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.
 

   Green

In my primal landscape
in the rain
dark veins of
granite
heavy with lichen
the unquenchable wet green
everywhere
 
melancholy rises
and soothes
sheeting off the
boulders the
wet wet leaves the
darkness of the forest
the depth of the
green

Water Lily

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
to inhale
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)
 
I.
dragonflies dancing
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,
enjoying everything
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
just love
 
 
II.
all the fairy godmothers flew over the meadow
singing the song
echoing the water
bestowing blessing

-------------------------------------------------------

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:

              Shasta Stones
 
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
transformed.
These are tonal stones, remembering
the lichen,
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.


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             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.
 
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DARK DREAM
Dimensional collage: Paper, palm bark and palm fragment, goat hair
10” x 12” framed
2017
 
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"
2014
 
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.

ANCESTRAL PAIN
Dimensional collage: Paper, paper beads, fossilized shark’s teeth.
8” x 10”
2018
 
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"
2012
 
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.

ASCENSION
Dimensional collage:Altered paper, palm efflorescence, pieces of pen shell, porcupine fish spines, paint, glass beads.
9” x 11” framed.
2018

Lightening up, shifting from one plane to another. We glow, with bits of matter flying into a new form of being

I'm at work on a number of blog posts--bones 2.0, 3.0 etc., thoughts on giving new life to "dead" materials like shells and bones, making vessels, and more. As a kind of placeholder here, I'm sharing images I've taken on recent travels that I  enlivened with some photo editing, usually with the Prisma app. I see this as quite similar to the "re-animation" I do with natural detritus. That will follow soon. Meanwhile, enjoy the images.

Today, the topic is bones: musings and images, both of bones themselves and some of my pieces that incorporate them. This is a huge topic to tackle, for I have been collecting and working with bones for decades. I have wonderful stories--boiling down deer legs to extract the animal’s toe and shin bones, playing with sea robin skulls, hanging out at the (sadly defunct) Bone Room in Berkeley... I will certainly post Bones 2.0, Bones 3.0 and so on as I am inspired in coming months, and will share more of the particulars. May this entry serve as a teaser that will pull you in for more.

I am drawn to the remarkable forms that bones take, each of course serving a specific and essential structural purpose. And so different--the weightlessness of bird bones, supporting the bird but allowing it to soar; the solidity of a buffalo jaw; the strength for bearing down evident in a horses' tooth; the mandala-like form of concentric rings on a fish vertebrae. Each a truly magnificent design.

It's fascinating that bones hold such a draw for me, since at this point in my life I am quite concerned with bone density. I can almost feel my own bones tingling in sympathetic recognition as I handle the bones of other creatures, feel their heft, clean them, sometimes drill through them or even dye them.  I am saddened by the fact that for most people the typical first association with bone is death. Yes, the bone I work with is no longer living tissue, replete with blood and moisture (living bone is one fourth water), but it holds the imprint of the animal it supported.
 

Here is a selection of pieces I have made with bone.

One of the most powerful things happening in the culture today is the rise of the deep feminine. We see it manifest in the #MeToo movement where women are standing up to not only speak their truth, but to insist on having it heard. But this rising energy goes far beyond women’s rights; it is about a new level of consciousness where the sacredness of all life and its concomitant values—compassion, inclusivity, the impetus to heal and make whole—are taking hold.  The deep feminine is heart and spirit- (not logic) based, and it values creativity, imagination, and intuition. It sees earth as holy, as a living (mother) being.  This is reflected in the growing awareness of ecological systems. The place I see it taken to its fullest expression is in the permaculture movement, whose advocates understand that it is the earth itself that holds the answers. Permaculturists are paying attention and learning to follow her wisdom. 

The deep feminine is incompatible with most of the values that have governed our culture for so long—the patriarchal reality that has winners and losers and cultivates competition—ultimately, cultivates war—and values hierarchy and differential power.  Even a cursory look at the world around us shows us that the old male paradigm is still ferociously trying to hold on. Nevertheless, the emerging energy is increasingly palpable and undeniable.

