-
Hummingbird
Hummingbird
Feeder hangs empty.
Buzzing hummingbird seeks food
for tiny belly.******
The feeder sits empty,
a chore not yet accomplished,
not yet in the rhythm
after being away.The feeder hangs
beyond my reach,
requires retrieval of both
ladder and nectar.Sometimes it’s too hot,
sometimes too wet,
sometimes I’m just
tired.Tiny bird body
buzzes from one feeder
to the next,
searching for sustenance.I see the need.
But still I sit,
tied to the chair
by my own buzzing busy-ness.Tiny bird body
tries again.
The buzzing
feels frantic.This time, I rise
from the shackles
of the chair
that binds me.After all,
what is more important
than the hunger
of this one tiny being?Was he watching?
Did the sweetness
of the nectar
fill the air?Within seconds,
tiny iridescent body returns,
dips his beak
again and again.Vibrancy lives in you,
little one.
Bright, quick, sweet —
la dolce vita.Messenger of joy,
sate your hunger
here. -
Embracing My Place
“If you can embrace your place in the web of existence, you will always be original. Let your task be simple: rise, and deliver the message you were sent to carry.” — “Dictation,” in The Magpie Art.
I’ve been writing since I was in elementary school — poems, short stories, haiku. I’ve also been creating books and collections of stories and songs and memories and images. I like to edit stories partly because I like to shape the presentation of the story into something with visual impact. The form of a thing matters to me. I’ve learned to let go of what others might settle for in pursuit of “saving time and effort” but I know what pleases my eye. So when I have the chance, I like to shape the visual impact of a poem, the sweep of fabric on the altar, the shape of a bird’s wing on the page.
This summer, I took two multi-day classes in drawing at a retreat setting in the state of Washington (the Grunewald Guild). Drawing from Where You Are and Connecting Eye, Hand, and Soul through Nature Drawing. I wanted to give myself the gift of experience that would expand my options in my own visual art efforts. The people around me are often already experienced and accomplished in various media. So I often feel like I’m the kindergarten student in a classroom of high school seniors. They bring the sophistication; I bring the joy.
Mostly, I’m happy with that role. I bring the joy of playing outside my comfort zone. I risk the comparison of seeing my simple work alongside the more skilled efforts of my peers. My reach often exceeds my grasp. I like what I am doing, however. I like being in learning mode. I like discovering what happens when I explore different media. I also like discovering what the eye of my heart and mind is drawn to. Vibrant colors, simple lines to suggest more than can be seen, a suggestion of energy in a color or a swirl or even an empty space.
As the days progressed, I experienced myself making decisions about composition, line placement and weight, internal and external space. I exercised my eyes and my hands. I tried one way, then another. I allowed myself to experiment. I discovered that lines have a rhythm I could tap into. I played with colors, letting some drift along an invisible boundary and creating connections between others. I built a network of sensations and feelings and images wrapped up in what I would label a “nest” for myself as a visual artist. A place where I am comfortable, resting in the cushion of various strands of experience and realizations.
As my classes came to an end, I recognized a shift in the way I see myself in the realm of art and art making. From this unfolding sense of wholeness within my self, I can express the connection between eye, hand, and soul. I can deliver the message that is mine to offer, carrying healing into the world through the creative expression of my Heart’s song. Sometimes in words, and sometimes in lines and color.
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Tending the Fire
I’ve been reading The Magpie Art: Gathering the Brightness of Each Day by Paul Weinfield. You get a lot of choices with this book. You can read it as a daybook of thoughts about the “brightness” of life, as a progression of thoughts through a season (e.g., Love/Spring, Appreciation/Summer, ), or by themes (e.g., clarity, creativity, anxiety). I’m currently moving sequentially through Summer, taking the themes as they come. There’s something about letting a reading come to you in its time, searching for the glimmer of gold that’s meant just for you in this day, this time, this season.
Today’s offering was titled “The Cook and the Fire.” Right off, the author asserts that creativity and joy are the same thing. Instead of buying into the meme of the struggling artist and the joyful consumer, he urges the reader to remember that the art of connecting to creativity and joy is the art of discerning, in every moment, the difference between what you must do and what you must allow. A cook selects, prepares, and cares for the ingredients but doesn’t actually cook them. That is the work of the fire.
