I really enjoy exploring cemeteries, especially those created in the 19th century with park-like landscapes. I have so much to say about this--the meaning of the Indian effigy mounds in my nearby Forest Hill cemetery, and how they were made to keep a kind of cosmological balance; the flock of robins I encountered there recently (yes, they do flock together and roost in trees in cold weather); and so much more. (As enticement for some future post, here's one image showing part of one of these mound).
The subject of the post, though, is about stone--rock-- which is a central part of the cemetery experience. It is of course all around; gravestones are ubiquitous, from identical plain veteran's gravestones placed in neat rows to towering obelisks erected to proclaim that powerful men will take up a great deal of space, even in death. There are even solid marble gazing balls that must have taken enormous skill to carve. Stone, everywhere. Solid, appearing in a range of different colors. Stone, with dignity and staying power.
But stone still feels permanent, solid, and even small pebbles remain hard and strong. That brings me to the central focus of my discussion: the small stones that are left on larger stones as signs of long-lasting remembrance. This is an old Jewish custom, still practiced around the world. (The images I post here are all from my local place, Forest Hill). I am always drawn to these memorials, and sometimes even leave a stone of my own. I have the sense that the stones too want to be witnessed. Stones gathered together, stone upon stone. Remembering rocks.
For those unfamiliar with the custom, it is a simple concept. When a visitor comes to a gravesite, he or she leaves a small stone to essentially say, "I was here, and I remember you." The stones are typically pebble-size, but this does vary, and as my images show, sometimes other materials supplement or replace the stones now--pretty pieces of glass, shells, even beads. They accumulate over time, and clearly, if one encounters a memorial marker covered with a large collection of small stones, it indicates how much the deceased was loved and appreciated. One description I read of walking in the military cemetery of Jerusalem, mentions "heaps of stones, like small fortresses" on the graves of fallen soldiers.
Stones may not be eternal, but they last longer than flowers, and do not fade. They give a sense of solidity and allude to the permanence of memory. The origin of leaving these stones is not completely clear, although there are many stories. One I like --although it may well be apocryphal-- is that flowers were originally left at graves to cover up the smell of a decaying body, but because Jews were traditionally buried within 24 hours, the flowers were not needed. Stones were, again, a longer lasting offering. A related idea is that living people like the smell of flowers, but the deceased are beyond that--they are one with God and no longer need such temporary pleasures. There are also stories about stones helping to keep the soul of the deceased from wandering, about laying down arms in death (symbolized by laying down the rocks), and shepherds tracking their sheep by representing each with a pebble. One particularly poetic explanation is that a headstone symbolizes the soul of the deceased (remember, there were not always headstones--just piles of stones that might keep a wild animal away from a recently buried body), and when a visitor leaves a stone, it symbolizes their own soul and the way all is "tethered together in mitzvah [good deed, blessing] and metaphor."
It's interesting to note that the tradition of leaving rocks is not limited to Jewish graves any more; others are increasingly finding it a meaningful tradition. And parenthetically, there is a growing practice of leaving coins on (non-Jewish American) military gravestones. There is a code of meaning, with each coin symbolizing a particular relationship with the deceased. A nickel would be left by someone who was in boot camp with the fallen soldier, while a quarter would indicate the visitor was present when the person was killed.
Other than remarking on an interesting practice, I am impelled to write about these memory stones because I've been feeling the energy of rocks so strongly. It's hard to write about; it's a feeling, an intimation about something. It is not a concept. I tried to capture some of it with my poems and images of the rocks on Mt. Shasta (August, 2018), and it has to do with the rocks holding the holographic imprint, holding memory, but maybe a much longer, deeper memory than we even know. Not exactly really permanent, but so long-lived by our standards that it comes close. Discussions of the Jewish custom of leaving rocks keep referring back to the Bible and the rocky landscape that was part of Jewish history. The stone on which Abraham was to have sacrificed Isaac is referred to as hashityah, the foundation stone of the world. A pile of stones could be a sacred place, a place of prayer. Moses sat on "the Rock," and carved the tablets from it. Jacob's Ladder rose from a stone. On the darker side, people were stoned to death, and "stony" implies unyielding, cold, and without empathy.
