I love it when life is dictated by weather

I love it when life is dictated by weather.

The first time I had that thought I was in Hanoi, Vietnam. I was 19. My brother Alexander and I had been  traveling  in Vietnam for a few weeks. I had just spent 5 months in China. It was my semester abroad. In China, I had felt like a freak. My hair was cropped very short, and was a somewhat natural shade of orange. I was stared out no matter how much I tried to cover myself up. Even when I was eating noodles. But, in Vietnam, I felt anonymous. Hanoi was an exciting & beautiful city. I loved the energy of the bicycles and motor cars of every variety, the wide streets. I loved the coffee and the baguettes. I loved the bright colors of the fans, the plastics and the ao dais. But what I loved most especially was the way people responded to the weather. The mornings were hot and humid. But then, every afternoon, after lunch, a heavy rain would come. At that moment, as if they knew exactly the time it would rain, all the shopkeepers would crank out their awnings and the shops would bring their wares inside. Umbrellas of every pattern imaginably started popping open everywhere. And then, suddenly the streets were empty and all the people were sitting at cafés or standing under awnings.  It was amazing to me how rapidly the people responded to the sudden downpour. And then in less than an hour, everything was back to sunshine as if the rain had never happened.

I have come back to this memory often. And I imagine I might have exaggerated it quite a bit in my mind. I return over and over to the idea of how extreme weather unites us. And when we get used to it even more, we build our lives around it. A change in weather returns us into the present moment—it awakens us to nature, and reminds us how we never apart from it. It’s a little bit of a secret from my husband, but I admit there is a part of me that gets excited by crazy weather.

Tomorrow, we are expecting a hurricane. Her name is Blanca. We’ve been hearing about her for a week now. She is a changeable one. She has threatened to be a category 4, and then back to a 1, then a tropical storm. Our cell and internet service is down right now, so we don’t know the latest. Lucas spent all week preparing for it. We had four of our roofs blow off in Odile last September, and just a few weeks ago, had them all repaired. Our house has always leaked badly, but everything’s been fixed, so let’s see how we fare this time. I wish I could sent this out today, but it probably won’t go out until tomorrow.

Facebook update:

Even though I had a few moments of doubt about my decision, my first day away from Facebook has felt considerably less angsty. I feel more engaged with my present life. That also might be because I spent the entire day preparing for the hurricane. Washing dishes, cleaning out the refrigerator, making sandwiches, making space in our bodega for a place for us to sleep (as our bedroom is still not weather proof at all—there are no doors and windows yet, but they are coming soon.) Another surprise about leaving Facebook is quite a few people have congratulated me. To me that is a sign that other people may have similar feelings about Facebook.

The Authenticity Mantra is the Cure for a Vulnerability Hangover

One of my newest heroines is Brené Brown. She is a social researcher, a story teller and listener, author, and a Texan. What she studies mostly is shame & vulnerability. Her excellent, exhaustive research has led her to conclude that our experience of shame, and our inability to talk about  shame is one of the main causes of most of the social problems we see in the US today: addiction, isolation, crime, suicide.

She also teaches authenticity, as an antidote to shame. This is her definition of authenticity:

“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who think we’re supposed to be, and embracing who we actually are. Choosing authenticity means: 1) Cultivating the courage to be imperfect 2) to set boundaries and 3) to allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Expressing compassion that comes from knowing that we’re all made of strength and struggle. Authenticity demands wholehearted living and loving, even when it’s hard, even when we’re wrestling with the shame and fear of not being good enough and especially when the joy is so intense that we’re afraid to let ourselves feel it. Mindfully practicing authenticity during our soul searching struggles is how invite grace, joy and gratitude into our lives.”

I took the above quote from her 6 hour talk called The Power of Vulnerability. If you listen to it, it will change your life. In it, she also shares her authenticity mantra, which I use all the time, and tell to everyone who will listen.

"Don't shrink. Don't puff up. Just stay on your sacred ground."

I am sharing this because this blogging project is all about my new found commitment to authenticity. It's not an easy path I am now on, and I am suffering from what Brené Brown calls a vulnerability hangover. At times I feel a bit raw, and alone. But I also know that if I want to be a trailblazer, which I most definitely do, I am going to have to tolerate the discomfort of vulnerability. If I want to be a leader, I need to go first. This month of blogging is me going first. When I feel afraid to risk being myself, it always helps to have a hero in mind. Brené Brown is my hero of the day.

