums in the country. It was my familiar stomping ground as I would often skip high school (I still got A’s & B’s) to spend the day roaming the galleries, dreaming and sketching. Other days you’d find me on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson Company, moving from vignette to vignette in the furniture and design department, imagining what I would do with that room.

It had never occurred to me that I would be anything but an artist or a writer. It wasn’t what I did; it was who I was. Fast forward five+ decades and I look back, longingly some days. At the life I sidestepped somehow, too young married and mothering and clambering for survival. The demons were lurking in the shadows, fighting amongst themselves for attention. They were not to be ignored. In retrospect, I wouldn’t trade any of it – but that realization happened just the other day. It’s a process, like me. I’ll have to keep you posted as to when I solidify.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (has that euphemism become old?!) some things have not changed much. I’m still obsessed with art and music and design. As I said, it is who I am. I was born this way. That’s why I keep insisting that you cannot miss your purpose. You don’t need to search for it; God hardwired it in. You can miss the option of different vocations – but your purpose is not a job. It’s who you are. It’s your calling. And spirit – your spirit – will nudge you toward happiness and fulfillment ceaselessly. Every day every day every day. You will realize yourself one way or another, sooner or later. And you will relax into being. You are whole. And holy. Right here, right now. Try to enjoy yourself already.

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.”

Jun10

Are you all in?!

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So, since I have recently been through yet another health crisis (tired of reading about it? WOW, am I ever tired of talking about it!) I have been researching natural healing modalities. And spiritual healing for my symptoms, particularly auto-immune diseases that affect the eyes. And my YouTube feed, ever trying to find something to sell, has suddenly evolved to include spiritual healing channels. Another AI generated video caught my attention today. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the eyes…but my spirit has been trying to teach me to “fall apart at the SEEMS” for years now.

One of the secondary issues with spending far too much time incapacitated is that my tailbone hurts. My back is stiff and the aches and pains seem to make a rotation throughout my joints. For the most part I ignore them. They are not the source of my dis-ease, and I want to get to the source – because I want a cure. But my tailbone is painful. I have to carry my little donut cushion around with me if I want to sit.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think medicine is full of miracles, too. I am still going to see a rheumatologist and may end up taking the heavy hitters, the biologic injections. Meanwhile, I will begin here, with all the natural self care steps, and continue my quest for healing on all levels.

When my son was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma as a teen, I wanted him to do all that medicine had to offer. One of the reasons that Hodgkin’s has a high success rate is because they treat it so aggressively. Surgery if possible (which he had) followed by maximum chemo and radiation. They bombard the body with all the poison it can possibly handle. He still lives with some of the negative side effects – but he’s LIVING.

At the time, my sisters fundamentalist church offered him a healing prayer session. He took it, of course. We were asked to attend a service on Sunday and to stay after to meet with a group of practiced prayer healers. Standing at the front of the sanctuary they encircled him, laying hands all over his upper body and praying quietly. But apparently one of the prayer leaders had left the room immediately after service. And suddenly he walked back in, walked quickly up to Steven as the group allowed him in, aggressively banged his palms onto Steven’s chest and let out a roar. Steven said he felt the cancer leave out through his back. And that was the moment he knew he was cured. He KNEW. He still went through all the grueling treatments. Because healing is not an either/or, half-assed attempt at life. It’s all or nothing.

Dec7

pull your head out of your past

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That was the message I “heard” in my morning meditation. Do my spirit guides know my language, or what?! I’ve been perseverating for days…weeks…months…years – okay – decades now, about doing something…anything…creative or productive or proactive to help myself out of this malaise. “This” malaise is commonly known as poverty. Struggling financially, but more so, spiritually.

The J.O.B. (Just Over Broke) hasn’t been working out so well the past decade or so…you don’t want me to work for you. Everyone I’ve worked for lately dies. Just sayin’…

Over 13 years ago I started this blog in an attempt to write my way out of a nervous breakdown. It worked, and I’ve been writing since. Several years ago I began making videos on my own YouTube channel, Crow Quill Tarot. I have also painted some paintings in that time period; I’ve drawn. Made jewelry. But I don’t feel creative. Getting started is always a challenge and requires a shove. But finishing…well, I’ll let you know when I’ve finished something.

