Why we need the arts

I believe in the arts because the arts have continued to give me a safe outlet to become my whole self. The arts have helped me heal and learn and grow and transform. The arts offer a safe space in which to be human—within a certain context. The context changes--whether it is a stage or a screen or the frame of a photograph, a piece of paper or canvas, or whether it is a time boundary as in performance—the length of a song or a set or the length of a story or a play. The context determines the parameters of being. We show up and we become—we reclaim the parts of ourselves that were hidden. We reveal our truths. We expand who we are through awareness and being and expression.

This work is lonely a lot of the time. There is little recognition, money, encouragement, understanding, interest from others. It is hard to hold the value of something that can so easily disappear. We all judge the arts from a place of wounding at times. I don’t know anyone that doesn’t carry some sort of art wound. Someone somewhere told you that you weren’t good enough or that you couldn’t do something that you wanted to try or that you weren’t talented enough, or that you weren’t old enough or young enough, some one told you that you weren’t strong enough, educated enough, experienced enough. Someone told you that you weren’t loud enough or quiet enough or big enough or skinny enough. Some one told you that you didn’t know what you were doing, or that you knew too much. Someone told you that you didn’t know how to stay in control. Someone told you that you didn’t look right or sound right. Someone told you that you are boring or stupid or goofy or they just didn’t get you.

How many of us don’t feel understood? How many of us hide and don’t share how we really feel? How many of us criticize and judge as a way to keep distance between us? How many of us need healing? How many of us stopped singing or dancing or drawing or playing when we went to primary school? Or middle school? Or high school? Or when we became an adult? Or when we had children? How many of us judge ourselves for being too weak, too emotional, not creative enough, not talented enough, not natural enough? How many of us judge each other for exposing ourselves? For being ourselves?

How many of us long for a greater expression of who we are? How many of us long to find compassion, self-love and acceptance? How many of us long to be seen and understood? How many of us feel like we are waiting for some future moment when we can finally be ourselves? How many of us want to reach out to others but we are afraid? How many of us reach for entertainment, drugs, alcohol or other soothers to numb out the pain of being human? How many of us feel alone in our pain? How many of us pretend we are okay when we really aren’t? How many of us long to feel more connected, more part of a community? How many of us wish to feel more alive? How many of us long to feel more authentic? How many of us long to be more creative? How many of us long to live a more meaningful and connected life?

This is why I do what I do: to help people wake up to the full truth of who they are. I use the arts—filmmaking, dance, photography, drawing, painting, writing, storytelling, drama, improvisation—as a tool for self-awakening, for compassion, for discovering one's passions, for reaching one’s potential, for truthful emotional expression, for aliveness. The arts are here for us so we can feel our aliveness. They are not just for showing off (though sometimes they can be) or for getting attention (though sometimes they can be). The arts are a mirror of the human spirit. The arts are a path of human connection. The arts make us whole. The arts show us who we are. The arts help us create meaning. The arts inspire us to both embrace and rise above the human condition. The arts help us to understand each other. The arts help us to speak and express our truth. The arts hold our emotions. The arts help us know who we are. The arts grow our imagination, our compassion, our passion, our presence, our creativity, our intuition, our integration.

The arts help us be who we are.

Jardin de Niño Diaries, Part Three

I started teaching that week. I have a book of ideas for art projects for kids, and I brought in a very fun project that involved straws, water color, tissue paper and origami paper. I realized only a half hour before that I didn’t have enough large paper, and the paper I did have was stained and ripped at the edge from a hurricane leakage. And so I cut off the corners to the pages that were damaged. It looked so good, even though it was irregular (I have always been a fan of rounded corners and now own a little puncher that does it for me) that I decided to cut off all the corners to those pages. It had a very charming effect. I was so relieved that the class went well. I had a shot of pure joy in just being with the kids.

I remembered my many years of taking care of and teaching children-- there is something quite natural for me about about being with children. I am still very much attuned to my own inner child and that part of me easily connects to children. Even if my Spanish is awkward and the room is chaotic-- just being with children is a very good thing for the soul. Each week for the rest of the year, I brought a new project to do with the kids.

At Christmas time, I offered to make a piñata with kids. They wanted a snowman even though none of them (including Emilio) had ever seen snow. I hadn't made papier maché (since I was a kid) and I had always wanted to explore it. The only method I know is the balloon method, so the plan was to create three snow balls with three balloons and then connect them. The kids loved the papier maché. It was messy and gooey and hands-on. Perfect for preschoolers. They each received a pile of newspaper strips and we shared a big bowl of the flour paste. I had forgotten how simple it is to make, and how forgiving, it’s almost impossible to fail. It’s important when doing projects with kids, or anyone, to consider the probability of success. The easier the project, the easier it is to get them intereested. But also, because messes tend to overwhelm me when teaching kids, it’s important to have a plan on how to achieve the messy project. The method of taking turns to add strips to the balloon worked, sort of, but of course most of the kids have a hard time waiting for their turn. And I had so much compassion for their enthusiasm it was hard for me to tell them not to. 

After three weeks of adding elements to the snow man, it was finally finished and then, in just a few minutes, the snow man was smashed to bits at the christmas party. His candy guts were scooped up unbelievably fast. After the Christmas party, school is often cancelled for no reason (or at least not one that is communicated to me), and so my class is not very regular. When a few weeks go by with out class, the kids start to ask me about art class again. They cheer when I tell them it's happening. I still have not even considered the mural. The school year ends and the teacher, who is no longer Vanessa, announces that we will be having a graduation ceremony. I ask her if I can do an arts presentation as part of the graduation and she says yes. I set up a little table and display all the kids' art from the year. The bossy lady is at the event--she comes up to me and shakes my hand. She is surprisingly friendly. The subdelagado of Elias Calles also shakes my hand. I was proud of myself-- all that mess and uncertainty and lack of planning added up to something official enough for me to shake the hand of a local Mexican official. It has meaning. Being a non-Mexican offering something that wasn't asked for takes me as far as a handshake. A sign of respect and acknowledgement. I am satisfied.

To be continued...

Presentation of the kids' artwork from the year.

The kids draw while they wait for the graduation ceremony to start.

Samuel, their second teacher of the year letting the kids receive the rain of candy.

Some of the parents of the kids, the Subdelgado and the "Bossy Lady"

The kids in their performance costumes with Veronica, their third teacher of the year. Butterflies and cows. Emilio (left) is wearing the cow costume. The first costume I have made by hand as a mom.

Me with all the kids (those in the fancy costumes are the graduating)

Jardin de Nino Diaries, Part Two

I have come to realize that at this point my only real chance to have a true cross cultural experience here in Baja (which is so full of gringos and so influenced by American culture) is through my involvement with the Elias Calles preschool. Even though I feel shy and intimidated, and struggle with communication, I push through it all knowing that this a great opportunity.

I want to share a little background on how I came to be involved with the school. The idea came from a combination of synchronistic events. 

In the spring of 2013, Lucas hired Martín, a local worker and the nephew-in-law to our closest neighbor, to help us finish up some house projects. At one point, he and his wife, Idanya came over and helped finish the painting of our house. We soon learned from Martín that there was a “kinder” in Elias Calles, and that his 3 year old daughter (who is one month younger than Emilio) attended it. The 17 year old teacher, Vanessa, lived in their house with them. We had known there was a primary school (which was known as the best public school in Baja) where various teachers had come to do clay and filmmaking projects with the kids. There was even a film screened at the Todos Santos Film Festival called “Little Muddy Hands” that the kids made about their experience of learning to make clay. But, we didn’t know there was also a preschool. We had intended to send Emilio (when he turned 4 that August) to the preschool in Pescadero, the next town over. That preschool had 30 kids and I was already feeling nervous about sending him there, because he didn’t know any spanish. Or if he did, (after all he has lived in Mexico his whole life) he didn’t know that he knew. 

Emilio on the first day we went to check out the school.

We were very excited that we could send Emilio to a local school, which was a walkable distance from our home. I walked to the school with Emilio, who rode his bike, the next day to meet the Vanessa, the teacher and find out the registration process.  