I made my dramatic statement about leaving Facebook on Facebook today. And now I feel like I left the party. But I also know that I can create my own party, on my own terms. This reminds me of one of my own mantras that I use when I feel a need for external validation, but then remember that self-validation is really what I am looking for.

"I'm where the party's at."

Facebook feels like a popularity contest that I'm losing

The other day, I went on Facebook after writing my blog post about how I am done apologizing for the collective shadow, and the first thing I saw was a link posted by an old friend to an online magazine who had done some sort of exposé on his fancy country house. He had received a ton of comments and likes, everyone complimenting his house. One part of me sees that there is nothing wrong with this. This is normal behavior, acceptable behavior. But another part of me felt envious, and underneath that, angry. Not at any person, just at the way Facebook makes me feel. Then I realized it. Facebook is a place where we re-confirm what The Culture says is acceptable about us, and where we continue to hide our shadow, which grows bigger and bigger, underground. For me, it exacerbates the ego's need to confirm itself over and over, but then I am left feeling empty. I rarely find authenticity in the realm of Facebook, most especially not in myself. And yet,  since I live in the desert, in Mexico, and I am far away from much of my friends and family, Facebook has sadly become the main way of keeping in touch with people in my life. It is a very paltry way of communicating with people you care about. Nearly every time I go on Facebook, I leave feeling wounded, inadequate, ashamed, disconnected & profoundly disappointed. For a long time I have wanted to share more of what I really think and feel on Facebook, but I have been afraid to tell the truth. How could I not be afraid of being myself in front of (what feels like) an unpredictably random assortment of  500 people I know or used to know, including: grade school best friends, people I've never met, dead relatives, clients, bosses, co-workers, ex's, therapists, teachers. On Facebook, in front of almost everyone we've ever known, our social connection is reduced to momentary reactions to fleeting images of people with whom we've had every kind of relationship imaginable. People's behavior has been reduced to the simplest gestures and statements that fall in the category of that which can be commented on in a few words, clicked in less than a second or more often, ignored.  On Facebook I have the feeling that I need to express myself as generically as possible because I have no idea who I am actually communicating with. This feels like the fear of being judged in middle school and high school when we were first developing an identity. I don't want to go back to that trapped-in-silence feeling again.

I say:

FUCK FACEBOOK.

I typed the above statement last night into my computer and it felt just right. I decided I am going to leave Facebook and see how it changes my life. I am moving my comments to Twitter (which is new to me) & Somewhere and maybe I'll discover a new social platform that feels more welcoming of my full self. But of course, most of comments will be here at the zoëlab HQ. I am always available by phone and email. Those older technologies seem so warm now with Facebook out of the way.

I might give myself a little time to adjust to this new idea. I am still contemplating whether or not I want to leave up my Art For Life page or leave Facebook all together. Right now I feel like slipping out the back door. Tomorrow I may feel a need to make a slightly louder exit.

This idea feels a little thrilling, strangely. Writing this post certainly has been thrilling, and I almost didn't post it. Almost.

(I confess this blog post took longer than 15 minutes. But I had a lot of fun, so it's okay.)

There are no mediocre blog posts

Okay, so here is a little window into my process.

I started this blog post last weekend, I was inspired, and excited to write for the first time in a while. But then I didn't finish it, and then I started to avoid it, and then I felt really blocked.

My frustration with this block is actually what inspired me to start this blogging daily for a month thing, and to give myself a time limit, and to challenge myself to risk bringing more of myself here. 

This post is really what inspired the two previous posts. Tonight, I decided to share the abandoned post with you. I spent an hour waiting for the slow internet to upload my website, and then I copied and pasted my unfinished blog post here, with a only touch of editing.

[T]he speed with which an idea in your head reaches thousands of other people’s eyes has another deflating effect, this time in reverse: It ensures that you will occasionally blurt out things that are offensive, dumb, brilliant, or in tune with the way people actually think and speak in private. That means bloggers put themselves out there in far more ballsy fashion than many officially sanctioned pundits do, and they make fools of themselves more often, too. The only way to correct your mistakes or foolishness is in public, on the blog, in front of your readers. You are far more naked than when clothed in the protective garments of a media entity.