Most of my adult life I have assigned myself a “winter project.” I enroll in a class or two, or study on my own, a new subject or skill I think I would like to master. This fall I decided to study astrology. After all, it’s all the rage. I’ve toyed with going back to making videos on the tarot channel, but there are hundreds (maybe thousands?) doing it, and well. People with far more technical expertise.

And many, if not most of them – certainly the most popular and successful, are incorporating astrology into the tarot readings. In fact, that is how they have “delineated” the collective. And there’s where I got hung up – right there, at delineation. Collective = our common humanity, if I understand it correctly. How we are not only alike, but psychically connected. That understanding I have no problem with. But once I start defining myself and others, and using a fixed set of criteria, I am in the business of predicting the future. I call that fortune telling. And not only has it never interested me, but it is a sad and gross mis-use of the infinitely present tarot.

“The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine.” – Indigo Girls

So, I have been struggling to understand how astrology fits for me. I had a teacher in ninth grade who asked each student on the first day of her class what their sun sign was. Some didn’t know, so she asked their birthday and told them. Then she proceeded to assign us into study groups accordingly – that is, those students she didn’t send to the office to transfer to another classroom because their sign wasn’t compatible with hers.

When I listen to tarot readers using astrology to “clarify” messages I break out in a rash. It goes something like this: “this person may be a Leo or a Sag…or a Scorpio…or they could be…” until they’ve listed 9 out of the 12 signs. They have missed the point of the tarot entirely – which is a precise methodology for developing self awareness and hence, intuition. Intuition. Helllloooooooo! How intuitive are you if you need to list every possibility?! Make up your everlovin’ mind! WHAT are you saying, exactly? To me. I’m not listening because I want to know about my mother’s sister’s neighbor’s cousin. It sounds like they are trying to connect with everyone and anyone. Because that’s how they make money. And so, in the interest of learning, I have listened to many different readers addressing all the 12 zodiac signs. And identified with something in each of them. So now what?!

I want to make money. So I keep going back over this in my mind. And this morning I was meditating on why don’t I get astrology? Why isn’t it clicking for me?! And I heard, “because you are every sign.” Yes, yes I am.

And the bubble in my chest popped. I’m every sign. You are every sign. How can this be? Because we are not the past. We are not even who we were yesterday. We have been transfigured. We have risen. We do not need to keep reliving the crucifixion and the resurrection. We are on the other side of that now. It’s over. Pull your head out of your past.

“What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them, and they have changed since then.” – T. S. Eliot

Nov17

dimming up…

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“What fresh hell is this?” – Dorothy Parker

Living with chronic illness is exhausting, but by far the worst illness I deal with on a daily basis is the OPD. OPD (Obnoxious Personality Disorder) and it’s symptoms are debilitating. When I am miserable, feel like life is not treating me fairly and God has abandoned me, I know where to go for help. I go to church. Right here, today, with Carolyn Myss. She is my spirit animal, and lucky for me, she’s got clues to spare.

And then I channel my inner Elizabeth Bigelow and remind myself what a privilege it is to be alive in the here and now, even if I don’t know how the technology works…

Oct29

mind meld thingy

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Ooohh, man. I have been going through it. Some dark nights. So I suspect you have, too…’cause that’s how this mind meld thingy works…the past week has been intense. My cat seemed to be fading fast and I could not get a vet to help. My vet seemed to have fallen off the face of the planet. Other vets I called, half a dozen or so, could not get us in soon. They were referring me to an emergency clinic an hour and a half away. I was afraid the cat wouldn’t survive the trip. He panics in the car and goes into shock.