The fire of creativity or joy must be tended for the work to be accomplished. Whether by writers or painters or meditators, the fire must be left to do its work while the writer/painter/meditator prepares the “ingredients.” We (yes, I am all of those) have only to take a moment to remember the flame and let it work through us. Further, I believe we tend to the fire of joy as an act of love in the world — the world of creation that is, ultimately, a testament to life and its fertility.
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Body Wisdom
Last night, I participated in a “breathwork practice for integrating embodied presence.” <https://workwithlibby.com/breathwork/> As I settled into the practice, an email exchange with my mother earlier in the day came into my awareness.
She’d written about her many worries that day: four separate situations and people ranging from why the orioles aren’t taking as much grape jelly to the unpredictability of which day the person who mows her lawn will show up. My mother is 92 years old, lives alone on her “farm,” often sleeps poorly, and feels guilty if she takes an afternoon nap.
I responded to a variety of things in her email but also commented on her worries, expressing my hope that she might let go of what she could and trust that she is held in God’s loving embrace no matter what.
Her reply defended her response. She’s a “realist,” wants to understand the world around her, being informed helps her understand things better. As I continued the breathwork, I realized my mother felt judged by my encouragement to let go of her worries and trust that all would be well.
I recognized my words to my mother were actually words to the part of me that is like my mother, an attempt to manage and “correct” my own anxieties. For years, I’ve known that when my body feels tight across the back of my shoulders, I am worried about something, feeling anxious. In the past, the tension in the back of my shoulders was like hardened concrete, and it took a long time for it to crack apart and — eventually — soften.
As the breathwork practice continued, I breathed into the tightness I was feeling in the back of my shoulders. Not to make it go away, just noticing and breathing.
I asked myself the question often prompted by my therapist. What does this part of me need to hear? This part that is like my mother, carries worries and anxieties, creates tension across the back of my shoulders. In response, I assured this “mother part” — and my shoulders — that I was here, I was with her, I would stay right here.
It was as if this wise, integrated self was sitting with this “anxious mother part” of me, holding a reassuring hand to her back, talking softly in short phrases, holding her with my presence.
Gradually, the tightness across the back of my shoulders loosened, and the anxious, worried feeling abated. The “mother part” of me and wisdom part of me were quiet, present in the softness.
I regret trying to manage my mother’s feelings. I wish I had simply acknowledged her worries. I tried to “fix” her. Of course, I want her to feel less anxious. She’s worked hard, still works hard. She deserves to rest, to feel good about herself. But that’s not for me to manage. I hope I can “come alongside” her feelings with more awareness in the future.
As for me, it’s helpful to recognize that I still try to manage my own worries and anxieties. I am still judging those feelings, rejecting them. I may always have that impulse, both to manage and to judge. Yes, I have other choices now. And judging and rejecting aspects of my being are not helpful to the process of opening up my life to more joy, more freedom. Being aware, being “with” … always helpful.
I’m grateful for the opening and the insight afforded me in this time of integrating embodied presence. And I’m grateful for increased awareness of this “mother part” of me.
Integration. Embodiment. Presence. Powerful words. I continue to marvel at the wisdom my body offers me.
-
bliss
stepping into day
light radiates within me
each moment brings joy******
there’s a kind of gratitude
that seeps into the body
permeates the cells
becomes the life-blood
of each momentthis kind of gratitude
once experienced
does not fade away
when challenges
arisethis kind of gratitude
takes up residence
waves away all efforts
to diminish
or dissuadeonce seated within
the heart leaps up
to do the work
that must
be done.the process of growth
unfolds
takes hold
sees gains
that lastpatience
persistence
wisdom
flow
freelyyes life still contains
loss and pain
suffering and sorrow
we mourn
cry out in griefin the moment
we shed tears
feel the sadness
rend our hearts
groan in despairstill
embers of joy
glow softly
waiting
to be stirred. -
Words from Ordinary Time
Some days ago I picked a word from a little pile of words to write about, think about, notice it’s presence in my life … you know, the thing you do when you are inevitably and perpetually drawn to the practice of contemplation and exploration of all things spiritual.
That word was “light.”