        But, somehow, you’re liberated as well as nude: blogging as a media form of streaking. I notice this when I write my blog, as opposed to when I write for the old media. I take less time, worry less about polish, and care less about the consequences on my blog. That makes for more honest writing. It may not be “serious” in the way, say, a 12-page review of 14th-century Bulgarian poetry in the New Republic is serious. But it’s serious inasmuch as it conveys real ideas and feelings in as unvarnished and honest a form as possible. I think journalism could do with more of that kind of seriousness. It’s democratic in the best sense of the word. It helps expose the wizard behind the media curtain.

Last night I was feeling down about my blogging, because of my continuing struggle to reconnect to that delicious creative flow that I had felt my first year of blogging, which was everyday.  I had written a post that felt a little rushed, and I was concerned that it was mediocre.  Whenever I struggle with these types of problems, or really, any problem, I turn to my husband who is the wisest person I know, even wiser than I’d like to think I am. He deserves a vicarious honorary degree from my every experience of learning since we've been together. (This July it will be 12 years.) His ability to know and understand and reflect me is magic. He mirrors me and reminds me what I already know, but forgot, because I can get lost within certain aspects of my personality. When I struggle with feeling whole, he helps reflect the parts of me that I have forgotten.  

“There are no mediocre blog posts.” he said. And then explained why this is true. And he was right.  He helped me remember that a blog is a log.  “A log is an official record of events during the voyage of a ship or aircraft.” (New Oxford American Dictionary).  A log is a record of life, as you experience it. Preferably daily. To me a blog is both science and art. The art is pushing oneself into new forms of expression. The science is the tracking of life.

When I brought up my feelings of disappointment about not offering more polished or thought-out writing, he reminded me this time what a blog actually is and what it's for. It's for sharing a process. For his example--he referred to one of his favorite internet reads: Andrew Sullivan's blog, The Dish, which disseminated, in February of this year, after over ten years of a wide readership. Sullivan has decided to leave it up as an archive to access.
 
This morning, I woke up ready to approach my blog in a new light—I checked The Dish and found the quote above--which Andrew Sullivan had written 13 years ago. I was so inspired, I immediately came here to share with you what I am starting to understand.

For me, blogging is foremost about honesty--it's about revealing the little details of the clunky, messy, exuberant process of life. It is about developing a point of view, strengthening it daily, which includes sharing my point of view even when it is uncertain or has changed.

For most of my life I have been a grand risk-taker. I have traveled far and wide. Immigrated to the desert. Lived in a tent through out most of my pregnancy. I have tried most of the things I am terrified of. I have challenged myself to take on seemingly impossible tasks. And yet, one of the risks that I have consistently stayed away from is sharing my opinion. Underneath this avoidance are three main fears:  a) offending people,  b) being called out on my ignorance or c) being seen as narcissistic or self-absorbed. This style of being has kept me apolitical, super nice and falsely modest. It has kept me quiet and safe, in the area of the mind and the world. I have stuck to subjects that I care deeply about and know: the arts, spirituality, psychology, education. I stay away from arguments, debates and certain kinds of personal truths. I am terrified to let people know how narcissistic I am, or how differently organized. I hide the truth of my metaphysical perspective. I have been afraid to share my failures and my pettiness. I have been afraid to reveal the messes in my mind and my life. I have been afraid to challenge others to think in new ways about their place in the world.

I realize that it is not my duty to reveal my thoughts and insecurities. Especially not on the internet. No one is asking me to be more honest or vulnerable or risky.  And yet, it feels as if there is some force pushing me towards sharing more of myself with the world. If I think about it, there has always been this force daring me to do things I am afraid to. It’s an inner voice of challenge, it feels almost spiritual in nature, as if I am being pushed into my destiny.  