I was very moved recently in driving through the Atlas mountains in Morocco. This is a dramatic region, all about rock and stones. The terrain consists of stones for miles and miles and miles, sometimes pebble-sized, sometimes big boulders. Houses are built of stone. Stone tumbles into rivers. Sheep and goats climb over high stony peaks. I kept sensing the stone memory, the consciousness held in all that rock, but I couldn't really access or translate it. I felt stone-ness, but there are no words or concepts to say what it was I felt. At one point one of my traveling companions remarked that she wouldn't want any of that "real estate"--it was too much relentless rock, too hard to deal with, too unfriendly. Rocky terrain=trouble. I reacted almost viscerally; yes that's true, I thought, but you aren't asking what the stones know, you aren't feeling into the stone or the stone space. Maybe those who live here live deep in the stone, know what the stone knows, hold stone memory. Maybe the rock remembers them. Maybe they have another, silent experience that you can't even imagine.
Maybe. Right now, today, I will hold some stones and breathe with them: round smooth ones tossed by Lake Michigan, and sparkly ones from riverbeds in the high Andes (another oh-so-rocky landscape). I will even touch the very fine sand I brought back from the Sahara--sand that was stone, ground down to the consistency of fairy dust. Maybe I will breathe them in, absorb their stone wisdom. Maybe I will be taken into the secrets of stone.
I've just returned from traveling in Morocco. There are so many impressions--sunrise on the Sahara, sheep and goats climbing the top ridges of the dramatic Atlas mountains, ubiquitous arches, painted wood, tilework, fabulous doors--but what I kept wanting to capture with my camera was the way so much was bathed--or literally painted--in color. Consider this post a continuation of my previous offering of color images. Here, I focus on the many permutations of blue, from the blue city to the blue pots to the blue-clad Taureg people (no longer wearing indigo-dyed cloth, though they still call it that and are proud of the connection). I will probably share much more from the trip, but here's a way of checking back in. I offer you a way to "tangle up in blue" and bathe in its endless textures.
Last winter I posted the story of my SoulCollage(R) cards that heralded and tracked the evolution of divine feminine consciousness (scroll down or go to the archived post from May 3, 2018, "Imaging the Shift From Patriarchy to the Divine Feminine.") The overarching message of that story was an affirmation that the new consciousness was getting stronger and stronger.
Given the events of the last few weeks--the painful hearings over Kavanaugh's election to the U.S. Supreme Court, and the railroaded "election" itself--it's been easy to laugh bitterly--to say, "ha!, not so fast, dear. You've just been fooling yourself." And it was certainly a horrible process to witness. Yes, patriarchy and its culture of entitlement, violence, and dismissal of women's reality is still here. It's still hanging on desperately tightly and is still--in the political arena at least--in control. But look around with a much wider viewfinder. The shift is happening, but it's happening elsewhere; it's upswelling on its own terms and cannot be seen by looking only at the long-familiar forms we count as "real."
The evening Kavanaugh was voted in, I found myself stuffing myself with food and feeling sick. I knew it was because I was so disturbed and appalled, but also came to realize that I was literally "stuffing it" and acting as women have been taught: to internalize the message and the abuse, and to punish themselves and their bodies. It was a powerful moment, and that insight certainly helped me make a shift. I stopped saying (affirming) the situation was making me sick (and I stopped feeling sick). I took back my autonomy and power.
The story is quite complex and nuanced, and in the last week I have been processing the energies around this drama in multiple ways. It's certainly still an unfolding experience. But what I want to share here is an update of sorts. Because I did feel set back as I witnessed the blatant denial of women's reality, I decided to look at the cards that have come through to me (that I have made) since last spring, and to see if there was more of the message.
Yes, there is. The newer images continue to focus on how much men are wanting to be released. This is certainly not the narrative we were watching in Kavanaugh's furious face, not what we see and feel from McConnell or Trump or the others on the world stage playing out the same game (look at who is rising to power in Brazil!). But I know it's real. It's growing, coming from the ground up, so we should stop looking at the "top." We must track and feel the energy where it is.
Look at this character again--the one I call THE LITTLE MAN. Here's what he said:
I look at first like the grumpy dwarf from a European fairy tale—rigidly posed, looking unhappy, deprived, stubborn, and always left-out. I have a defensive stance and am always watching out that I am noticed and not counted, not important enough. I am overweight and not comfortable in my clothes, that all seem to be made for a bigger person. I am a little Rumpelstiltskin, angry and demanding your child. I am a spoiler, for I am not seen or understood (no one knows my true name).