Perfect, I thought. Leonard Cohen’s “Anthem” came to mind:
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.The light of God? The light of our better nature? The light that comes when we give up our tightly managed control?
I don’t question that allowing for the cracks in life and letting the light in is a good thing. For me. For anyone.
But I’m a person of privilege. I am not enslaved nor impoverished. I am white, well-educated, gifted in many ways with confidence, intelligence, creativity. A woman, yes. Which in the eyes of the Southern Baptist leadership is a lesser being. But really, being a white Southern man can be its own kind of prison.
Still, the concept of “light” remains ethereal. Elusive. Not of this world.
This morning I drew another word.
“Solid.”
Perfect, I thought. The ground beneath my feet. The place I come back to, again and again. The place I can rely on.
And still, I wander in the realms of what it means to stand on solid ground. My faith in what I cannot see? That stepping into the unknown where I can trust I will be held? Found? Carried?
Maybe a little less ethereal. Still somewhat elusive. And probably falls into the category of “Be in the world but not of it.”
I have a faith that serves me, grounds me. I have a great therapist. I’ve been growing, evolving, transforming, becoming a person of depth, resilience, presence.
Still, I like the balance between “light” and “solid.”
Maybe that’s another word for me to consider: balance.
I can find the light, even “be” the light sometimes. For myself, for others. I can also stand on principle, on what is “real,” on the certitude of hope.
I can be in sorrow, even suffering, without drowning. I can be in joy without losing sight of the brokenness of the world.
So, yes. I’ll ring the bells, laugh at my imperfection, and embrace the cracks of life.
******
What is the balance
Between the ground and the light?
Become ringing bells. -
Day 30: Glory
a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)In the morning, you
glory — unfurling into
full bloom at sun’s light.***
A common flower,
not showy,
persistent in your travels,
wending, winding,
climbing, sometimes binding,
easy to overlook
the glory of your
persistent opening
to the light.You prefer a balanced soil,
not too much light —
12 hours will do nicely —
lest your bloom curl inward,
shriveling from toomuchsun.Your cousin opens
to the moon,
unfurling in the dusk,
basking through the night
until touched
by morning dew.I am opening
to an inner light,
a radiance, a spark
of glory
born before i came to be
and now unfurling
in words
and images,
and tenderness. -
Day 29: Starlight
a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)Blue skies of morning
blot the starlight from my view;
still, the stars shine on.***
From dust you have come,
And to dust you shall return.
~ Genesis 3:19We are made of stardust,
every part of our body
formed in stars
over billions of years
and multiple star
lifetimes.We come from dust
and to dust we shall return.All my ancestors,
near and far,
came from the same dust.
Our skin tones are different;
sepia, olive, charcoal, lily white
The beat of the drum
to which we dance is different;
bodran, sammi, buffalo hide, goat skin
Our origin stories are different;
cave, sun, breath, moonRegardless of color, drumbeat, creation story —
our bodies themselves,
the skin in which we live and breath and move,
are all sculpted from the same clay.the invisible starlight
of my morning
reminds me
i am made of stars
reminds me to
shine on -
Day Fifteen: Fog
a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)Sometimes the path fades
into a covering fog;
we see just this step.***
Above the valley
a low bank of clouds
cover the mountain’s peak.
The mass of rock
emanates a brooding
invisible presence,
strength and power
of a deity
beyond human imagination,A path rises
into the fog,
stone steps
ascending
into the mystery.
The steps below
fade from view,
the steps above
yet unseen.Only this step remains,
the broad, flat stone
upon which I stand. -
Day Fourteen: Sweat
a poem a day in the month of may
(The Liminality Journal: Kaitlin Curtice)Sweat: smelly and wet,
we apologize, hide it.
Still, *life* hard-earned.***
Wash it off,
cover it up,
close those pores
with unfortunate chemicals.Sorry, we say,
I’m dripping wet,
we say.
Don’t get too close!,
we say.Here it is.
Life.
Hard work.
We stretch our muscles,
birth a baby,
till a garden.Sometimes
the sweat on our brow
Is the price of words
that will not come,
an apology
long overdue,
an unspoken grief,
now gushing forth unchecked.The work of our life,
this life,
is not meant
to be easy.