When I hide my point of view, I feel like I am letting myself down. I feel a magnetic pull towards revealing myself.  Not revealing myself in the ways I used to: through emotional vulnerability, sexuality, or insecurity, but now it is about sharing my truth, my point of view. This is about taking myself seriously enough to think I have something to say that is worth listening to. This is the hardest thing for me, and I know I am not alone in this. This is hard, most especially for women—to value our voice and our message enough to unapologetically offer it to the public. The unapologetic part is the hardest part for me. I have been trained by our culture to apologize for myself so much, that it becomes the feeling of apologizing for my very existence. This is not just about narcissism, about being seen, this is about engaging in conversation. This is about making use of my mind for good in the world. The potential good that I see is in sharing my mind are my insights into The Culture and how it it is eating away at our humanity. Sharing my opinion feels terrifying, because it means acknowledging to others that I value my own thoughts, ideas and beliefs. My life long dream has been to be a voice to & for others. This is what I wrote about in my college essay, which was, itself, quoted from a journal entry, which was written in response to watching Christian Slater nakedly & anonymously announce his truth on the radio in Pump Up the Volume. Here is a little piece of the Christian Slater-inspired journal entry/college essay:

    "And now I know everyone needs a voice, each person has her own but she needs another to feed on. Another to accept hers and expand its possibilities, to go beyond what is expected. I know that no one at high school is that voice. Alexander [my older brother] is that voice. And even though I have discovered his voice is not always perfect, not always consistent, it is alive. It is there. Not everyone has, or knows they have, or knows they need a voice. A voice of love, of understanding, of influence. I know my own voice follows love; love of the abstract, the personal, the unique… I need a reason to be voice. It has to be person, someone to speak to me… a voice that speaks to mine… My dream is to be a voice. Maybe it is a voice that quivers or that is shy, sensitive, or silly, but it is a voice that communicates."

I am remembering now that what I had with zoelab 365, which I have been grieving over for the past few years, is that openness of mind. It was the first time in my life where I shared my point of view. The risk and thrill of it were palpable. It was like an extra source of high-energy food that I was living off of. Perhaps the kind of breathlessness that blogging every day (often writing designing or editing for up to four hours every night) required is unsustainable, and the year had to come to an end. But I am ready now to take on a new journey with this new blog. I am ready to challenge myself, yet again, to reveal more truth. To push my own boundaries to discover my own opinions. I want to invite readers to challenge me as well. To respectfully educate me when I am ignorant. To cry with me when I am sad. To laugh with me at my own narcissism or pettiness. To recognize your own narcissism and pettiness in mine. After all, the point of the blog is the connection between the blogger and the reader. This is the thrill of it. I am looking for conversations. I am looking to impact the world through challenging all of us to be more compassionate, creative, connected and honest. I am looking to risk my ego to share the larger truth of my humanity, including my flaws, vulnerability and criticism.

I am done with apologizing for the collective shadow

“There is nothing gutsier to me than a person announcing that their story is one that deserves to be told, especially if that person happens to be a woman.”

- Lena Dunham

Lena Dunham is the creator, director, writer, & star of the comedy/drama Girls and author of a book of personal essays entitled Not That Kind of Girl. She is one of my art heroines because she dares to tell her truth with no apologies--she is funny, smart, feminist and she shows up with her full, wacky, imperfect self. I also happen to have a lot in common with her: she has the art career of my dreams, and we share the same double alma mater. One of my (formerly secret until now) dreams is for one of my songs to be on her show. (One of my other dreams is to have a comedy show of my own, which I have been developing for years. More on that later...)

For 41.5 years, I have been far too apologetic. This is a female habit that I am ready to let go of. I am done apologizing for myself and for feeling shame about the parts of me that are simply just human.

This June Blogging exercise is an exercise in shedding my shame. It’s an exercise in letting go of the ego-driven perfectionist in me, so that I can actually just sit down and write some truths. Sometimes (and more often than I’d like considering that I teach and write about how to work with the inner critic) I find myself imprisoned by the critic inside that just can’t tolerate anything I write that seems self-absorbed or braggy, unresearched or confessional. I find myself afraid of three things most: 1) I will write something offensive to someone 2) I will reveal myself to be self-absorbed or narcissistic 3) I will be accused of ignorance, and will be asked to back up something that I have written, and I won’t be able to.

Looking at them plainly now, I see that these fears are gendered. That these are the things we women fear because we are brought up to:

• Be nice
• Take care of others, and to deprecate ourselves
• Use facts to support what we say, even if we naturally gravitate towards our personal experience as a way of knowing about the world

As an exercise, I went through a folder in my computer titled “Writing pieces: post ideas, essays, thought seeds” and I found 60 pieces that all started with great passion and truth, and not finished.  They remain unpublished. Just like 99% of everything I have written. Withexception to the many pieces I have shared on my personal blog, (read by a handful of friends, family & therapists), the poetry that was published in my high school literary magazine (whose pages were graced years later by the writings of Lena Dunham), I have published only two pieces of writing in my life: one was when I was 11 years old. I had won a creative writing contest in New England, and they published my story and a photo of me holding my cat, Claude. And second, when I was twenty six years old. I had met an artist, whose day job was as editor of a porn magazine called Oui, who paid me $100 to write a pornographic story, which he published. I have at least three books in me, and I would like to publish articles. But for now, I am very happy to be blogging. Maybe my new style will attract more than a handful of readers. Maybe I’ll be more courageous about making my blog more visible.