A few days later I attended a friend’s "give away" party. She was giving away many items from her overcrowded van (her turtle home). One of the giveaways, was a children’s book called the Sign Painters Dream, about a grumpy old sign painter who transformed into a small town hero by painting a “glorious and magnificent” sign for a lady who wanted to give away apples from her orchard. At first he had laughed at the idea of making a sign for free, but after a haunting dream, he decided to make the sign for free for the lady who had asked him, which led him to re-discover his passion for sign painting. This story inspired me on many levels. (And have now added sign painting to my wish list of skill learning. In the meantime I have been teaching my self hand lettering. Which is also incredibly fun. More on this in the future.)

The way the preschool looked the first time we saw it. This is the "bodega side" of the school that the kids weren't using at the time.

The next day, after reading this story, my husband told me about a group of women who were doing community murals in La Paz (our nearest city)—they called themselves the Painting Pirates. I contacted them right away asking if I could be involved, thinking I could really learn something from them. I learned that painting pirates had already moved onto to another country. But then the next morning, it hit me. I could do my own project in Elias Calles onto of that sad looking wall of the preschool I had just seen. I went to talk to Vanessa, the teacher, the next day. In awkward Spanish, I communicated my plan. She liked the idea, and so I decided I would start when the school started again in August. August came and went, and I did not start with the kids. I was scared. I am the only gringa mother in the group. None of the others speak a word of English. My Spanish is pretty good in most cases, but not when speaking with someone who speaks only the strong local dialect. I really struggle speaking with Vanessa and the other parents. A lot of shame comes up in not being able to communicate. And in being different.

The first moment Emilio met Vanessa, his teacher. 

The classroom as it looked at that time. It has since been destroyed by the hurricane Odile that came to visit us in September.

 A few months went by and I still did not start the mural. I even asked the friend who had given me the sign painter’s dream for advice—she was an ex-artist and art teacher and had a lot of experience with murals and kids. Though I appreciated it, her advice caused me to be even more scared. Then I realized that I was jumping the gun, and that it would make more sense to start doing art projects with the kids, and get to know them first before I jumped into the mural. I could let the mural be a long drawn out process that we work towards. From experience teaching long projects to children (filmmaking especially comes to mind), kids gain so many rich lesson from long, additive & continuous projects. That gave me some relief. But still, I did not start my class, which I also decided would include some English lessons. I decided to call the class Art & English. (I adore giving names to things.) But perhaps a more apt name would be: Arte y Ingles. Or Arte y un pocitio de Ingles. 

Then, one day a woman that Lucas and I secretly termed the bossy lady, showed up at one of our endless parent teacher meetings. She had us do all sorts of exercises designed to encourage the parents to be more involved with their kids’ education. The problem here is that many kids do not go on to finish their education, so the government wants to make sure that the preschool kids get a good foundation in case they do not go onto primary school or high school. Some of the exercise she did felt similar to some of the expressive arts exericess I do with my adult students. Yet her manner is quite different than mine--she is very commanding and empowered. Even though part of me resented her demanding presence (she scolded me once for the fact that 4 year old Emilio did not finish his home work one day), part of me envied her, and believed I had something to learn from her. In a private moment, I told her of my desire to teach the kids art. She then announced this at the meeting, and the next day when I dropped Emilio at school, there was a big sign indicating that art class with Zoë, would be held on Fridays. I could not get out of it now thanks to the bossy lady. 

To be continued...

Elias Calles Jardin de Niños DIARIES PART ONE

It's been two months since I've posted here, and I am trying to get through my blog block by letting myself off the hook of my perfectionism. As I often teach in my classes, perfection is the greatest enemy to creativity. 

I have been wanting to share my experience of the Elias Calles Jardin de Ninos, the tiny little preschool that my son Emilio attends. He started at 4 years old. And now he is 5 and a half. This will be his final year there, and we will then move onto the primary school, which is next door. The kids of both schools share the same school yard.

Here are some links to previous posts about Emilio's school from the 365 Blog.

Cultural Education Uno

Cultural Education Dos

Cultural Education Très

Here is some more about my latest experiences teaching at the Elias Calles Kinder:

The drive to the school is about one minute. I pass through dirt roads—mostly covered in sand. On the middle of my road is a cactus. But the closer I get to it, the more I see it is not really in the road. The road was created to go around it. But from afar it looks like its dead in the middle of the road. I love this cactus. It is so large. So outsized. You know how they say that you can feel the presence of certain things in life. Like gorrillas’ eyes, and whales and stuff like that. Well I feel that way about the cardones. Especially the really big ones, the old ones. They are so human. I feel their energy. I want to take a photo of Emilio every year next to that cactus. I have already taken a few. One the first time we walked to Elias Calles Kinder to check it out. And then again the day we had to walk to school last week because our car had broken down, and the working one was in Cabo with Lucas. Emilio happily walked with me. Sometimes we held hands. Sometimes he ran ahead. Sometimes we sang or chatted about different things. Like the name of his latest new song title, The Dark Side of Love. He said it’s just a song title, not a whole song. 

Of the things that feel generous about my volunteer teaching at the school is not the time spent preparing for the class, nor the money I spend on art supplies, or raising money for the school, it’s giving up a little bit of my break from parenting. That sounds terrible. But it’s true. Giving up an hour and a half of my “off time” feels the hardest. And then I often feel nervous right before because I don't really know what I’m doing, and I usually don’t prepare as much as I think I should. Every time I think: I should practice the technique I’m teaching before I share with the kids. Or I think : I should have brought scissors, tape, or extra paper. Or I think: I should have looked up the Spanish word for design ahead of time. Or I should come up with some ground rules. Or I should do an english lesson plan. But instead, I look through my books, or brain storm with my husband or I get an inspiration from my own playing around with materials and then I decide on something that would be fun to do with the kids. I am not a very good art teacher because I don't really teach art. I am not sure I really teach anything. I think what I really do is spend time with kids doing art. That seems more apt. And really as any teacher will tell you it is all about the relationshipp you have with the kids. And I don’t feel I have much—but still they yell out my name when I come. "ZOE!!!!!" Sometimes one or two will run up to me and hug me. Or they say "me gusto trabajar con usted.” This is enough to melt away any uncertainty or grumbling about having given up my previous free time, which I often waste through overly worrying about something I cannot control. I am not completely aware of it: but the thoughts that I am a failure go through my head in some version or other. I see myself as a failure because I don't plan. And I don't like to plan. It is a flaw on my part that I sometimes overcome, and sometimes overcompensate for. Sometimes I accept it. The problem is sometimes I don't know when planning is the right thing to do verses being improvisational. I don't always know when I should be letting myself off the hook, and when I should be putting some reality-testing type of pressure on myself. I believe in freedom but I also believe in hard work. I believe in commitment, but I also believe in going with the flow. It's hard to know sometimes which instinct or belief to follow in any given moment.

The kids all talk to me at once, and I get overwhelmed, nervous, freeze up. I don’t know what to do. I sometimes say “un niño cada vez." Or something like that. Bad spanish. The kind that is translated word for word from english rather than paraphrased—reworked into equivalent expressions. But I think I mostly convey what I am trying to.

Marcitos loves Emilio. He has that look on his face all the time. He wants Emilio to sit by him. He hugs him and wrestles with him. He laugh with him. I don’t think Emilio shares quite the same enthusiasm for Marcitios. But I do believe he likes him. The boys at the school or rowdy. As rowdy as can be. They wrestle in the dust. They get unfathomably dirty. They run as fast as they can to the bathroom. Emilio almost never eats his lunch because, as he told us last week, he is too busy playing and when the choice is lunch or playtime, he chooses playtime. He doesn't want to miss anything. And then when he gets home from school he wants a snack plate. It usually involves green olives, carrots or cucumber with salt, hummus sometimes, crackers and cheese, apple or pear slices and sometimes almonds roused in the pan with salt and garlic. This seems like a lot of preparation but it is the preparation I prefer to cooking.

To be continued...

The road to our house.

The other side of the school, after Odile removed its roof and wall.

The school after the parents cleaned the front yard.