But that's not all he said. Look back to the full picture, above, because the contextual information is so important. Here's what his words indicated about the rest of it:
There is more—I am in a universe where things are moving and swirling, and I can float anywhere. There are watery flowing orbs and streaks of light, and it is set apart as a stage set—under a proscenium above. Showing that it’s all a created story, a drama. I was created by a woodcarver/painter with a story to tell. I am a vestige of the old times, the old days. I am still solid but there’s an aura of light around me. I want a new role. Take me as you move though midnight skies and cosmic journeys.
I am here to show you how unhappy I am, how ready I am to be released. Have mercy, tell me my true name and bring me love, and carry me with you, transformed.
I have been making small sculptural figures that incorporate natural materials for a great many years now. The first came through in the early 1970s. I can't even remember all of them, but the two from that time that lasted the longest incorporated pine needles and snail shells. I always related to those figures as totemic, holding a kind of spiritual power. At that time I thought of them as kachinas, a term I borrowed from the Hopi and other Puebloan peoples. I adopted the term because I had been introduced to the concept of the kachinas (katsinas) when I visited the southwest. Kachinas are spirit figures, immortal beings that interact with humans--they are in effect messengers between the spirit and human worlds, and can intervene with human life, for example by bringing rain. There are ceremonies where individuals actually embody kachinas, dressing in ritual regalia and dancing their energy. Even more ubiquitous are the kachina "dolls," which are carved wooden figures that were traditionally given to girls to help them learn the cast of spirit characters. A few simple kachina images are pictured here to give a visual to go with this story.
My figures did not literally look like Hopi kachinas, but had "heads" resting on more or less tubular bodies. I was not carving, but assembling the parts, and I had not mastered the technical aspects of making these in a sturdy fashion. I felt connected to the idea, but stopped making them as my attention was brought to other arenas. I also realized that I was appropriating a term and concept, and especially as time went on and I became more sensitive to this, I felt more uncomfortable using the term for my own work.
Fast forward a long time, to about the turn of the 21st century. One day as I was dancing around in my attic, where I had baskets holding some of the very materials I collected in the 1970s--shells, leather pouches, driftwood--I literally felt something re-awaken. I've referred to this as my "muse" waking up. I saw those materials that had stayed with me for decades and began to imagine them coming together as beings once again. I had new ideas about how to construct the figures, and I knew their new forms demanded a new name. I settled on (Las) Tierras, which I translate as Earth Beings. Many of the people who see them refer to them as dolls, but I don't relate to them that way. To me they are indeed still spirit figures, intermediaries, not mini-humans. They each have their own character, often emanating from their materials, but they embody energies from another realm. This does not make them unapproachable; like dolls, they are relatable. They are compelling, but not all equally serious--some are funnier than others. Some are forceful, some shy, some mysterious. Some can be disturbing, mostly because their materials remind people of decay and death.
Each Tierra has a story of its own genesis, of its materials and where they come from, and if I ask, each will tell me of its essence. I didn't name them at first, but eventually I had to, just to keep them straight in my mind and even be able to refer to them in my own record-keeping files. I don't always like to share these tiles, since I find if I let people encounter them without names, they relate to them differently; they resonate with them in a more personal way. (The figures can act as a kind of Rorshach experience--one sees what is on one's mind and in one's heart.) Here I am sharing images of some of the Tierras that have made their way into my life over the last 15 years or so, and offering some information on the materials. Perhaps in the future I will tell more of the process stories, and can certainly supply a name if it is requested.
Many of you may be familiar with the concept of light language --what is sometimes referred to as a universal, multidimensional language understood with the heart, or understood by everyone on a soul level. Some people express the language through their voice (singing or toning), some through movement, and sometimes, it is represented visually as a kind of script or cipher. I first encountered this many years ago through the images of Bryan de Flores, who essentially channeled the images he called "accelerators."
For anyone who has never seen this kind of "writing," here are a few examples one can find on the web:
I can't translate--it's all still a mystery--but maybe my heart and soul do respond, because I have a consistent attraction to this material. Lately, as I walk through the environment, I've started seeing tree roots as the same kind of messengers. It's hard to photographically capture them quite as I see them, but I'm sharing a bit of what I've encountered here. (In some cases I have transformed the images a little to capture the feeling. I hope to work more on these and other transformations later, honing the images to allow them to fully communicate). In the meantime, take in each image and allow it to speak to you. (Remember to click on the images for the full, enlarged view.) Imagine yourself in the forest where the trees are such strong presences, and see what comes. And if YOU can translate, please share what comes through!