I realize now that I never stopped blogging, I just stopped publishing. Reading through the unpublished folder of pieces now, I think: so many of these could be blog posts right now, with just a tiny bit of editing. As part of this 30-days-of-blogging-unapologetically thing, I will plant some of these seeds online and see what kind of plants they become. Maybe they will lead me into the voice I have longed to be for so long. The voice that upholds the shadow in all of us. The voice that was was first awakened by Christian Slater in Pump Up the Volume when I was 17. The voice that makes space for us (you AND me) to be oneself, which is to say, to be all of one’s selves. We all have male & female & child in us. We all have shame and heartbreak and yes, we all have to take a shit. We all need to belong. We all need to feel free. We all need to be seen and heard.

I have lost my tolerance for The Culture that disconnects us from our nature. It is time to re-invent culture. It is time for me to take a stand, in my own way. My own way is not in the political arena, it is not about fighting “the good fight.” My own way is not about pretending to be something I am not. My own way is to be myself, unapologetically, and to be a champion for creativity, the feminine, and that which we feel we should hide. My way is creating supportive contexts (creative classroom laboratories) where people experience their own true selves emerge. My way is to celebrate our longings, letting them lead us into human aliveness. My way is to use my rock-n-roll-poet-prophet-mystic-explorer-of-garbage-and-all-things-beautiful-and-true voice. My way is to be balls-out and heart-out. I want to give you all a heart-on.

Who is ready to join me on this crazy scary exhilarating path to self-actualization?

Comments?

A list of things I would blog about if I wasn't so scared of what people would think

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

Here is a list of things I would blog about if I wasn't so scared of what people think:

1) Shit

2) Shame

3) Narcissism

4) My relationship to messiness, Dirt & Disorganization

5) My music

6) How much I love my husband

7) The thing I most want to help people with, and the thing I most struggle with myself, which is: being oneself.

8) Confessions of Parental Hypocrisy

9) How proud I am of my music and how much I want to share it with the world

10) Cultural criticism

11) The benefits of marijuana for anxiety, disassociation & insomnia

12) How watching Pump Up the Volume with Christian Slater when I was 17 helped me see my future self

13) Full descriptions of my grandiose ambitions and dreams

14) How my experience of Facebook is anti-creative & anti-social & anti-authenticity

15) I would use a lot more fucking curses

16) I am giving myself full permission to add more to this list as it occurs to me...

Why Creating An Arts Practice is Good For You

For the past three years, I have taught a class called Art Journal Lab in Todos Santos. The goal of the class is to create a safe space for people to write and draw in their journal, and to offer coaching exercises & expressive arts therapy techniques. I try to keep the class open--so that students can explore what is relevant to them, but I also provide structure by bringing in a new theme every week. For the past 20 consecutive weeks, I have brought in a new theme and technique for every class. This certainly has challenged my creativity--always looking for something new and inspiring that could be helpful to my students.

One of the things I recommend to my students is to create their own arts practice. To create a ritualized, and regular activity that awakens their creative flow and engages them more deeply in their life. We have been working on this for the last few weeks. I have been encouraging them to take their time, to explore for a while until they come up with something that ignites their passion. Sometimes I feel uncomfortable pushing people to commit to something, as I believe that each person has their own unique style and pace, and that their commitment needs to come from them, and not necessarily from my recommendation. However, I do believe having an arts practice is a vital part of any creative person's life. I know for myself, when I committed to doing one year of daily blogging (words and image), it changed my life and my relationship to my creativity forever. It helped me to take my passion for creating more seriously, and myself less seriously. It helped me to develop my artistic voice. It helped me to believe in the work I do, and in myself. It helped lift me out of a low level, postpartum depression and into an inspired place of consistent creative flow.