One receptionist admitted that they have been operating with one third their regular staff since the pandemic. They, like all medical services in the area – and all services, for that matter – are understaffed and overworked. The past three years have seen a tremendous boom in population in this area, as well as tourism. We are now experiencing “overtourism,” to use the new buzz word. So assistance just isn’t available, not quickly or nearby, anyway. Lately I find myself saying, “we are on our own out here.” But I see evidence of this happening all around the country. It feels like I’m standing on the beach of life watching the water rapidly pulling away from shore…and wondering what that means…

And I was triggered – big time. In a recent post I spoke about losing it with my son. But I seem to be all over the place emotionally in a way that very much feels like I’m right back in some adolescent hormonally-induced rage. What is going on?!

And so, in my panic (because that’s what this was) I did the only thing I could do – I started working the 12 step process and meditating. Now, as I’m sure you know, sitting still to meditate is almost impossible when you are so upset. And yet you need to get your breathing and heart rate under control. Stop the panic, interrupt the pattern. And once I was able to begin, just begin, to settle…whoosh. In comes inspiration. Inspire – ation. God as verb.

I will let you in on a little trick I’ve used for about 55 years or so now. It takes some time to get started. It takes EXACTLY as long as it takes for me to remember that I am not in control. AND ASK FOR HELP. That’s the trick – you have to ASK for help. Specifically, I begin reciting The Lord’s Prayer.

I think I was in high school when I first went to a metaphysical bookstore. It was the only store of it’s kind in the Detroit suburbs at the time, and it still exists today. I went looking for information on natural healing for my bleeding ulcers. I found so much more than I could have imagined. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was an actual portal to a new life. Mayflower Book Store in Berkley, Michigan: https://mayflowerbookshop.com/

That was where I discovered what those cards were that my friend bought me at a garage sale, bound in a rubber band with interesting drawings on them. They were tarot cards. And I bought a book called The Gnostic Gospels. And in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus teaches that we only ever need one prayer, and proceeds to recite The Lord’s Prayer. I remembered it from early days of church when I was little. When I used to hold onto the seat of the pew with both hands as hard as I could because I was afraid I would float out of my seat and get in trouble. Those huge, huge angels up in the rafters were singing to me and I wanted to sit up there with them.

I am not religious. I don’t like religion. I guess I’m not ready to forgive the millennium of atrocities it hasn’t taken responsibility for. I’m not that expanded yet. In fact, like Elizabeth Gilbert says, “I’m such a pagan.” But I am oh so very faithful. And like learning the tarot by observing the imagery come to life every day for many years, I have learned that The Lord’s Prayer encompasses any worldly concern you will ever have and transforms it – or you – into manageable information. Plain and simple language, like the plain and simple imagery of the tarot, that leads us right back to our divine imagination. Thy will be done. Phew…a greater intelligence, a higher consciousness, has got me. Contrary to all my innards screaming at me, I am, in fact, not alone here. And btw, I spent far too many years worrying about what anyone else thought about my complex beliefs and how they did or did not conform into societal expectations. I no longer assign power where it does not belong. No one owns the teachings that serve us, whether of Jesus or Buddha or the tarot or animals or nature. I speak them all. If you find something that works for you, do not let anyone hijack it from you.

I drove over an hour away last Friday to pick up medication for my beloved familiar. Within 24 hours he was a different cat. He is doing well; probably better than he has felt in a very long time. Dear little thing. Another close friendship isn’t faring as well, however. I lashed out at a friend in my anger and desperation last week. Yes, I was mired in grief posing as helplessness. Yes, she said something that felt insensitive. And we’ve established I can be quite verbally abusive when triggered. I wish there was a pill to fix this.

Unable to sleep, I am writing this at 3 a.m. In meditation only minutes ago I was offered healing, a little loosening…I can only hope she felt it also. I hope I will have the best words to say when we speak again.

I do know, just within the last few minutes, that all of this frustration and anger and grief has come to visit at the perfect time. It was waiting for the perfect storm to expose it so that it could be healed. I don’t have to be so brave anymore. On earth as it is in heaven is not religious hyperbole. It is real, here and now. I surrender. And I can rest.