For quite a few years, I have been making collages that image this shift. (They have primarily come through in my SoulCollage® cards, and that is what I am documenting here.) I did not do this intentionally, but after several of the images began to speak to me, I realized I was seeing an actual theme, one which was showing up quite insistently. At first I was surprised and even confused by this, for I didn’t feel the issue of patriarchy was directly relevant to me. I had spent time uncovering it in the 1970s and speaking out for the women’s perspective in my academic work, but I was not feeling personally oppressed or needing to work through anything about the issue. But over time I came to understand the images were reflecting what was going on not so much in my own life, but in mass consciousness. The theme went far beyond patriarchy, moreover, and was about the more mythic and paradigmatic deep feminine. Once I saw what was emerging in the collages, I was fascinated to notice how the imagery and messages evolved over time, reflecting—or even presaging?—the evolving paradigmatic shift.

About a month later, two other images came through that were very clear about male privilege.

THE FATE OF WOMEN; VOICE OF THE PATRIARCHY had something of the same message as The Woman who Must Wait, but it was much more overt. The central figure carries Eve’s apple, representing a temptress or a kept-in-place scarlet woman, but she is actually a wooden figure, a stiff early American folk sculpture. The idea that she is a temptress seems ridiculous since she is only a child—an innocent—but she was still portrayed that way. She is, ironically, holding the “good book”—the Bible of Christian patriarchal culture. The red tufts in the background are part of a knitted textile, a type of fiber art. Since the 1960s, when the wave of consciousness-raising was at its peak, I have been conscious of fiber as a woman-identified and poorly respected art form.  This detail thus also expresses the same idea of the devaluing of women. The collage said,
I am the one who carries the old woman’s place, constrained and taught young to keep silent, fear of the temptress. I live in the world of women’s work, fiber forms, encoded memory of being kept in line.

GRANDFATHER SHEPHERD came through a little later. I found this image both ambiguous and disturbing. The man literally reminded me of my grandfather and seemed to have a kind face, but his flock was puzzling. I wrote, “He is tending this flock of obedient, women, who we cannot see.  They are sunlit, maybe praying, but always hidden.  He guards them. He holds some wisdom, but he is tired, he has been doing this a long, long time.”
 
When I asked him to speak, he said,
I am grandfather, the old one, surviving a century, and I touch with the flippers of the mighty turtle. I hear echoes, and am curtained by generations of women, subservient, obedient, silent, who echo ritual through time, long echoing prayer and chanting. That is behind me, but I am not part of that, I look forward, touching into female power of the deep. I am a guardian at the edge and I gently nudge you on.
 
In hindsight, I see him as the first transition figure that came through. He was an old man—a male caught in his long-entrenched role, and he needed the women to bring forth more, something new.
 

CHAND’S SWEET BEACON is an intriguing, almost amusing image, where the central figure is coming out of a pastry. Nek Chand was a self-taught artist whose community was devastated by the partition of India and Pakistan. He lived in Chandigarh, a city created out the remains of 26 villages on the Indian side of the border. In 1958, he secretly began creating figures for a sculpture garden in the forest buffer area between the two countries. He did this in secret, using waste materials such as broken glass, bangles, and crockery from the demolition sites. A 13 acre park eventually contained about 2,000 statues, one of which is included here.
 
I am one who emerges from the yin and yang of sweetness, I am a masculine-looking woman—a somewhat everyman/woman who was made by a man obsessed with creating a world of peace—in an ugly place, made beautiful.  I am transformative power.  I hold a glowing jewel, amber frozen resin perhaps, or glass, or sugar candy—but it pulsates and is breast-like, with a nipple, to feed. I am an earth mother of sorts, holding nurturance not from my body directly, but the awareness I bring. I have swirls and waves of sweetness. I have jewels, reconfigured bits sometimes. I hold out this nurturing, pulsating gift to you, glowing, glowing. It is my gift, reaching to you. It’s always here, a beacon, I am balanced, balancing, in perpetual offering.

I am the one who holds the shifting genders. I am the power figure, seeming male, but dressed now as a woman, fully clothed in veils and velvet, holding power in a crossed body, a new guise. The boys are the ones holding the apple now, or starting to, though there’s one who might be female too. We keep looking, staring not at each other, but at the hidden temptation.  Flowing cloth, Renaissance splendor, turned around to an ambiguous moment, that turning of the tide, changing of the story, mystery of the golden apple.