I’m always surprised what wants to be posted—I have ideas about what should come next, but that’s not what comes forward; the energy doesn’t flow and I seem to resist getting it done. Then an idea or an image pops up seemingly out of nowhere and pushes itself to the head of the line. “I’m next!” it proclaims, and it’s clear that’s what I have to do. So it is with this one.
Millions of words have been written about color, millions of dollars spent on studies about it. Most of us know how important it is, even if we have never read anything. It can make us feel good, change our mood, help us heal. Our world is incalculably richer because of color.
While I am tempted to start sharing amazing facts—to write for example about colors outside our normal vision and who can perceive them (about what animals see that we don't), or about the way color in butterfly wings is not really there (not to mention that color is not really out there but “read” inside our eyes)—I’m stopping myself.
This post is just meant to be a celebration. It was prompted by a poem I wrote last week, a poem that came because I was taking in nature’s color as I was walking, looking around and noticing the trees and plantings fronting the houses I was passing. The familiar feeling of saturation overcame me. The word saturation means a lot to me—years ago, I even wrote a book called The Saturated World. (www.amazon.com/Saturated-World-Aesthetic-Meaning-Intimate/dp/1572335424). As I’ve had to explain over and over, I wasn't writing about a soggy planet, but about that state of consciousness or awareness where everything seems heightened. Something that is saturated has absorbed all it can of its medium—a sponge absorbs the moisture around it until it can hold no more; a color absorbs the maximum amount of a particular hue. I sometimes feel myself saturating—taking on that heightened awareness, feeling as if I have stepped into a poem, or become a poem, where each word is pregnant, dripping with import and possibility.
I’m sharing the recent poem here, and a variety of photos I’ve taken within the last year that feature different colors—to me, they literally shout, “See my COLOR! Take it in! Absorb it! I also found a few (much) older poems that speak to the same thing—taking in, almost inhaling the color, tasting it, feeling it deeply, as a kind of synesthesia.
I invite you to celebrate and inhale with me.
Late Summer Walk Home From the Market
A hot afternoon.
the yellow blooms rule
presiding with other warm hues
the monarchs drink orange
tomatoes ripen red
coleus shouts a pinkish pattern
shot with sienna
abundant purple plums
droop on their branches
bellflowers wave gentle lilac,
asters are appearing, their violet stars shouting,
calling to the anemones
which have spread so thick
terra cotta chairs
beckon me to rest
the leaves, still green
begin to be tired
they are toning down
the mulberry tree
has golden age spots
the coneflowers are darkening,
going to seed, turning deep brown
the leaves of the downed poplar branch
are curling up white,
grieving, saying goodbye.
In my primal landscape
in the rain
dark veins of
heavy with lichen
the unquenchable wet green
sheeting off the
wet wet leaves the
darkness of the forest
the depth of the
I floated today
among the lily pads
happy Pac-man faces
trailing long graceful stems
spaghetti strands I waved away
as I swam to the flower
its sweet yellow silence
I have been readying several posts featuring recent art works and stories of working with natural elements—including owl pellets! Those will be coming soon, but I am just bursting with impressions from my recent trip to Mt. Shasta. The experience was so full of blessing that I’m going to share that before anything else.
Mt. Shasta (northern California) is a power spot, a holy place, with great presence and energy. People have all kinds of “woo-woo” experiences there, and it’s true that one doesn’t know what will happen. It’s good to go without expectations and just stay open to the magic. I’ve been there before, the first time in 1970, long before it was “discovered,” and in June I started to feel a calling—a message to “come visit.” I listened, and am so glad I did. My husband and I had deep, meaningful encounters of various kinds. What I am led to primarily share here is flavor of the gifts that came from the natural world—from the energies of the living mountain and the myriad life forms it supports.
We were at Shasta while the Carr fire was raging in Redding, about 60 miles away (as of this posting, it’s still going on), and the usual clear vistas were obscured with smoke haze. A sad reminder of course about the difficulties of our out-of-balance earth (and that’s echoed by a horrendous red tide algae bloom on the opposite coast, by my Florida home by the Gulf of Mexico). I believe one of the reasons I wanted to share these poems and images today is to broadcast my love for Gaia and to insist on holding the earth in reverence and great love.
Quite a few poems came to me during my week on the mountain, and I offer a few here. All of it feels like an offering.
At Red Fir Flat While The Carr Fire Burns Below
Afternoon light hits the gold-green lichen on the tall firs,
then fades for a moment in the smoke haze.
Like the mists of Avalon, the haze envelops all. We grieve its source, but
in gratitude receive its caress.
