Peace...

Sunflower. 2014. Oil and pastel. 24x36”

Creator and I had a go ‘round before dawn. Knockdowndragout, put up or shut up kind of dogfight. At least on my end. Calling out a Universe remaining stoically impartial. Some would say a temper tantrum to end them all if I were codependent and wanted the attention of Creator as Daddy who hands out praise or discipline.  

As it is, I’m a full partner so I have a say in my life creation. I stormed the citadel to command Management to Do Something! The Energy In Charge. The Creator of All Things. Source. The Infinite. The One who brings in the tides and raises the sun and lives in my cellular structure ~ in each of us as creations who go bumbling about our lives. 

Before you all cover your heads and deny you know me in the interest of self preservation, command is an understanding of my place in the universe. I have, as co-creator of my world, the right and privilege to take responsibility for my life. Command plants my feet squarely and states my requirements. The difference between actively and creativity involved or victim to a punishing god. 

I’m sickened as atrocity after barbaric, savage, unspeakable atrocity keeps occurring on this planet. Return love for hate? Turn the other cheek? What happened to the boy standing down the tank in Tiananmen Square? 

I’m not into my reward in Heaven. I’ll take a cease fire here and now thank you very much. How many martyrs to love is required before we receive our allotted measure of peace, contentment? 

My sacrifices don’t make the news. Neither do several billion other people’s. Yet we count. As a world body we count. And it’s time. All of the Whos in this orbiting rock of Whoville. Is it possible if we look up from our cellphones and come together, the Universe will resonate to our sincerity? Is it possible with whole hearted intention and attention we will accomplish? 

 “Sometimes what we want is wrapped up in what we don’t want.” Okay so it’s time to be incredibly clear about what we want. Finally.

How many wimpy prayers are wasted in the fear and trembling of considering all our options and covering our bases before we collectively march on heaven? As co-creators command this heinous disregard for the human soul stop. All of it. The vestiges we hide for That Neighbor. The darkened corners of our own soul.

How much will it take before we decide to live together in respect? I’m not even asking for love. I know very little about the practicalities of love, forgiveness and the higher laws of sainthood. Respect. The realization we each are enough in the world. The understanding there is enough and to spare for all if we share? 

Some say this is the most evil planet in any of the systems. The “prison planet” of the universes. If the Universe is impartial can we at least get to neutral as a human race? 

Here’s an invitation, Creator. Would it spoil some vast eternal plan to give us a break? Meet us halfway? A couple hundred years of peace, rest, renewal. A chance? 

I’m wasting energy in too many futilities I can’t control. I’ve meditated and prayed myself to dissociation and back. The only act left is to work with my hands. Let them touch. Begin to breathe and with the breath, my brain will know I’m still alive. Anxiety and fear reduce with the breath. The brain comes back on line and in the face of Dark Nights and Existential Crises I’ll know what only I can do to contribute.

Make time a friend...

If you know me at all, you know Earth Time is the biggest challenge I’ve faced.

Childhood was beloved cycles synchronized with animals coming to the river for water at dusk or morning heralded by loons calling from the lake. In summer, sneaking out during the white nights to run with rabbits. Eat when hungry ~ or forced to sit still long enough to endure what passed for occasional family dinners. Play was a foreign concept while running the woods was endlessly fascinating. Winter sledding down icy hills followed by torpor of hot chocolate. I can still smell when it will snow.

Then school. Civilization. For me, an analog clock was an artifact without a Rosetta Stone. Digital devices only marginally better because I still have to calculate time passages in my head.

I could handle the concepts of yesterday, today and tomorrow but this week, last week, next week are still a black hole, so I resolve them by dealing in dates not days. Left to my own devices longer than 24 hours, I’m hard pressed to tell you what day it is. Daylight savings time is a torment I have no desire to comprehend. Calendar holidays go unremarked while I take great joy in winter solstice to mark the season and return of the light. Death and birth are markers in the endless progression of ancestors and progeny. While I try to remember birthdays because they are important measurements for humans I often forget my own.

School felt like a permanent tooth ache. By contrast, pregnancy was easier with beautiful humans to show for the 9 months. Adulthood and being on time for gainful employment was an endless anxiety attack.

Technology created a separation between us and our natural body rhythms forcing an override 24/7 365 productivity at any cost. When I give attention to the clock, I get caught in the trap and external pressure of time. BTW, time doesn’t actually exist. There’s a reason every spiritual practice has a variation of sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.

On a prompting deeper than mere impulse, I purchased a clock with a face display of the days of the week. There are markers at noon and midnight. The rest is wild and beautiful guesswork. Magic happened. The days slowed down and accomplishments increased. I’m sleeping better. I have more energy and enthusiasm. I still make appointments without the pressure by setting a reminder alarm - thank you, smarter than me about time phone.

Megan Macedo said, “the way we measure things shapes our focus.” Our focus shapes who we become.

I have the luxury of creating my own schedule and I’m thankful. I started small by removing all the clocks in my creative space. What one thing could you do to create a space of luxury in your life? I vote throw the clocks away, at least in the studio or the place you journey into for creative work.

You're invited...