I realized that if I want to encourage people to create their own arts practice that they would need to do know why it's important. Knowing the why of something is very motivating. Here is my "why":

Why do I believe in an arts practice?

Because it’s a structure built into our lives that challenges us to be creative. It helps remind us of the importance of process. It is a built in reminder that our engagement, and the way we engage, is what matters in life. So many of us are trained to overlook or rush the process so that we can get to the result—so we can get to the goodies that come from having a finished product—it can be sold or bought, shown, talked about, appreciated--it becomes proof of our value. I want to return us to valuing the experience of creating. We all could benefit from having a creative practice--it keeps us honest, fresh, child-like in nature. It invites us to keep playing, discovering, asking questions. The moment we give up on the process and instead focus on the result of what we are creating, we cease to be open and relaxed, we lose our sense of humor, our perfectionism takes over and the joy is lost. The good news is that our creativity is always there--it's a flow that can be dropped into whenever we want. We just need to build in a habit that allows us to show up for our creativity regularly--this helps us to let go of the preciousness of art-making. In those moments when we feel alive, and inspired, those are the moments that we want to hold onto. In those moments, we trust that the higher self is speaking for our greatest good--this is the moment we need to commit to an arts practice. Once it is scheduled into our life, we can also find a way to make ourselves accountable--asking a friend, making a public declaration, working with a creativity coach or a therapist.

I care about creativity because I believe that it, along with love, is the greatest human resource. It is the tool that allows us to make the best use of ourselves. Our creativity is a force that works through us. The universe is always creating itself, and we as humans, are the same. It’s just that most of the time we are so distracted by the mind, by the ego’s need to prove its existence, that we don’t always see how every moment is an opportunity to experience life. Nothing creative happens in a vacuum, our creativity is always building upon other experiences and creations. We are drawn to what we love, and what we love is a reflection of something very real in us that has its own driving force.

When we open up to our creativity, both in the personal sense—working through our stories, our conflicts, our dreams—and in the universal sense—working through our humanity, and that which connects us the universe —we engage a deeper reality that is not just of the mind, but includes the body, and soul as well. It is the engagement we are after—-not the end result—it's the experience of feeling our wholeness. The experience of love, newness, beginner’s mind, the experience of play, vulnerability, failure, risk, the experience of being in the mystery, of growth, the experience of our personal, family, or historical legend. We don’t all have to be Artists with a capital A, but we are all are artists in the sense of working with the materials we have, and moving towards that which we love, in how we solve both our daily and deepest problems. Through engaging the truth of who we are, we find art there available to us to help us through.

I recommend creating and committing to an arts practice that is weekly, or preferably daily, that is also do-able and realistic given the current parameters of your life. Try this and you will discover what it is to show up for yourself. Some days you will be inspired and it will be easy. Other days, you will feel like you are forcing yourself into your practice. The point is to keep practicing. It is good for your spirit--it will remind you that the point is not to produce something perfect, the point is to put yourself into your own creative flow and discover much more of who you are. It will humble you. It will keep you in beginner's mind. It will stretch and grow you. It will strengthen you and it will make you see that you are capable of much more than you ever imagined.

How to Sing or Do Anything

Way back when I was in college in the 1990's, I wrote a poem called "How to Masturbate." It was a racy title for a spiritual type of experience in nature. That started a new form of poetry for me, that I like to call "Instructive Poetry." Since then I have written a few more. I hope to someday publish a book of instructive poems.

Here's one I wrote recently about my experience of training myself to sing. The more I learn about my journey of creativity and art, the more I see that art is a process of training ourselves to be free.

The art above is an ink drawing/painting I made last week with Emilio, my five year old.

HOW TO SING or do anything

Give up all hope, all memory.
Give up all strivings for greatness.
And find yourself
here.
Empty of that great illusion
that splits every body, action and thought into
two.

And from here,
this spaciousness,
deliver the sound
that already exists in the future. Go to meet it with
your devotion
your heartache
your infinitely unique vibrations.

Open up that channel
of body
and mind
and spirit.

and let the light shine through to all darknesses.
Straighten and flex your spine.
there are endless secrets
duplicating in there.

Release them through your heart and hands and voice.

Let them reach who they need to reach.
Paying no mind.
If the vibrations reach someone,
you will know at some future date.

Impressions of Mariposa Night & Guerrilla Gallery, March 27th

Last Friday something magical happened on a warm stage under moonlight. It was a certain something that cannot be re-created. 