Emilio in front of school

Marcitos at side wall of the school

Poem Inspired by Andrea Gibson

                                                                  Video still by Mathew McNamara

What would I write

if I did not feel a need to sensor myself?

that I have the deepest love 

for my own body.

for my self 

that spills  out  everywhere, 

in spite of 

and past the 

shame 

that has kept me 

under wraps.

i am so tired 

of the hiding—-

it takes 

so much out of me.

and then what is left?

the skin, with its half truths.

my stuff has been spilled 

all over the floor

with the shit

and the grape juice

and the garbage 

from the storm.

the rigid inadequacies

swallowed whole 

rotting in the belly:

the pretending to be smaller 

quieter

prettier

sweeter

stupider

than i am.

where can i lie awake in this festival of hiding?

underground—

worming my way through the dirt

finding the bones of yesterday

announcing themselves

as living free.

down here

it smells like 

the love of everything.

Everyday/Everynight

Every night I die.
Every day I am reborn.

This wasn’t my plan—

but I stopped being able to shrink 

from its truth.

Why is it that the trees 

that surround me do not take in my fear?

They have no use for it—bending to the will of the wind.

Their roots know that fear is the opposite of shelter.

The trees are not self-hating, 

and have no magazines

telling them how to seem

or catalogues telling them what to want.

The self that dies dissolves

into the dreamless sleep

darkness its master.

I have learned to surrender.

After all,

it’s not my doing or undoing—

The passage of the planets, 

and their posses of playthings.

What is up to me is

already quite enough—

all five senses

keeping track of their inward knowledge,

unfolding to

art.

And the sixth?

the free agent organ.

the heart.

The brain has no business there.

And the heart —is it my doing or undoing?

Or is it simply my friend—when I remember.

I remember

in the morning,

when I am reborn,

and have just had my first sip of dew

and am stretching my fresh, fine pair

of wings.

These wings may get clipped today—

by fear.

The air has not yet determined it.

Or they may 

lead me to flight—

but only by keeping my wandering eye

here,

on my heart.

Letter to my 22-year-old Self

 A film still from a silent film, where I played a singer. Here I was "pretending" to sing.

Recently I discovered the amazing spoken word artist/poet, Andrea Gibson. She is inspiring in her beautiful and powerful words and her willingness to share her vulnerability and voice. I found clicked through a series of internet meanderings and came across a page (that I can no longer find) of letters written to one's 22 year old self. I wish I could find it again! I got inspired to write my own letter:

Dear 22 year old self:

I know you are consumed by this concept of perfection which you believe will make you beyond reproach. You aspire to make films and act and write, and want to make the world cry and laugh because of your heart. You are in love with beauty and believe the world will discover you and bloom you into your destiny.

Except, when you don’t.

Sometimes, you are living in a different place than your body, and this feels like bad acting. And sometimes, you tear at your own skin, and wonder who you are. Sometimes, ugliness obliterates the beauty—and your heart grows black. Sometimes, your wanton success is a battle cry for something dead in you. Something in you that is ready to fall away. Something that no longer belongs to you.

You turn away from yourself at those times—the times when your self-hatred dominates and crumbles you into a broken, silent doll. Those times—dear one, those times are when grace enters—if you look for it—and grace, it reaches deep into your heart and tells you to sing. Your heart tells you that your power is your brokenness, if only you could have one moment of silence. If you are too busy listening to the detractors within your mind, or worse, to the oppressors of humanity on to which you have flung the darkness within you. Turn down the volume on that station and tune into your very own, true voice. Your voice holds a power you don’t know about yet. 

I can tell you now that your voice will transform you into a post-modern saint with a yearning to hear itself in all its ugliness and beauty.  Your voice, like a tornado, will harvest the undercover music of being. I can tell you now that you can trust this voice that lies sleeping within, but can be awakened at any time of day or night, if you can be still, just for a moment.

One day, when you are quite a bit older, you will discover your gifts—and your poetry will bloom into songs and your voice will find its depth and width, and it will no longer stray from emotion or truth for very long. One day, your beauty will age into grace and your skin will sag, and stretch, and your address will disappear, and your world will be at once very very large, and very very small. And you will still have self-hatred at the quick, and you will still strive, at times, for perfection, and you will still, sometimes, get it all wrong. But, you will have a voice that can hold it all, and move you forward into your larger Self, the Self you sense, but can’t yet embody. And the spell of disempowerment will loosen its grip on your body, it will be shed like a snake’s skin—and you will discover a newfound freedom that will be both new and old. And in your forever expanding and contracting home of presence, you will funnel the true yearnings of your soul into your voice.

Love,

Your 40 year old future self

Poem after Meditating

I can sense you,

like a bottom-heavy baby bird 

senses her first flight.

You are there—

and every time I sit,

I can almost open your door,

to the vastness to which I may return.

But then the door—

recedes,

and I am left with tiny explosions of thought

tingling the mind,

but not expanding

into everything/nothingness

as you do.

I know you,

but don’t.

I feel you,

but I can’t touch you.

My fingertips are greedy for your requisition.

You don’t recognize this language

and you sleep soundlessly.

I have a memory of your taste,

but my mouth is tinged with 

the flavor of burnt coffee.

I trust you—

when I am ready for you

I will open like a star jasmine.

A tiny white explosion of

destiny

when the stars and the heart and the spine 

are aligned.

Until then, I meet you

in theory.

A delicious promise

of nothingness

to overcome my own forgetting.

My own boxed self.

We will open each other’s boxes

and bloom each others lotuses.

And in this, our marriage, will be

forever giving birth to itself.

I can wait because I have no choice.

But I can also wait, 

because I choose you, 

you 

who includes me

       in all that you are, and all that 

I am.

The Spider's Poem

I have been a sealed up hermit, since the hurricane, and poetry is what has been coming out of me. Maybe one day soon, I'll try to publish some of my poetry.

The Spider's Poem

And she, 

of the eight legs

rushes into the night

making

others

dreams

happen

with a flick of the wrist

turning away

from her knowledge of

the spider’s poem.

Makeshift

simultaneous

slower than summer.

Upright

in its need to tell the truth

The truth—

where does it lead her?

Away from brown packages.

Away from city living.

Away from the prized possessions

of the other side

of the world.

The other side

of the world

where

Emotion—

has been drugged down

into the underworld

& 

there is no place

to weave her poem

because there is no space

to live a dream

that is larger than

one poem

one web

one history

one voice.

The other side

of the world

where

Machines—

are drumming up the business

of human hands

which still work

in conjunction

with the needs 

of the grids & the grates

keeping fires

in check 

and electricity 

flowing

on the other side of the world.

Togetherness—

this is the

underlying

revolutionary

experience

of the cells & 

the stars & 

the machines even.

Don’t call her away 

from the matters of weaving

seed-started destinies

growing out of garbage.

She won’t have it any other way.

Poems by New Yorkers in Massachusetts

Sunday, May 25, 2014

When my brother and I were in Massachusetts this summer visiting my parents, we decided to take a hike one day on Monument Mountain. Monument Mountain is a beautiful piece of Berkshires landscape that is famous for having inspired writers. "On August 5, 1850, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville enjoyed a well-chronicled picnic hike up Monument Mountain. A thunderstorm forced them to seek refuge in a cave where a lengthy and vigorous discussion ensued, inspiring powerful ideas for Melville’s new book, Moby Dick, which he dedicated to Hawthorne." 

Alexander and I climbed while we chatted fervently (as is our style) about writing. On the way up the mountain, he told me about the novel that he has been working on and his excitement about being dedicated to a project outside of academia. He listed off all the books he has been reading to help him focus on the task of actually writing a novel. On the way down the mountain we talked about the memoir I have been struggling with for the past year, and how I really want it to be a story I tell on stage, but am having the hardest time finding "the story" within my life. He suggested I make fun of myself a little--and the first thing I thought of was my embarrassment about my secret and shameful desire for fame.