Oct7

may we realize our nature

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Creativity is so much more than art. This post is for my dear friend who lives in Arizona. She thinks she is not creative because she is not an artist. She recently retired as a Hospice nurse administrator. God help us as a culture, let alone a species, if we cannot honor THE HEALING ARTS as the highest form of creativity. Have you ever spent time with a person who is seriously ill or near death? You are present. Right here. Right now. Because when we are ill (and, news flash! – we are all terminal here), we cannot be anything but present. We are unable to do for ourselves; we are dependent on others. And our caretakers must be present with us in our vulnerability. They are entirely engaged with imagination, moment by moment. All pretense drops. They are holding imagined peace in a state of being that can only be love. They are imagining us well and free of suffering.

Vital Germaine is a retired Cirque de Soleil performer, and the author of Think Like An Artist. He has clues for the rest of us. Let’s pay attention.

It seems I have spent my entire adult life as a frustrated artist. And I may continue that way, only time will tell I suppose. I can give you a hundred reasons why I have never lived out loud as a self-proclaimed artist; they’re really just excuses, aka trauma responses.

But I am learning to re-frame my definition of creativity. I have always lived a creative life. This thought takes me right back to ACIM basic principles: THERE IS NO ORDER OF DIFFICULTY IN MIRACLES. All creativity is miraculous; all miracles are creative. As it happened, it was in an ACIM study group many years ago that I first met my above mentioned nurse friend…coincidences only happen when angels coincide.

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” – Albert Einstein

In the 1980’s I went through Hospice training so that I could work as a volunteer art therapist with the Children’s Bereavement Group at Munson Hospital in Traverse City. At that time it was a leading edge group, led by the late Dr. Barb McIntyre. She was a pioneer in that field. Art therapy students came from around the country to study. In my training a book was recommended: Who Dies, by Stephen Levine. It leveled me. Just read it. He tells of healing as a spiritual awakening. Nothing more. Nothing less. He says, and I agree, it has nothing to do with the body. Some people heal and their body recovers. Some people heal and their body dies. All that matters is the healing.

“I die so many deaths each day, what does it really matter which one of them is real?” -Anais Nin

After you’ve read both of those books (links below to my Amazon affiliate account. I might earn a small commission at no cost to you), then please read a third: The Miraculous 16th Karmapa. Known as “the black hat buddha,” he was a living awakened, or Christed, being who performed miracles and healing simply by being in the presence of others. There are many examples of others who have lived in our lifetime, but what struck me so profoundly about HH Rangjung Rigpe Dorje was his insistence that his seemingly miraculous state of being was, in fact, perfectly normal. Dying in a Chicago hospital, he proclaimed to his grief-stricken attendants, “nothing is happening!” Can we imagine that to be true – that there is no order of difficulty in healing, even as we pass from this bardo to the next? Can we imagine?! His “dream flag,” imagined in a dream as a prayer for enlightenment to all sentient beings, will hang in my home until my last breath. And that is thanks to another dear friend who now lives in Florida. How blessed am I?!

Think Like An Artist by Vital Germaine: https://amzn.to/4gWrP7W , Who Dies? by Stephen Levine: https://amzn.to/47XtTZB , A Course in Miracles, https://amzn.to/3XRGtEZ , and last but not least, The Miraculous 16th Karmapa: https://amzn.to/3XSYW46 , Karmapa Dream Flag: https://amzn.to/4eSkfJE

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…

Aug18

tangible evidence

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“Artists love other artists. Shadow artists are gravitating to their rightful tribe but cannot yet claim their birthright.” – Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

Since I have been ill the past few weeks I have been binge watching a British show called Portrait Artist of the Year. Fortunately it has 11 seasons, each with twelve episodes. It’s so nerve-wracking, and so inspiring. Free to watch through YT. It’s ‘The Voice’ for visual artists; it launches careers. I couldn’t participate in anything like that; I’d fall apart. That is a clue about the psychological pathology I spoke of in yesterday’s post. I simply live too close to the ledge of grief to be so exposed in public.