Attention to the crunch underfoot, dried-out spiral twigs, wood rot, small stones.
Still, this holy space is about reaching up, the tree spires rising forever
to the passing cloud, the glacier snow, the beckoning peak.
There is a counterforce: the weighty, grounded boulders that have known falling, rolling over and over down the slope.
The energy fields meet.
The boulders, like the trees, are lichen-kissed and keepers of accumulated time.
Old spider webs, forming white cups, hold sun and particles of smoke.
In the air, fly drone and an insistent note repeated from an unseen bird.
The young fir branches undulate, slow bouncing with the breeze. They become the tall ones, seeking sun, calling prayer.
Ever-eternal moment, crystal echo, holding the holy.
Dragonfly Meadow (Panther Meadow Idyll)
above the meadow,
hundreds flying swiftly
and riding the waves
never stopping, just breathing air
breathing the water
breathing the swaying flowers,
being the symphony
weaving lines to
invisible worlds, magic places
rising from the ground
rising from the spring,
these our fairy gifters
blessing us with their wings
riding the currents,
never landing, just being there,
flying, harbingers of joy
telling us to love, telling us to revel
telling us to love
love those flowers, love that water,
love those trees, love those rocks
it’s all about love
all the fairy godmothers flew over the meadow
singing the song
echoing the water
The theme of blessing and sacredness is felt in many ways throughout Mt. Shasta. One magic place is the Peace Garden, where literally thousands of people have left prayer ties with blessings to be sent out to the world. Here,I gift you with a curtain of this prayer.
On my last day on the mountain, this was the vision that came:
I could build a house of Shasta stones, which
having tumbled far and shattered,
hold the hologram.
Stones imprinted with the mountain
the volcanic cone
the rising peak
pushing out streams, leaving
trails of wildflowers
Stones imprinted with the tall reaching firs,
the crystalline snow,
the dragonflies patrolling over
rocks shaped to circles and cairns,
offerings of those hungry to be
These are tonal stones, remembering
remembering the prayer.
If I fit them together into a shelter,
I could stand up against the walls,
and know them in my bones.
I've been deliciously aware of birds this summer. An amazing cardinal is singing outside my window almost all day, every day--singing so insistently that even people I am speaking with on the phone comment on it. The dawn chorus is also just astounding. In addition to the songs, I have experienced the sensation of flying in some of my meditations--mostly the feeling of riding the wind and looking with that bird's-eye view at the landscape below.
It seems timely to post images of some of my creations that "touch" bird energies (or perhaps sound their echoes). They have been made over a number of years. The pieces incorporate actual bird parts, left for me by bird beings that have passed on from their bodies (e.g., found on the beach or in the crook of a tree). Some people are a bit uncomfortable with this kind of detritus--they find it too visceral--but that is what I appreciate. I experience a deep sense of reverence in working with these bird traces, and use them to embody and communicate something of their spirit. I hope you will be able to share that quality and feel the honor of the gift.
(Remember to click on the image if you wish to see the full view and the captions.)
If you have questions or comments, do let me know.
I realize that birds often appear in my SoulCollage cards as well. A sampling is offered here. These are all completely flat photomontage collages.
I've just completed a poem that addresses the inner wisdom about letting go of struggle, and when I sat with it, I was aware how much of an ongoing theme this is for me. I knew even as I was working on it that The Worry Coat energetically echoed a piece called Incantation that I wrote nearly 30 years ago. When I went to look for Incantation I found other poems from the intervening years that also spoke to the issue of release. My collages come back to that over and over again as well. too. Reviewing the images in this light added yet another layer to this understanding. I am left with a sense of comfort--almost as if someone is smiling at me and putting a hand on my shoulder, saying, "yes, my dear, this is your work, your life path. Enjoy it, and hold fast."
It's powerful to trace the consistent themes of the inner journey, and it's fascinating too, to see the way they keep appearing in different guises. The trajectory of a lifetime: a strong part of me always seeking to reach up out of human limitation and pain, always trying to get closer to oneness and the light. There are so many pieces I could include here! But I have been selective. I chose only a few of the examples that focus on release, and decided to save the work that features the helping energies or spirits that sometimes comes through for a later time. What I offer here are three poems, written about a decade apart (these are in reverse order), and a handful of collages and the messages they communicated.
THE WORRY COAT (June, 2018)
You’ve fashioned a coat, worked on it for years
adding burrs, scratchy threads that shoot in all directions
You’ve spent so much time plying the threads, interlacing them to a thick mass, felted-in tighter all the time, with each push of the hands.