We tend to lose our connection to our surroundings when we get deeply in a conversation, which is what happened, as we neared the end of the 90 minute hike. Suddenly we had no idea how to get back to the car where we had parked. Luckily, we saw a hiker walking confidently down the path and asked her for directions. She pointed us in the right direction, and we chatting breathlessly with her as we walked back to our cars together. She told us that her trail name had been "the happy hiker" but was considering changing it. She asked us for advice--we tried, but we were unable to offer anything useful. She told us she was doing a project called 365 poems by new yorkers, where she asks people on the New York Subway to write a poem, which she then publishes on her site. I was immediately drawn to her. She, like us, is a born and bred New Yorker in Massachusetts visiting her family. She asked us if we would participate in her project. We agreed. When we got to the bottom of the hill--we each wrote a quick poem in a little notebook. She took a photo of each of us, and we exchanged email addresses. She is also a filmmaker and writer. And teaches children and has twin daughters. I found her utterly compelling.

The day after hurricane Odile, she emailed me letting me know she was ready to publish my poem alongside Alexander's but she had lost the second page. She asked me if I could re-write the second part of my poem. I had no memory of what I had written, so I added what came to me on the spot. Unfortunately, our poems are not side by side as I was waylaid from internet because of Odile (which my friend Holly Mae told me is the name of the Black Swan (the shadow of the Swan Queen from Swan Lake). Here are the two links to the poems and the project:

Alexander's Poem

Zoë's Poem

Here is my poem (with the newly-fashioned ending):

I am famous to the trees

who look over me 

who have known me 

before 

before

I was born

before 

the terrible 

act of birth

before the DNA

fought for its right to be seen.

Under their patient arms

I grow

and let go

of the need

the pressing

need.

To become 

something

beyond the destiny 

of trees.

After the Storm

The minisuper a block away from our house.

Wednesday, September 17th

It’s been five days since I have left the house. Our friends who live in Todos Santos, drove all the way out to see us to make sure we were okay—as they couldn’t call. We were quite touched by their efforts and concern. They brought their two kids so Emilio got to have a spontaneous play date. Lucas ventured out yesterday to see how his mother and sister are. They have no power or running water, but their spirits are high. They had damage to their palapa, but it mostly remains, with a few holes. Everything got wet, but few things were ruined. Lucas’ sister Emily, and her boyfriend, Agus spent last season working very hard on building themselves a general store (called MiniSuper Munchies) out of wood, and a roof to protect the trailer where they live. Agustin is Argentian, and learned to build the Argentinian way—which is very strong, and weather proof. The strength of the posts (with a 4 foot deep foundation) supporting the metal roof prevented the trailer from blowing away (which is what happened to most trailers we later found out). So their home remains intact. Their store—which was constructed of all wood is also miraculously left untouched. Their store had not yet opened, but their plan is to open in the fall season which starts in November. Lucas heard through the grapevine, as only one person in our community can get connectivity—that the winds were 185 miles an hour and that the devastation in Cabo is catastrophic. Destruction, looting, mayhem and homelessness. Our one Cabo friend that was home during the hurricane, we learned via Facebook, is okay. 

Thursday, September 18th

I finally left the house yesterday—we all got in the car and visited Pescadero and Todos Santos. I was not able to get online. I took videos and photos of everything I could. I hugged the few friends that were around and Lucas’ family. It was comforting to see other people again. We still had no idea if there would be gas, water or food available. We found a makeshift store that was selling food, and Lucas grabbed everything he could. We were concerned about toilet paper. He found a few rolls. A lot of houses were destroyed, or partially destroyed, but then a lot weren’t. People’s spirits seemed high—the people who live in Baja are used to service interruption and are used to their homes being in a state of incompletion. Family is mostly what matters here. And having beer. We heard that beer was scarce, and that the government would not be resupplying beer because it was a state of emergency.  This was not good news.

We also checked out the area around Elias Calles. See photos below.

The Elias Calles valley, with the arroyo (dry river bed) filled with rainwater.

The Elias Calles Jardin de Niños (where Emilio attends school) has a missing roof and wall.

Drying out our clothes while there is sun available.

A palapa that did not fare well near the beach in Elias Calles.

A restaurant on the highway that had just finished completion a few weeks before the storm.

Hurricane Odile

PART ONE

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

This morning we learn a hurricane is coming—Odile. A category 4, with 125 mile an hour winds, which would be the most ferocious hurricane of recorded history to hit this peninsula.  It is expected to be a direct hit. It is supposed to come in the evening, but it could arrive earlier—so we work as quickly as we can. We spend the day of Sunday preparing for our imaginings of its wrath.

PREPARATIONS

In our unfinished brick bedroom building, Lucas takes cracked plywood boards (which had been left over from the building materials that Marcos and he used to build our houses)—and nais them to cover the two glass windows of the bedroom building. He nails a large piece of plywood to the front door which previously was used to block the space between the bathroom and our unfinished bedroom. He tapes x’s onto the windows with blue masking tape. He finally gets around to inserting the glass piece that had been missing from my unfinished design nest window into its gold painted frame. Lucas piles up every waterproof plastic case (filled with my vast collection of thrift store clothes) to prevent the french glass door from blowing in. Next, he inserts bricks (we have many left over from the construction of our bedroom building) into the window openings to prevent water from completely flooding the building. We take everything we can off the floor—piling our clothes and other items on top of vintage metal lockers, hampers, and tables. 

In the main house, we sweep the floors in order avoid unnecessary mud, cover our bookshelves, chairs, and musical instruments (mostly in cases) in plastic tarps. As news of Odile’s intensity progresses, our plans of where we are going to sleep change—our first plan is to start in the bedroom, and then if it gets too wet in there, we can retreat to the bodega. We soon realize that we would be better off in the bodega—which still leaks badly—but it had the fewest openings of all our spaces, and a cement roof. We know from previous rainstorms that the roof leaks, so Lucas ingeniously rigs up (as is his specialty) a sleeping space in the disorganized, overcrowded bodega, which begins with a platform of stainless steel metro shelves (wire racks) to keep us above the water line. He piles our tumbling mat on top of that. Then he resurrects what we had deemed an usable two person tent, which had bent poles (due to rowdy play by Emilio and and his friends), knowing, that even in its broken state, it is our best option to protect us from unwanted bugs and errant raindrops coming throughout the ceiling or front door. For a mattress, he takes what had previously served as our couch cushion (originally taken from an old camper.) After Lucas sets up our sleeping arrangements we feel a little more relaxed. Knowing that if worse comes to worse—which in our minds is the complete destruction of our palapa roof. (A palapa is a roof made entirely of dried palm fronds, woven tightly together over wooden beams. No metal is used in their construction.) We had before experienced a partial roof blow off in our first Baja hurricane —Jimena in 2009—a few weeks after baby Emilio was born. Our other very likely to happen fear is that our bedroom building will be completely flooded—as it had during Juliette last summer. The water had literally poured through the wall of bricks. Juliette had taken us by surprise—a tropical storm with 50 mile an hour winds.

Other preparations include shopping for extra water, gas (for the generator) and food (including candy bars, Special K, and beer to keep up the morale of the troops), filling the above the roof water tanks with water (both to ensure that we have extra water in case we need it, and that the tanks will be sufficiently weighed down as to not blow off the roof), cleaning the kitchen, making sandwiches for dinner in case cooking will not be possible, charging laptops and batteries for headlamps and flashlights, filtering extra drinking water, creating a water proof case of emergency provisions, and letting Emilio watch videos all day so as to occupy him while we focus on our tasks and so that he is in good spirits—which he absolutely is. “I love this day!” he exclaims regularly. As we prepare, we have visions of Cabo being covered by water—and us being roofless, stuck for days—all of our stuff wet and/or blown around the valley. We think it’s possible that this storm will change our lives forever. We don’t fear for our lives, but we are concerned about the amount of damage done to our our community. We know that if Cabo goes down, and our local towns flood and suffer major damages, the economy of this place will be majorly altered. Lucas will have to alter how he makes his living, which is primarily as a photographer in Cabo. We also know that the local palaperos (builders who specialize in making palapas) will be busy for months.

