mmmm i've got the smell of barbeque on my fingers...  that smokey woodsy sweetness... stirs something primal in me

"primal" is a good word for me today.  i've been playing with fire lately, and beeswax, and big chunks of sticky clear yellow tree sap...  pigment powders dug from the earth... the bubbling alchemy that happens when you apply fire to these elemental things, stirs that same place of primal in me..

there's an alchemy brewing inside me, too, of late.  scary stuff, this "trial by fire" thing.  ... fire walkers braving the hot coals... fire engulfing monks in protest... fire, ultimately consuming and transforming "what is" to "what will be next"... whatever that is...

The Process

First she gave all that she carried
in her arms, setting those trinkets down easily.
Then she removed her scarlet sash and gave it
for bandage, her scarf for blindfold, her shawl,
her handkerchief for shroud.

She let her violet kimono slip from her shoulders,
giving it too, because it was warm and could surround,
enwrap like dusk, and because it held her dark-river,
night-swimmer fragrances tight in the deep
stitches of its seams.

And she cut off her hair, offering its strands
for weaving, for pillow, lining, talisman,
for solace.

She gave her bracelets, the rings
from her fingers -- those circles of gold jingling
like crickets, those loops of silver
chiming like spring -- and gave her hands as well,
her fingers, the way they could particularize.

Her feet and their balance, her legs
and their stride, she relinquished;
and her belly, her thighs, her lap -- wide, empty,
open as a prairie -- her breasts full of sunlight,
like peaches and honey, like succor. She gave away
her bones -- ribcage for scaffold, spine,
smaller knuckles for kindling, for sparks,
for flame.

And what remained -- her face, her visage
reflective, transparent as sky -- she gave
and even her word, her name, its echo,
until all, everything was given and everything
received, and she was no one,
gone, nothing,
god.


-- Pattiann Rogers

I've been immersed in Joseph Campbell for the past week now, which means of course that my head is filled to overflowing with myth, metaphor and just plain profound stuff.  I remember watching the "Power of Myth" series on PBS back in... when was that?  The late 80's?  I recently got it downloaded to my iPod and have been listening to it, mostly in the car while on errands (which can take a long time in Seattle traffic).  Today's segment was on sacrifice and sacred spaces.  I could write novels on sacrifice (what parent couldn't?), but i'm going to tackle the latter concept -- sacred spaces.

Probably like most people, i *intend* to set up a serene little altar somewhere and meditate at it daily... but.. well..  the thing is, you don't have to have a little mini-church playhouse in order to have a sacred space (sure sounds cool, though).  Yes, yes.. i know.. all i have to do is take a walk outside and bam -- i'm in sacred space.  True, but i want to talk about.. well.. about my studio.  

Art, for me, comes from a very spiritual place.  Whether it's doing a finely rendered botanical from the observation of plant life, or a figurative study where you get lost in the unity of curves and the turning of form, or an abstract that depends on pure response-in-the-moment, it all comes down to a form of meditation.  Of losing oneself in the process of it all.  (ahhhhh nice)  

When i set up my studio (and i've set up several in the past few years) i'm confronted with this conundrum of the need for practicality and the desire for a place that encourages both calmness and inspiration.  I always look with envy at the studios of artists who make a good living -- all that open space, high ceilings, big windows looking out on natural beauty.  Know where my current studio is located?  In my garage, with all the clutter and darkness that you would expect there.  My husband has been great, though -- he's put up temporary walls to screen out the clutter and make it feel more like an actual room.  And I've got lights galore and even some indoor/outdoor carpeting on the floor.  And best of all, this is the biggest studio i've ever had.  I can move around and set up different stations for all my experimentations and i finally have enough room to tackle this big 4x5' panel that's been beckoning to me.  

In all my past studios i've paid careful attention to *things*.  I've set up little assemblages on windowsills or shelves that could be called mini-altars.  I've filled my walls with images that move and inspire me.  There are even certain materials, like my bead collection, that i don't use in my artwork anymore but i feel i have to have in my studio anyway because it calls to my primitive urge to create (my bead-lust has been long gone, but oooohhhh those pretty sparkly little things!  i wonder if i was a crow in a former life??).

And in my garage space?  It's completely utilitarian and somewhat haphazardly put together.  No pretty things.  No inspiring pictures on the walls (just my own work hanging there, screaming "FINISH ME!!!").  Even my beads aren't there.  But with the changes in my life... with growing older and turning further inward, i'm discovering that sacred space has really only one requirement: a sort of focused mindfulness.  More than just noticing life and living in the moment... i'm talking about a more *inward* disposition.  Rather than needing my exterior surrounding to be "right" in order to feel as though i'm in sacred space, what i really only need is to settle into that vibrational space in my *interior*.  When that's in tune, then presence and purpose and intention become clear.  

That doesn't mean i won't be fixing up the new garage studio with a lot of my usual stuff.  Having those inspiring images on my walls really does help my process (can't say much for my little mini-altars, which i honestly think i put there for the visitor's benefit than for mine).  But it's been great to be learning this lesson -- about how much abundance there is (or can be) in sparseness and simplicity.

 

"The problem in middle life, when the body has reached its climax of power and begins to lose it, is to identify yourself not with the body which is falling away, but the consciousness of which it is a vehicle".   -- Joseph Campbell


mmmmmm wise words, indeed...  and this is right where i find myself these days.  Forty three years old now.  My oldest son will be 18 next year.  How could it happen so quickly?  The past year or two have been my "mid-life crisis", as they say.  Major upheaval and dissatisfaction, all while watching the lines and creases deepen on my face... it doesn't help that i look much younger than my years... to have 20 and 30-somethings gravitate toward me for friendship, and 40 and 50-somethings regard me as too young to be a peer.  And even in myself... i'm very young-at-heart and admit to often feeling more at ease with younger folks who are still idealistic and adventuresome and excited about possibility, than with people my age or older who so often strike me as tired and bored with life and unwilling to venture into new territories.. sometimes it's as if i belong nowhere.. no community of people to call "home".

but this is a crucial transition time in my life right now, i sense... another opportunity to "grow up".  to take the next step in my journey.  no longer the 'young mother'.  maybe it's time to start growing older?  to slow down a little bit?  to begin trying on the identity of 'elder'?  this is where Campbell's quote strikes me most.  I'm at a crossroads now -- one pathway is shiny and sparkling, full of green and alive with birds and visible life... the other pathway is darker.  I can't see what's down the road.  There's a soft breeze coming from there, swirling around me.  It's pleasant and so quiet and still.  Such a contrast to the other path... both beckon, but in different ways.  I've been down shiny green pathways before.  I've spent years following those paths, and they are indeed full of life and excitement.  But my relation to the shiny greenness is changing.  It doesn't feed me like it used to.  I'm feeling less at home there.  Will this other path feed me better?  Will it bring joy like the other did?  Will i find happiness?  Can i be okay with saying goodbye to the shiny path?  Can i be at peace with that? 

It is what it is.  Life *is*, and *this* is my life.  The shiny greenness is falling away and i've been frantically fertilizing and watering, trying to keep it there.  It's so sad to see it go.  What beauty exists that will take its place?  Where can i look for my garden now?