Renaissance imagery returned in 2014. It was used in SISTINE BIRTHING (OF THE GENTLE MALE)

I am an odd creature, coming out of my chrysalis, still emerging into form—I come from the birth canal behind, which is full of mystery. I have multiple parts, maybe several bodies that will separate when we are no longer girdled. I reach for the energies floating around me, the nurturing orbs, though my eyes are still closed. Someone is watching me, perhaps another recently emerged or still emerging soul. I am masculine, taking form in a way recognizable to the male world, but I come from and am aligned with the female birthing place. I will be a gentler male force, as there is a glow from the female place and the glow from the orange orbs. I/we are wrapped in a light form, come here to this darker world. We have potential since we are lit with grace.

I, the old one, hold the light of the future. I am a gentle male, fully birthed from the chrysalis of the Sistine Birthing, matured into a wise elder grandfather. I support the child, hold him gently and with reverence, as he/she contemplates the magic and the  mystery and the beautiful world. I am well dressed and comfortable, well-fed, at ease, and the baby is as well, held in protective, loving cloth.
 
I remind you that we are all evolving, that you hold the future lovingly in your arms and support it as it—the children—discover their world. Teach them the magic and help them hold the glow. Boys as well as girls. I am grandfather, not managing the flock of shrouded women (Grandfather Shepherd), but with a new message about what is passed on. I am not a sufferer, and that is not the inheritance I leave; I am calm, stable, and reverent.

Please hold us with compassion and help us maintain the glow and female wisdom.

Renaissance-era figures even came through in some of the 2015 images. The Renaissance was apparently symbolizing the logical, “rational” element of the male paradigm—it was the “rebirth” of Western civilization, but it meant that much of the mystical, spiritual connection was lost.

LOOKING TO THE LEFT stated,
I am a young woman (still a girl) of the past—the Renaissance era, the big bubble hat keeping me off balance to the right as the male world pulls me there. But I look to the left,… with some longing. Behind me, beautiful order, light-filled and satisfying. I am centered within that. Over my head a powerful form, a scythe of sorts, dark, like my shadow, threatening; or an umbrella, sheltering me; or a staff, upright and empowering, though still overwhelming…
 
I am well framed, in a story, and we can step out of this picture at any time; the club/scythe is already breaking those boundaries of the Western world and its tale.
 

HERALD THE NEW ERA included a female figure exhibiting the classic “Gothic slouch,” again looking to the left. It also featured a group of huddled, seemingly frightened men. The card was made at the time of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, when the ram’s horns (shofars) are ceremonially sounded.
 
The shofars are piled up, ready to be taken up and blown, heralding the new year, the new era, really moving into the 21st century and a new consciousness. There is a safe enclosing god-like figure holding those who are afraid, but it’s still a male, seemingly angry, clothed in the purple robes of state power. The people being contained are all men also. They are afraid, huddling together for protection. They can only see their own space and their own reality. Moving away from them, looking out to the left, is a woman, unafraid of the naked truth and going toward the newness the shofar is about to proclaim. Follow the feminine principle, with a different kind of togetherness and fearlessness. The light is glowing behind, this will be a time of a new consciousness. Join me, she says, she the new Eve.

Another 2015 image, THE BURDEN OF MAN, drew on other mythology. It features characters from Kolomon Moser’s 1905 painting, The Fight of the Titans, which references the epic battle of the male gods from the mythology of ancient Greece. It also incorporates figures from the East – iconic Japanese faces are attached to a woman’s body. The collage told me,
 
I am one who carries the weight of the burden—white man’s burden, every man’s burden, carrying the rocks up the hill, Sisyphusian, struggling. There is light, and we, the men, are lit by the sun, but we look away, ready to hurl and attack. I hold the woman whose face is hidden, the angry male voices coming forth from her, and she too looks away, but in her hand is the sun-orb, the coming day. We must look toward it, lift our heads and calm these orange men. See how beautiful our forms are, our curves, our lines, our humanity. Woman, earth-voice, raise your face to the sun you carry, let that dream fall away, their voices fade out, dream a new dream of warmth, and follow the coming day.