Storm Progresses, we lose connectivity

We have disastrous images in our minds while we do all we can to ensure our safety, comfort, and the protection of our stuff—but the truth is: we really have no idea how the hurricane will affect us, and when exactly it will hit. And that, is, by far, the worst part. The unknown fills us with a steady stream of adrenaline through the day. Lucas constantly checks our hopelessly slow internet connection in hope of weather updates—knowing somewhere inside that these updates don’t really offer much as there is nothing left for us to do except await mother’s nature’s wrath, but still, for him, it assuaged the unnerving feeling of having no information. We know it is only a matter of hours before our cell phone and internet service will be out—they both come from the same source—a TelCel tower a hundred kilometers away on top of a hill, which we can see in clear view from our house.  Whether or not we will continue to have electricity was not clear. We are now fully on solar power, and have a back up generator. But, our solar panels are on the roof our bodega—which is attached to our main building. They are securely wired down, but you never know.

The day is over, and evening has arrived. We have lost connectivity. The immediate order at hand is to eat our sandwich dinner, and get Mio to bed safely in the tent before the Odile hits. It is already raining and storming, but we know it will get worse. Much worse. We know that if Emilio falls asleep before the hurricane hits, which is supposed to be at about midnight, he will sleep through it as he had with Jimena & Juliette. Lucas has made the tent space nice and cozy, and after a bedtime book, Mio has no trouble falling asleep. I lay awake for a while in the tent—listening to the storm trying to knock its way through the metal doors of the bodega. I can hear Lucas pointlessly mopping—pointlessly trying to keep the tile floor of the living room dry. I join in him in the living room—and tell him he might as well let the water come now, we can clean it up when the storm is over. He feels he must do the mopping—as it is all he can do, and it comforts him to do something. I decide it’s time to drink some alcohol to calm my nerves. Lucas has a bottle of Sambuco, a liqueur of licorice. I drink as much as I can until the jangle is gone from my nerves. Lucas and I sit there chatting, with a jokey, we’ve done the best we can to prepare, but we’re still terrified spirit. There is something about that feeling of surrender—when you know you’ve done all you can, and the rest is beyond your control that is both comforting and humbling. It reminds you how human you are, and therefore how small and inconsequential, when faced with the momentum-building fury of mother nature on its way over to visit.

Retreating for the night

At around eleven I convince Lucas of the futility of mopping and persuade him to come to bed— we can try to get a little sleep before the really loud sounds come. We retreat into the tent, inside the bodega, which is not exactly dry—but it is the driest spot there is. I charged my iPod earlier, knowing it would be an invaluable mind distraction and sound blocker. Intuitively, I know my job is to be calm and optimistic. Lucas comes up with his own method of blocking out the sound—squeezing a pillow tightly over each ear. Mio continues to sleep soundly. His comfort is a comfort to us. 

The sounds we have been expecting come—bone chilling, earth-trembling, god-fearing sounds. We know where they came from—-it’s the metal roof getting torn off the part of our main house that is not covered in palapa. It comes off in pieces—every hour we hear another piece tear off. We imagine it smashing everything in its path, including our cars. I continue to listen to my ipod—first I listen to the last music practice session with Lucas, then I listen to an hour of solo practice from a few days earlier (after a kundalini class my voice was particularly resonant and confident) and perceive this practice as a voice breakthrough. This kind of listening gives me solace while the wind wrecks havoc on our homemade home still in process. Then I listen to a most inspiring podcast—a TED talk by the monk David Steindl-Rast. He communicates simply, eloquently, with great compassion the simple fact that gratitude creates happiness and precisely how this works. Here is a chunk of what he says: “We experience something that’s valuable to us. Something given to us that’s valuable to us… These two things have to come together. It has to be something valuable, and it’s a real gift—you haven’t bought it, you haven’t earned it, you haven’t traded it in and had to work for it, it’s just given to you and when these two things come together… then gratefulness spontaneously rises in my heart, happiness spontaneously rises in my heart. That’s how gratefulness happens. Now the key to all this is that we cannot only experience this once in a while, we can not only have grateful experiences, we can be people who live gratefully. Grateful living—that is the thing. And how it can be lived gratefully is by experiencing, by becoming aware that every moment is a given moment as we say. It’s a gift!  We haven’t earned it, you haven’t brought it about in any way… you have no way of assuring that there will be another moment given to you. And yet, that’s the most valuable thing that can ever be given to us. This moment with all the opportunity that it contains, if we didn’t have this present moment, we wouldn’t have any opportunity to do anything or experience anything, and this moment is a gift… What you’re really grateful for is the opportunity, not the thing that is given to you because if that thing were somewhere else and you didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy, to do something with it, you wouldn’t be grateful for it. Opportunity is the gift within every gift. And we have this saying “opportunity knocks only once”, well think again. Every moment is a new gift! Over and over again. And if you miss the opportunity of this moment, another moment is given to us, and another moment. We can avail ourselves of this opportunity or we can miss it. And if we avail ourselves of this opportunity it is the key to happiness. We hold the master key to our happiness in our own hands. Moment by moment we can be grateful for this gift. Does that mean that we can be grateful for everything? Certainly not… we cannot be grateful for violence, for war, for oppression, for exploitation. On the personal level, we cannot be grateful for the loss of a friend, for unfaithfulness, for bereavement, but I didn’t say we could be grateful for everything, I said we can be grateful in every given moment for the opportunity. And even when we are confronted with something that is terribly difficult, we can rise to this occasion and respond to the opportunity that is given to us. It isn’t as bad  as it might seem. Actually, when you look at it, and experience it, you find that most of the time what is given to us is opportunity to enjoy and we only miss it because we are rushing through life and we are not stopping to see the opportunity. But once in a while, something very difficult is given to us and when this difficult thing occurs to us, it’s a challenge to rise to that opportunity and we can rise to it by learning something which is sometimes painful. Learning patience for instance. We have been told that the road to peace is not a sprint, but it’s more like a marathon and that takes patience, that’s difficult. It may be to stand up for your opinion, to stand up for your conviction. That’s an opportunity that is given us. To learn, to suffer, to stand up. All these opportunities are given to us, but they are opportunities and those who avail themselves of those opportunities are the ones we admire. They make something out of life. And those who fail get another opportunity. We always get another opportunity. That’s the wonderful richness of life.”

Listening to his words as the hurricane rages outside is life-affirming. No matter what the destruction that we will discover the next morning—we will have the opportunity to continue to live, we will have a chance to re-create our life how we need it to be. It will be difficult, and it will be messy—but we will still be grateful for what we have. We will survive and we will continue to appreciate the life we have built, and the fact that we are still a family in tact. There is nothing like outside threats to strengthen the bonds of a family or community—as long as we are grateful. We were bonded together in our tent, and Ping—who is the most nervous dog I have ever known—-is huddled against my body, on the outside of the tent. I can feel his shaking through the thin nylon. We had to lock Ping inside the whole day to assure he would not run away out of fear. His response to danger is flight. He hears loud noise and his legs just start running. No part of his mammalian brain is available to him. He had previously escaped a few times during this especially stormy summer on the days we left him at the property and surprise thunderstorms came.