But I will try, anyway.

There was a voice: a mother-tongue, Peruvian Español, rich and shadowy, evoking bittersweet one-sided self-destructive love. As words, in English, glowed white against black, beside her. An electric guitar echoing the amplified pain of longing. And another voice—emotional and raw, expressing the freedom of rock-n-roll bravado, held by the sounds of rowdy guitar and happy drums, fierce & crisp. And another voice—embodying heart and soul, awakening god in us with her sumptuous spirit-song to the warm sound of a bass walking into notes. And there were those  who seized the sticks—drumming up new sounds behind the recorded music—allowing the insides to be heard. And the one who dared to sing into the microphone—discovering the good glory mirror of amplified voice.

And then there were the faces of the children glowing on the screen. Impressions of their growing spirit, told in voice, and as paint on a wall, of a school, struggling to exist. And children also ran through the space, creating shadows of monsters and gestures over the green glowing mariposa of the night.

And then there were those who made their marks on the shared page—children and adults—inking the white with fresh love thoughts and faces and choices in color.

And there were the paintings made of palettes of silk—colors and worlds invented. And there were the paintings of color play from a family living life as art. There was the one who brought her object-friends, creations from the found world. Who was also the one who almost didn’t share her art story made of reimagined truth. The book that strung together a life of meaning and heartbreak and love. Bravely, she leapt into the unknown—baring her heart with hopes to be witnessed. She leapt and found the floor growing underfoot in the form of beautiful faces and tears of recognition. Awakening the longing we all feel through the telling of a truth story. And old friends were created—recognizing themselves in new faces. A film made in La Cuidad, traveled by internet, flickered on screen: a story of the insanity of commitment when fueled by elevated spirit. And in the end, the contagion of dance took over the steps & the floor & the stage--hearts and bodies expanded in mental abandon & perfect unison.

All of this helps me see:

When you open up to spirit, creativity is limitless. In order to manifest it, we must ignite our passion for truth, which illuminates our underground excavations. We don’t mind the digging, if we are in service of the gift giving. It’s god’s work, we happily discover, as we leap into darkness. We use our faith as a catch-all. A trampoline big enough for us all to bounce together. Every individual leap grows the collective heart. And this, like creativity, is limitless. Art grows the heart, and the heart creates art.

And this:

What if it were really true?

That we have a choice, after all, in our fate?

That we could choose how big we become. And how much we let our hearts sing. On one side of the split it can feel so hopeless.  When we are grabbing at air in the dark and all we feel is the impossibility of becoming. But then, leaping across the split—connecting at the center—we are slapped suddenly with seeing that we never did stop being who we are really are, not even for a moment. Timelessness, as art, belongs to all of us, and can be felt the moment we stop grasping at the future as if it were a thing.  As if we were a thing.  We are a process and only in timelessness can we see this. This is where the heart lives.  All we have is what we need.  And all we need is what we have.

The arts remind us of this as many times as we let our gifts be given and received.

Through sharing art, the marriage of object and source of our longing, is consummated. Let us witness each other in our collective soul creation. Letting hearts speak and be witnessed with words and worlds that are yet to be created.

Come Forward with Your Art

Come forward with your art,
come share the truth of  your decay,
your ultimate humility.

come forward with your art,
with your seed gifts
    which sacrifice ego
and amplify soul.
The only real sin is
    being un-whole. Unholy.

Fragmented-like
a bird
  flying
with out a wing.

Come forward with your art,
I will bless you
  with bubbles
and manifest your heart
 into its proper dimension.

Come forward with your art,
     and feel how big you can be.
Just how much space
a soul is
when laid out
   against the world.

Come forward, my love,
with your art,
   and experience
 the rebirth of time.

Come forward with your art,
and you will learn
  (from scratch)
how to
     become one.

It is the mind that disappears
   when we awaken to our thousand
         mysterious destinies.

Come forward with your art,
           and you will look your most secret
most dangerous
   fear
 in the face
and feel your unfathomable
                                     darkness grow
into veins
     of gold.
Extending you outwards,
   tree branches
     fed by the ground and the sky.

And here, as golden tree,
   your rootedness meets its celestial mirror.

   And oneness is felt
as one tiny speck
 in the center of it all.

This speck—-
    this is your he(art).

I will meet you there.
                                

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.