For all of you who subscribed to receive posts to this website delivered to your in-box, the independent RSS feed making that happen was swallowed by Google as of July. In the process, my list of subscribers is no longer available to me. We will be reduced to communicating in secret code only the secret is, I won’t know who you are!

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Three Generations...

Ancestral Procession. Margarete Bagshaw. 2010 Oil on linen. Private Collection, Santa Fe

Three generations of Native American artists made history. Grandmother Pablita Velarde, Tse Tsan, Golden Dawn. Daughter Helen Hardin, Tsa-sah-wee-eh, Little Standing Spruce. Granddaughter Margarete Bagshaw. They broke ground for Native American women and all women in the arts. They achieved international recognition in a time when women were supposed to stay home and keep their heads down.

Margarete writes in her memoir of comparisons between her mother and grandmother and how they encouraged her to “swim upstream.” She compares their outlook on everything from men to carbs. Most crack me up while this one draws a line in the sand for the work of the soul…

“Not now, I have to paint.” — Mom

“Not now, I have to paint.” — Grandma

From Teaching My Spirit to Fly by Margarete Bagshaw, p. 49

I wish I’d known them. Reading their poetry, seeing their art is inspiration. I share this with great respect for all three pathfinders and invite you to explore the legacies of these incredible women…

Pablita Velarde in Her Own Words by Shelby J. Tisdale

Helen Hardin: A Straight Line Curved by Kate Nelson

Teaching My Spirit to Fly by Margarete Bagshaw

Last Light...

“Last Light” Oil. 16 x 20”

This little piece started life as a throwaway palette scraping. At the end of the day, I rub the excess oil paint from brushes onto a canvas before submerging the bristles in safflower oil to reduce environmental impact. When the palette needs cleaning, I scrape the leftovers up-cycle to the throwaway canvas. A throw-away means when you’re working on the “serious” painting and something doesn’t feel right, keep a piece you don’t care about nearby to take frustrations out on, then return to the focus work. This throwaway piece started to exhibit a life of its own and with a little TLC, turned into “Last Light.” I’m currently preoccupied with light and nature settings on smaller canvases that allow practice and exploration. 

I wonder how many of us feel like a throwaway canvas? Will somebody recognize our worth under all the mis-matched lumps? With a bit of attention and care would we bloom and make a contribution to the world? When we look at someone we perceive to be throwaway, lets take a second look… what light is there waiting to be noticed?

Deconstructing Mother Day

“Hope” Acrylic, Steel, aluminum. 24 x 18.” The bridge in the photo is near a small community literally named “Hope.” The child is an early 20th century ancestor.

My respect to women and girls everywhere who make it through Mother Day. A calendar day for courage. Not my point to go there in this essay. My point is let’s get back to the point of Mother Day.

A brief history of ancient times. The Greeks and Romans had cults to celebrate mothers.

A brief history of Mother Day in the last 150 years. Mother Day was intended as a tribute to our individual mother. In a country notorious for desecrating the English language, with the rare placement of a grammatically correct apostrophe, the day became a public commodity. Anna Jarvis is credited with developing the modern Mother Day, however, her own mother Ann Reeves Jarvis had a far more interesting and socially pertinent concept in mind.

Ann Reeves Jarvis was a peace activist who advocated for health and sanitation in the camps of both sides during the American Civil War. She formed in essence grief groups for mothers whose sons died in the war. The public service the women performed gradually evolved into an international peace movement. When men got wind of a growing threat to their favorite game of mayhem, they lobbied for a day to celebrate the women behind the “great men” of this nation. They adroitly returned the spotlight to themselves and their economic self-interest while subtly reminding women of their place. Anna Jarvis advocated for a Mother Day celebration upon the death of her mother Ann. Mother’s Day now extends to over 40 countries. Anna Jarvis was later arrested while protesting the commercialism of Mother Day. In 2019, In the United States, Mother’s Day was expected to gross 25 billion dollars. Billion. 5.something billion dollars in jewelry alone.

I appreciate when my children and friends acknowledge me. They are conscious individuals who don’t need a calendar reminder to be kind and considerate. Mother’s Day has been a can of worms for me since I was a child. I decided to study the history in an effort to reduce the dissonance. Instead, I’m flabbergasted to realize all of the angst and years of anxiety feeling beaten up by an arbitrary date were in reality wasted on an annual event solely intended to realize profits for retailers.

25 billion dollars a year is an astounding figure. What would that much money do for health care, education and poverty? Would people who had food and education be so willing to fall for the promotion of aggression and violence? When people have a safety net of health care they have the emotional and physical strength to look outside of themselves and contribute to easing social ills. And on and on. I’m stating the obvious. The only thing I know for sure is as women, we are better than letting ourselves be used one more time and one more way to make a profit.

Some of my most cherished gifts are those my children and grandchildren have made for me. We have a year to ponder and decide what we are going to do as individuals to return to the original intention of Mother Day. While acknowledging mother and her contributions, is it possible to simultaneously promote peace? Resolve griefs. Serve others. Donate our segment of the 25 billion to an ethical cause? If we spend the day as intended will we ease our own issues? Of course, handmade gifts or time spent require investment of self instead of a credit card swipe to assuage our conscience. You’ll have your own ideas if you think about it. What if we take back our power, step out from behind the shoulders of the historical menfolk and make this day a contribution?