A New Day—counting our losses

The storm rages all night long and through out the morning. Between the two of us Lucas and I sleep about an hour. Emilio sleeps until morning. Bless that little sleeper. Early in the morning, Emilio and I wake up and unzip the damp tent—we step through the flooded floor of the bodega into the main house. Odile is still expressing himself—wind and water blowing around—but less so. Everything is a wet mess of water, dirt and leaves, but the palapa roof, made with not one nail or screw, is miraculously still there. It is roughed up, and there are holes in it, but it covers us. All of our windows are in tact. We step outside—the vision breaks my heart. The only thing I have not previously imagined is how the plants would fare. I am not prepared for what I see. The circle of trees is mostly flattened. Our beautiful Neems (the only trees on our property that we have planted that are now almost mature) have all their leaves blown off—they are all more or less sideways. Our three Terote trees—the three naturally standing trees that Lucas built the brick bedroom building around— are badly damaged—limbs have been torn off—even the bark itself is stripped bare in places. The wood that Lucas nailed to protect the windows has been pulled off. We see pieces of roof from four different roofs scattered all over the land. The rainproof plastic roof over the kitchen is completely gone—there is still the lower layer of plywood covering it—with the inner layer of plaster falling down in chunks all over the kitchen. The metal roof (photo or link to previous post) over the art camper is missing except one piece. Now here is the real miracle—the camper is almost completely dry—except for one small puddle on one of the counters. We had thought the camper to be not at all waterproof which was why Lucas had scrambled before Juliette to build a waterproof roof over it. All of my precious art supplies and art work and books are not damaged! I continue to have a real respite in my camper. My beloved garden that I had planted next to the camper is quite damaged. Most of the leaves were blown off, the plants have been knocked down or repositioned at deep angles—but on close inspection, I see that they remain rooted. A blessing! I lament them anyway as is my tendency when there is any sign of losing greenness in our desert dwelling. It takes so much effort to keep a plant thriving when we do not have an irrigation system, and the summer can be so hot when there’s no storm. The rainstorms all summer have been good for the plants—and now all of that growing green has been stripped out. The paint on Lucas’ truck was also been stripped off in sections—as was the paint (applied only one year ago) of parts of our house—literally sandblasted off. 

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The two water tanks that Lucas filled yesterday, which provide the main source of house water (using a gas generator we pump the water from our large water tanks at the bottom of our property into the two tanks above our house that through pressure of gravity, provide our sink water and toilet water for flushing) have been knocked off the roof. One is beyond repair, and one may still be usable. Lucas realizes that the connection to the tanks has been severed, which leaked all of our water out, then allowing the wind to blow the empty tanks off the roof. The large metal bodega doors are damaged and will need to be replaced. The bedroom building is a wet, chaotic mess, but most of our stuff was not damaged. All of our clothes that were not in storage cases will need to be dried out in the sun. The wood that Lucas had nailed to the windows and had put to block the open front doorway were torn off by the wind. None of the glass was broken except for, ironically, the one piece that Lucas put in the day before in an attempt to keep some of my design nest stuff dry.

Counting our Blessings

Our solar panels did not get blown off the roof.  And, they are still hooked up properly and are working. We have electricity! Even our fridge—which runs on its own solar panel and battery is working. We have no running water in the main house—but our lower storage tanks are full enough to last us a while. We have some water in our bedroom building so we can take showers there. For now. We are stocked with food, and basic medicine and first aid supplies. Our Peruvian neighbors, who recently moved back to their land, and we have become friends with—checked in us to see how we were. We both reported we were fine—their house is even less finished than ours. 

It has become easy for us to count our blessings because we are reminded daily of the conveniences and comforts we now have that we didn’t start out with. Beginning with camping on our land (which we didn’t yet legally own) while I was pregnant, our life over the past six years has been a gradual increase in self-sufficiency, comfort, convenience and freedom. We also received lots and lots of help—from our families especially, but also from friends, and neighbors. Not always, but often it is natural for us to appreciate what we have, instead of focus on what we have lost because we have gained so much! Part of the reason we live the way we do—out here in the desert wilderness—is because we are aware that the world will bring and more more disastrous types of situations. Global warming brings more storms, and dwindling resources brings more desperation to people. This is Lucas’ grand project—being prepared, just in case. We discovered recently there is a term for what he is: “a defensive pessimist”. It’s not a very flattering moniker, but it fits. I think he feels affirmed by the fact there is a term for what he is. A defensive pessimist is defined as a person who imagines the worse case scenario, and then plans for it so as to feel assured. That is the kind of person you want to live with if there’s a real disaster on its way.  I am quite sure I would have had no idea what to do with out Lucas, who not only is great at thinking through possible catastrophes, and coming up with ingenious solutions on the spur of the moment—but he also invents and designs future projects with all matters of nature, both destructive and creative, deeply in mind.  If he’s a defensive pessimist, that makes me an offensive optimist. That feels about right. To some people my optimism probably is offensive. But, I am good to have around during difficult times because my goal is to keep up the morale of the troops, and I do so love a good adventure. I think of all the goodies that creates little moments of comfort, fun or pleasure.

Odile’s wrath immediately cut through our indecisiveness, mental blockage and distraction from the important stuff of life. The storm awakened in us—even in moments while it was happening—a sense of celebration of life—of our gratitude to being given an opportunity to go on living with greater clarity, purpose and appreciation. The storm re-affirmed for us what previously had been wavering, let each choice or commitment we had made to come forward and announce itself, or otherwise retreat into the background and then let go of. With all the land a mess—our beloved trees damaged, much of our stuff wet, damaged, but most of it, not—we could appreciate what was left—a home that shelters us (mostly), a beautiful piece of land in the foothills of a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains and ocean. For Emilio—it was all an adventure or perhaps non-adventure (it can be hard to tell with him)—either way, he got a few days with his family all together, all focused on the same goal, as he got to have the normal rules loosened in favor of more movies and more treats. As for me and Lucas, we still have the same dreams, and the same personalities—but our dreams feel more precious and are in sharper focus. Our personalities shine—the positive forging ahead, old habits disintegrating. For Lucas—he has been dreaming of his next weatherproof house design. And for me—I feel a greater resolve to build community through the arts, work on my creative projects and develop my thoughts and ideas and share them with you here.

We have yet to learn of how others’ fared, but we are quite certain, overall, we are some of the lucky ones. I am bracing myself to hear of the devastation in Cabo, which I am sure will be severe. Cabo already is a place built quickly, cheaply, with little taste, and no planning. The communities that we are connected to—Pescadero & Todos Santos, and to a lesser extent, La Paz—will have their own struggles to overcome. But for now—there is no internet, no phone, and the road over the bridge has a gaping hole in it, and we are not sure if anyone is driving. I will post this as soon as I can find a place that has an internet connection.

The view from our courtyard from our roof.

Emilio pretending we have cell phone service, calling Snoopy to tell him of our troubles.

To be continued...

Whole

Here is a poem I wrote a few days ago after a particularly rich, self-facing, nature-emergent day.

I

Throw your ego to the wolves

and the sparks of your youth will fly towards you.

You go to meet that ancient child—

you, 

as future self.

Imperfectly perfect

with your secrets 

worn as flowers in your hair.

II

I lay on the ground today,

bits of it still lie on my back

as I sit here

remembering

the touch of it

the feel of it

the weight of my body—

like a fallen tree

and then

I lay on the cement,

and watched the clouds undress

the moon.

This morning I read that clouds

weigh as much as 20 elephants.

I weigh as much as heaven when I’m upside down.

III

I faced my self underground—

she had ribbons as roots

and no desire

other than to know me

exactly as I am.

Future and past,

lion & queen

madly mated in holy ritual.

Start from where you are, again

I started zoëlab 365 as a blog, as a way to track my personal happiness project. As a way to get back to my inner life after motherhood. As a commitment and challenge to my faith in creativity. But then zoëlab blossomed into something much bigger, more complex and longer lasting than just a blog, it became, simply put: a process. A process I fell in love with. A process in which I could share my most intimate enthusiasm for artmaking and in-love-with-ness of life and a place where I could be honest about my darkness, revealing of my heart, and a place where I could develop my point of view. It became a place where I could catalogue, and at the same time discover patterns in my past artistic explorations and musings. Starting with my early childhood—I unwound an improvised, non-chronological autobiography, or artography. I saw that the person I was trying to become was the same person I was as a child. I was self-revealing, but I was veiled, too. It was satisfying to experience the tension between exposing myself to a potential public, while at the same time feeling so hidden, unseen. Living on a raw piece of desert, building a life from scratch, and trying to find myself, as a woman, as an artist, and as a mom. I saw how not only was my role as mom was a creation, just as our family—was a creation. My dedication to my philosophy of life as art--taught me that everything in our life, if we approach it with love, humor, and creativity is art. We could decide how we wanted to create our life in a way that best suits all of us. Living in this way takes lots of compromises, and things are quite, yet deliciously, imperfect. We live a life that skids on the edges of camping and homemade comfort. Garbage and art. Off the grid, yet plugged in. We live a life in between—in between two cultures, in between two languages, in between two worlds—first and third. We live a life that is exciting and feels right even when it goes wrong, which it does often, because we are living from a desire to grow and develop and learn everything we can, everything we are fascinated by and enamored with.  Everything that will help us become better human beings. 