I do remember one season where they chose to advance an artist who had behaved, to my eye, totally inappropriate in the first round. She was irritable with, and demanding of, the model – to the point of rudeness. She ignored the other two fellow artists who were also painting the same person from other angles. Never mind what they wanted! She micromanaged the group like a herding dog with a flock. The judges must not have caught the bad behavior which showed up in the editing room later. Had I been in that panel of artists I would have told her to sit down and shut up. And maybe decked her, who knows…I’ve never been violent. Yet.

Back in my twenties, going through a divorce from my abusive husband who is the father of my son, I sought counseling. I had experienced it first when a schoolmate in college recommended I see her psychologist sister. It was eye-opening and, of course, I’ve been an advocate since. Counseling is self care. You go to the doctor when you have a health issue, why on earth wouldn’t you get help sorting out the psycho-pathology? Don’t you want to experience your wholeness? If nothing else, this trained professional can offer some objective feedback and tract your emotional health just like a doctor does your physical health. That said, I’ve met some mighty dysfunctional and just-plain-wrong therapists throughout the decades. There are quacks in that field, too. But you don’t give up.

I’ve told this story before, about this talented and insightful therapist I would later study with at Wayne State. When she posed concepts that were foreign to me, I often told her, I need “tangible evidence.” In other words, I wanted proof – preferably in advance – that this crap would work.

Here’s the thing about therapy. And medicine. And art. The evidence takes time. It comes after the healing. As Steven Levine writes in the life changing book Who Dies?, terminally ill patients sometimes die and sometimes recover, and healing has little to do with it either way. Healing means becoming conscious, and it’s an ongoing process. It requires tremendous courage, because no one is coming out of that transformation as the same person they were when they went in. I remember being told that once, when my son was going through cancer treatment. He was going to attend Camp Make-A-Dream in Missoula, Montana. One of the attendant counselors warned me, “your son will not return home as the same person who left.” I was okay with that. I’d have been okay with any part of that bargain, whether I understood it or not. Just keep him alive.

So here’s the deal, McNeal…you have to let go first. You force the exhale before you’re ready…knowing you might run out of air. It’s called faith. That is the main ingredient of healing, of consciousness. Julia Cameron knows it. She calls it spiritual electricity. No lights without it. And it isn’t part of her 12 week process – it’s in the Basic Principles – prior to beginning. Before any tangible evidence that this will work.

You have to consciously decide to trust the process. You pretty much have to be at the point of no return, left with nothing to lose. Sickness will do that for you. Trauma. So will art. They rip you open and lay bare your entire being. Only by being raw and vulnerable do we realize any true healing. ACIM (A Course In Miracles) says it best: In my defenselessness my safety lies. That’s the only place any safety lies.

As far as any art I’ve ever shown, or writing for that matter, it has rarely met with any encouragement at all. I had one instructor who marked my essay “don’t give up your day job.” And a close trusted friend who I showed a drawing to respond with: “I don’t get it. But then I’m not one of your groupies.” I’ve also had some amazing encouragement from other instructors, both in writing and art. A grade school teacher entered a painting into the Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards contest unbeknownst to me and I won. I was in 6th grade. Again in 12th grade a teacher entered a poem into a student contest run by The Atlantic Monthly magazine, and they published it. If you don’t consider that tangible evidence, I don’t know what is.

And yet…here I am, at 70, wondering how and why I never pursued any practice in the creative arts. I couldn’t care less about fame or fortune, but some supplemental income would have been great. Some sense of confidence. Some joy. Obviously I am fragile of ego and easily led astray by others’ opinions.

But this ramble is to attest that the faith comes first, called blind because we have to face the unknown without the evidence. I want to heal my root chakra. And my throat chakra. I will speak the truth as far as I know it, always. And I will TRUST that I am safe – not in spite of my vulnerability, but because of it. I’m not done yet – but I am done living in the shadows.

I had the great good fortune of meeting and taking a class with my favorite artist, Elaine Dalcher. She isn’t done yet, either. A kinder, smarter person you will never meet. Nor a better teacher. Wow, has she got a healing story for us. Visit her website: https://www.elainedalcher.com/