It’s crafted well, once-graceful edges blunted to roughness.
Oh those jumbled colors, jagged juxtapositions like frayed nerves.
It’s heavy, overloaded with grime and layers of painful moments,
strata of fear.
You wear it, and it weighs you down.
Your shoulders ache, your back bends in submission.
Zoom out. Bird’s eye view now, taking it in with clear night vision.
Why, asks the flying one, can’t we just remove this garment, lift it
up and away, and throw it to the north wind,
who will carry it off to a stream bed to decompose.
Why bear it any more, this coat of thorns, obscuring the body below?
Uncovered, your skin is smooth, fresh and pliant, unencumbered.
It’s easy to touch, to run a hand over. No stopping in the brambles.
Speak now, in bird language, and claim your ground.
You are whole without that coat, ready to move in rhythm,
to pelican glide with ease.
Let the river undo the plies of worry.
Go now without a costume, and having shed the coat,
feel the guidance of the breeze.
GESTURES THAT CALL FOR THE LIGHT (January, 2008)
There is a beckoning
a slight breath blowing softly
here in the winter cold
when life isn’t easy,
and even breathing can be a chore
when the body needs layers of protection
those gestures in the distance,
not altogether absent
but without force or power
I despair of old habits
the fury of the joy-thief
the insistence on weightiness
that pulls it down
the empty place of denial
the light imprisoned.
Time to focus on the beckoning
that gestures in perpetual motion.
INCANTATION FOR N. (June, 1989)
The darkness of your tunnel
With its compression walls
Will start glowing.
The tightness will soften around you.
Silken fingers will touch you lightly.
Mind webs will release.
The tunnel illuminating, you
Will not need the weight.
Ease, the birthright river,
Will spread from bank to bank.
Take a breath:
You are emerging.
Dimensional collage: Paper, palm bark and palm fragment, goat hair
10” x 12” framed
I am in a dream state, holding sadness as I look backward at the pain we have created. I am deep in the vision of what has gone before. At the same time, I can turn the healing mandala (the Shaker vision of heaven on earth) to that very past to help it release. Know that I see pain, but am a healer, not a sufferer.
LIFE FORCE: WAITING FOR RELEASE
Paper collage (SoulCollage (R) card)
5" x 8"
I am a dream of forever, an offering to eternity, well wrapped to try to hold in my energy of life. I have a painted face, a mere ghost of the life force, I am the reminder that we mummify, try to stop time. All is held within me, tight, contained, yet dead, bound in linen, crisscrossed diamonds, a yearning for the heart, getting to the core at the deepest level. I look up, awaiting forever. See—my mouth is sunken, I cannot speak with my own voice. Wanting to be unbound, to sink into the earth, allowing the real eternal life –composting and continuing--to go on.
And behind me the ongoing life force, bursting, beautiful, irrepressible, the glow of energy—that’s the light, eternal, bubbling into planets, into cells, bubbling into form. I dream of exploding, alive life force, not caught in religion, sacrifice, in wrapped-up form. I want unwinding and the bindings removed, my essence to let go to the ever-present now of being.
Dimensional collage: Paper, paper beads, fossilized shark’s teeth.
8” x 10”
I am somewhat stupefied by the pain that has been inflicted over so many, many years. I am waiting to be released and to return to my true glorious legacy. I have riches, and loving energy has made me what I am. I am waiting, but ready to shed impediments and fully shine once more—to smile, with the beauty of the true wealth, not the imagined wealth of conquest and hierarchy.
SUFFERERS CALLED TO AWAKEN
Paper collage (SoulCollage (R) card featuring underwater statues by Jason deCaires featured at MUSA Cancun
5" x 8"
Holders of the pain. Some, from the multitude, targeted, the light hones in on us and asks us to lighten up, to awaken to the other dimension, turn tears to emeralds and light catchers.
Our crowns are awakened, we are marked, called, targeted. We are not to be frozen but to remember and turn golden. We are the mourners who are asked to stop mourning, unfreeze, awaken, lighten up, act. Grief and mourning, targeted by the light to move, to awaken and enlighten, to move out and up.
Dimensional collage:Altered paper, palm efflorescence, pieces of pen shell, porcupine fish spines, paint, glass beads.
9” x 11” framed.
Lightening up, shifting from one plane to another. We glow, with bits of matter flying into a new form of being