This new process brought me to a new place in life—or rather returned me to something that had been dormant but present since I was a little girl. For the first time, I truly believed in myself. Not in the sense of Rocky or Spiderman—well a little bit in that sense—but also in the sense of my self being something that was always changing, ever creative. It wasn’t the small self, the ego self, it was the larger SELF that I had encountered. This SELF is not a thing in itself, but rather, a potential (a potential that we all share as humans) and that all I needed to do was face my fears, laugh them in the face and then keep going, keep making, keep digging down deep enough to find compassion and humor and courage to live a little larger than I was used to. The self  that emerged was bigger than I could hold in any one picture in my mind. And thus a blog is a perfect place to collect such a kaleidoscope.

This process is, in itself, a testament to process, itself. It is a celebration, investigation and navigation of process—of what it means to be in-between the polished products of life, of how we make meaning of our life, how we develop into our destinies, while at the same time empowering ourselves to act upon the life that flows out of us. It is a study in how we reclaim the parts of ourselves that we have not wanted to see.  It is an explanation of how we get crazy loving and curious and childlike and grow ourselves up enough to be responsible for our choices and yet, irresponsibly committed to the magic of life—sometimes putting it above strict bedtimes or careful expressions or logical spending or any expectations the outside world may have on us. I am learning how to question unconscious values while at the same time upholding the often unmirrored values that I have held (until recently) secretly, inside my heart. Values like kindness, compassion, creativity, tolerance, expressiveness, generosity, forgiveness, honesty, grit, upholding the feminine principle, kick-assedness, embracing opposites, beauty, and grace. 

I trained myself to be more disciplined, I challenged myself to be more alive. I awoke myself to the mysteries of natural life. I dared myself to share what was shameful. I flirted with exposing parts of myself to the public eye. I got curious about what it was like to take my art more seriously and myself less seriously. And, most of all—I let myself be. Anything was okay to share if I wanted to share it. I gave myself permission to be or express or share whatever/whoever I was in the moment. The combination of that freedom with the daily commitment was a magical potion. It worked for me in a way that no other project had ever worked for me before because it provided continuity and visibility--two aspects of my life that have been particularly lacking.

And ever since it ended I have wanted to get back to it. But somehow, I didn’t know how. And then I figured it out: 358 days later—all I have to do is get back into the process. I had lost sight of what it really was, and what had made it so magical for me. This is the raison d’être of the blog—why it was invented—as a way to track a process, and yet to be able to return to it over and over in an easily searchable fashion. The only problem was that my last blog was missing a search feature--as well as a tag feature. This fact frustrated me to no end. And then I realized I would have to start over and do a new blog on a new platform with new parameters. I would have to learn a new interface and new design skills. I would have to get better internet at home. I would have to get a computer that actually worked. I would have to get our electricity hooked up. I would have to quit my job. I would have to return to music. (Well that was just something I needed to regardless.) I would have to get organized. I would have to build up the courage again. And now I have done all those things, a year has gone by. And I still felt blocked/blogged. I didn’t know how to start. Or re-start. I couldn’t just press unpause. Or could I?

At various times thought out year this past year of bloglessness a voice inside me told me this: “After a whole year has gone by, you need to catch up your readers (if you still, or ever, had any) to the latest events in your life.” “You have to transfer all 360 posts to the new platform. This could take months, maybe longer.” “You should create a clever graphic recap time line of the past year.” “You have to make a video compilation of all the posts of 365.”

And then I consulted the Tarot Cards—which I only just started studying a week ago, (after having just received my first professional reading.) I am always looking for signs from the kind and playful universe. And the tarot cards told me this—a message which I gleaned from several different readings over a few days: even if you can’t publish everyday, go back to your commitment to be in the zoelab process everyday. Find your way back to the work by going back into the work. You are a the second stage of completion and you are about to embark on a new journey. September will be a month of success for you. And then another sign, this time from the-universe-via Lucas: he showed me a piece of video he had downloaded earlier of Ron Sexsmith and friends singing the Elvis Costello song: “Everyday I write the book.” 

As poet/astrologer/musician/pronoaic prophet Rob Brezsny (whose book has been inspiring/affirming me lately) would say, with welcome "rowdy blessings" from the universe, I am re-committing myself to The Process that this blog started two years ago to this day. 

Stay tuned....

p.s. I have transferred all the posts for the first month of ZOELAB 365, and will continue to transfer the rest of the 11 months of posts here.

Blocks

It's been almost a year of no blogging. I am not sure how much longer I can go. I miss you. I miss this process. The longer I wait, the more I have to say. The more I have to say, the harder it is to say it. What will it take for me to feel like being "out there" again?

Backwards Night Dreaming About Camp

ZOELAB DAY 78

I have been so busy lately. Working on ZOELAB is the only time of the day where I don’t feel “busy.” Or when I watch television, though television is still being busy, because we aren’t really present when we’re that passive. (I must confess I fell off the television wagon the other night, and instead of creating with ZOELAB, I watched four episodes in a row of The Sopranos. God, I forgot how good, and funny, that show was. Carmella is my empowerment heroine.) Anyway, what is busyness but preoccupation with things that don’t exist in the present. I really don’t like being this busy--when we’re busy, we start to accept stress as a baseline emotion. I want to remember the reason we live here, in Baja, in the desert next to the Pacific ocean, is so that we don’t have to be so busy. So that we can be more relaxed as parents, and as a family. So that we have more time to be creative and social. So that we can have time to just be. But, with parenting, work, and all our various projects, we are living in the busy world. 

Trying to find inspiration for sharing on ZOELAB, I started looking through some old writing and found a list I had made for my first blog, almost four years ago, of pluses and minuses of living outside, while we were camping on this very land that we now have a house on. I never published the list. Today I noticed there were 15 items on the minus list. On the plus list, only 14. I added the 15th today, so the two lists would be even. 

How beautifully simple life was when we camped here. Not that it was easy, but it was a special and peaceful time. I realize how lucky I was to have lived in nature while I was pregnant--ocean, mountains, desert, and also: dessert. 

Pluses vs. Minuses of Living Outside

Minuses

1. Everything gets dirty

2. Sun damage

3. Windy

4. Cold at night

5. Have to dump our toilet

6. Keep food in storage away from animals

7. Lots of prickly, hurty things, scorpions and cholla

8. No cell connection

9. No internet connection

10. No place to hang a mirror

11. Things break a lot

12. Lack of security

13. Lack of comfort at night

14. Lack of entertainment at night

15. Have to take garbage to the dump 

Pluses

1. Keeping track of how much water, gas, electricity using

2. More aware of the moon, the stars & the sun

3. Love rocks

4. Peaceful (except for noisy neighbors)

5. No rent

6. No bills

7. Can make as much noise as we want

8. No need for alarm clock

9. Can recycle gray water for plants

10. Hear ocean and birds

11. Perfect for Ping/guard dog/free dog

12. Appreciate the little comforts in life, with each new comfort comes a whole new possibility of life style

13. You can create new spaces freely

14. You never have to worry about parking

15. Being present comes naturally

The Slow Making of a Dream, Third Phase of Building: Bedroom

ZOELAB DAY 77

I am aware that my Second Phase of Building post, the latest and biggest phase of our house building project, is long over due, but now, even though it will be out of order, I am announcing Phase Three. Thanks to my parents, and their upcoming visit in February, we will now be able to finish the bedroom building, which my parents will stay in when they visit. It will be the first time I have had my parents as a guest in our home. Lucas has two months to gather a crew, buy the materials and finish the building. Will he and his men be able to do it in time? Only time will tell. 

Above photo is a shot of the North view from what will become Emilio’s bedroom, which is now our clothesline area.

View of our living space building from Emilio’s future bedroom.

Front entrance to building. Emilio’s bedroom will be on the right, ours will be on the left.

Lucas still hasn’t decided many of the important structural aspects of the house, like how he’s going to do the roof, but he’s created the basic design of the building. Lucas is an amateur architect with no training, and a moderately experienced builder, you could call his style of working “improvisational architecture.” But I am not even sure it can be called architecture, it is more like building with giant legos. No matter what I call it, I continue to be in complete awe of his vision and skill, using nothing but his imagination and the internet, in creating comfortable, elegant and unique spaces. This is Lucas’ basic design: there is an entrance in the center of the building, into avestibule, which leads to two symmetrical bedrooms on either side. Each bedroom has a closet that is also located in the center section, and a shared bathroom with an entrance from both bedrooms. This center part of the building is already built, out of cement blocks (the most popular building method around), which was started while the main house was being built. But the bottom part of the walls are made out of earth bags, which a lot of our main house is also made of. More about earth bags when I write about the Second Phase of Building.

Wider North West view of bedroom building from front entrance before earth bags and foundation. Photo taken on January 29th, 2012.

seis doce: behind the seams

ZOELAB DAY 76

(Numbers can have meaning too.)

It came to me a few years ago. The idea for a clothing line that was so local it was named after the area code. 

When we first moved to Baja, I got a cell phone with theCabo area code (624) because that was where we bought my phone. We lived, however, in the 612 area code of the Pacific Side of the peninsula. There is a considerable amount of rivalry between Cabo (624) and the area I live in which is comprised of: La Paz (the city where Emilio was born, making him a pazeño), Todos Santos, Pescadero, and Elias Calles (our town, which is, driving south on the highway, the last town before you reach Cabo San Lucas). After a few years of using an out of area area code, I realized how much cell phone credit I was using up for no reason. The Pacific side folks tend to feel significantly superior to anyone from Cabo. I am not sure if the snubbing goes in the other direction. 

I eventually myself a new phone in Todos Santos, and I was considerately excited that I finally had a 612 area code. Imay have some identity trauma from having grown up in Brooklyn during the area code change, when in 1984, Brooklyn, which had had the same area code as Manhattan, 212, had suddenly been given a new area code: 718. I remember being really mad about it. After all, I reasoned, Brooklyn is not a separate city from Manhattan, we are just different boroughs. I had learned that we were supposed to put Brooklyn, NY as our return address when we wrote letters. But I refused. I argued again: Why should I write Brooklyn, NY, when it’s part of New York City. I stubbornly continued to write NY, NY for Brooklyn addresses. My feelings about area codes and neighborhood pride run deep, as they do for many people who come from the area that is less well known than it’s neighbor.

Living now in Elias Calles (which is halfway between both Cabo and Todos Santos in either direction), as I did in Brooklyn and Oakland, I feel again the born out of defensiveness local pride that comes from living a half an hour away from the larger town. 

Anyway, when my cell phone had 612 area code, I felt, finally, that warm, familiar feeling of belonging to the underdog. One day, while dialing a number from my 612 phone, and feeling that pride, I was reminded of a clothing company called Neighborhoodies that makes custom t-shirts and hoodies with people’s neighborhoods (or anything they want) written on them. I ordered three tank tops from Neighborhoodies as a surprise gift to my social service bandmates--each t-shirt had written on it: social service, in the front, our individual band name which was a combination of our given name and the instrument we played, and our favorite number on the back. Zoetar, Drumifer & Pollase. Sure, it was dorky, but we embraced that as part of the band aesthetic. 

Anyway, the memory gave me an idea: I had just started making t-shirts that were really simple to make, and yet very flattering, and then I realized I needed to make t-shirts with 612. In fact, I decided to name my future clothing line 612. As time went by, I discovered that local Mexican, don’t say: “six one two” “seis uno dos,” when they give you their phone number, they say: six twelve. Seis Doce. If you want to be real local, you need to say seis doce. And hence, the name of my new label. 

How can you have a new label if you don’t have any clothes yet? Well, today I finally had a day in the sewing studioat Casa Luna and got myself through a day of sewing with my new serger. The serger is a wonderful exciting new machine that I have been wanting for a few years, but because it’s new, and different from a regular sewing machine, it is a bit tricky. It is so easy for me to get intimidated by new techniques and machines, and want to give up. However a little perseverance got me through an hour of troubleshooting the bad sounds the machine was making. It was a lot of threading and rethreading, but when I finally found my rhythm, it was incredibly gratifying to be able to actually use the machine. Sergers sew the seams, cut the fabric and finish the seams all at the same time. They are fast efficient machines that make even a novice’s sewing look more professional. They use 3 to 4 different needles at a time. Anyway, they are the ideal machine to use when sewing knits, which is primarily what I make, because the seams they create are both strong and stretchy. 

Using the dark blue bolt of fabric (my first bolt ever bought) I got at the Segunda in La Paz, I made six Y-shirts (this style looks more like a Y than a T). I also finished a shirt (pictured above) and appliqued my first 612. I still need to sew down the numbers, but that’s more or less how it will look. I am currently researching label options, considering getting a stamp with the logo printed on it, that I can put on the inside of the of the clothes. Six and a half is not a lot, but it’s a great start. Initiating (or re-initiating) is always the hardest step. On Monday ZOELAB is going on the road for a week, so I don’t think I will have a chance to do any more sewing for a little while. But when I get back, I’ll definitely getting back to the studio! I want to do more with the applique, I developed another style of applique (that I made on my pink sweatshirt) that I want to try with the Y-shirts.

This story has a dual purpose, to share the development of an idea for its own sake, sharing its intention and its process of creation, all successes and failures, but also as a way of copyrighting it, to prove that it is in fact mine (though not really mine, as you can see, my idea is a pastiche of others’ ideas.)

how to launch a clothing line

ZOELAB DAY 75

1) Decide that you want to be a fashion designer, or at least learn to sew your own clothes, even though you don’t believe you can because you don’t have the patience.

2) Receive sewing machine as birthday present.

3) Take sewing classes, which are fun, but lead to no independent sewing.

4) Wait years. 

5) Take another few sewing classes, which are also fun, but lead to no independent sewing.

6) Then, sew an easy project, like curtains.

7) When looking at the seams, notice that your favorite dress is also easy to make.

8) Copy it as a t-shirt, with out really knowing how, with a single piece of fabric you’ve had for years. 

9) Try other projects. Sew cloth birds to make mobile forfriend’s baby shower gift.

10) Dream about a serger. Don’t buy it yet. 

11) Instead, buy a book about sewing.

12) Take a lesson on applique. 

13) Turn favorite sweatshirt into the ultimate and absolutely most favorite sweatshirt.

14) Take independent lesson on how to copy a garment.

15) Dream about a serger, but instead buy a book about sewing with knits, saying to yourself that if you really start sewing a lot, then you can think about getting a serger.

16) Make more and more projects, before you know what you’re doing.

17) Receive a serger for a birthday present.

18) Try it out, make a few things.

19) Go to a local fashion show and believe your clothes will be in it next year.

20) Let the serger sit and sit.

21) Set up your sewing space. 

22) Write on your blog how you are going to start a clothing line.

23) Don’t do any sewing. 

24) Feel bad about how you aren’t doing any sewing.

To be continued...

how to be an artist

ZOELAB DAY 74

how to be an artist

Let everything in you count

(even shit storms) 

     and carry a pen.

    especially softness. 

listen for it, 

   its voice waits to be heard.

    paying special attention 

to the child.

Don’t judge the different parts, 

     love them or let them be.

After all, we are letting our hearts matter. 

We are daring to live from the right side of the brain.

Don’t be lazy 

unless you are trying to be lazy.

Let the child inside

live out its course. 

Follow her closely, 

delight in her delights, 

cradle her rage, 

listen to her lessons. 

Most of all, respect her, 

for she makes the artist in you.

Everything you have ever been and will ever be 

is right here in the room with you.

Don’t chase it,

let it come to you when it is called for.

You are becoming: 

1. desire/love (ego/egoless, wants something in return/wants nothing in return)

2. belief

3. courage

4. commitment

5. stubbornness

6. grace

Dare to take up space in this world. 

           You are only practicing the art of being yourself.