I am a lone man looking for the way out and through—looking to the future while still in the forms and spaces of the past. I am bookended and framed by all the devices and patterns of the old era, and I am trying to find god. My aloneness creates space but I need to join with others and move forward. There are openings here, and reminders of pathways and new perspectives. I can follow the light beams—the light path.  The lavender is gentle, a sensibility not of machismo or the patriarchy, but a new middle way with feminized sensibility. The book I am reading is almost blank—just traces remain of the old and it’s time to stop reading the old or embroidering this old story and start moving down this path.

The theme of new futures showed up in a few other images in the next year or so, but they were less focused on the male and female paradigms. In 2017, however, the theme re-emerged, and the message was completely clear.

I have a face and an energy from the old reality, a bit sad or melancholy, caught as I am in the frozen stone of where women have been held. In my old form I do not have great color. But see my pink: pink arising—this feminine power still emerging. Note the communication cord, moving to the new unfurling, the new necklace. There is pink emerging even in the cornice, coming out from behind, and centering on the third eye.  And there are angels there too, flanking that space. They hold this process in love.  The necklace at the throat, the new open-centered (open-hearted) circle of the coming collective consciousness is the voice of what comes.  The black and white is pinked—no longer opposites. These are weaver’s threads, cables, and cords. It’s all flexible medium, soft, coiled and expandable, expansive. It is/it will be round, open-ended, not fixed in place.

The last image I offer here was made in the spring of 2018.  THE PAIN OF MEN goes even further with the idea that men are also oppressed by the old paradigm.
The background in this image is a vast crowd of protesting miners. There are also the minorities suffering the pain of abuse, the capitalists who exploit, and the men who are beginning to wake up to the pain of what has been going on, (an image from current news of the men being called to task for patriarchal abuse). The new men—in color—are looking on, the only ones looking to the left.  They are not yet happy, but there is a hand on the heart; they are in transition. They know that the power-mongers always act that way because of their inner pain.
The image spoke:
 
I am another marker on the way, holding the pain. It is still there, but now beginning to be seen. Watch: we can emerge to the alternate universe.  Send us love, we wish to emerge, and know it is a heavy, heavy burden for us too.
 

There are times when I am able to look at what’s around me with what I think of as my “poet’s eye”—a kind of alert, charged vision that holds the world in deep appreciation. Everything I see seems transformed; everything I look at comes into sharp focus, and seems to have highly saturated colors. It holds dramatic value contrast, and clear and shimmery light.  I love that state, that way of seeing, and I am interested in cultivating it—it’s the place I would most like to live, all the time. One of the ways I do the cultivation is by purposefully taking photographs. I can even be feeling out of sorts or grumpy and decide to go out with the camera (and nothing fancy here—this is a simple iphone device) to start looking. I may be walking down a street I have walked down hundreds of times, but what can I see in a new way this time, what can I zero in on? These are not usually narrative shots; I like to get up close and focus on details, to reframe, to highlight particular textures or forms. The process both calls on and trains the poet’s eye.

All of the photos I consider successful embody this quality, but recently I have been playing with something that takes the poet’s eye exercise in a new direction. I have been using the free photo editing app, Prisma, and am experimenting with light and color.  (I would not necessarily share the name, except that the app is free, and thus available to all.)  Prisma provides unusual photo filters that are ostensibly about applying “styles of famous artists.” The developers claim they use “a unique combination of neural networks and artificial intelligence.” I have no idea what that really means in this case, but what happens is that each filter uses some kind of rubric to re-digitize the photo, applying the colors and line quality of selected paintings. While a few of the images might indeed evoke known artists, I find these are rare. Rather, what is exciting is that  surprising effects come with these new combinations. What happens to many of the photos is that they seem to fill with light—it is as if they are lit up from within. (To throw in a little color theory: I think this has to do with the fact that the color mixing is in fact happening with light rather than pigment; it is an additive, rather than subtractive color system.) Photos transformed in Prisma can of course be further changed with other editing tools. This means that there are whole new possibilities and new ways to play that can help me move into the poetic/poem space.  Having become familiar with what can happen with this program, I have even begun to expressly take photographs with Prisma transformations in mind.
 
Here is a gallery of images that hold the interior light I value so much. Included are photos of things I see in the world around me, and photos of my own work, transformed again and again.

(To the tune of Patsy Cline’s “I fall to pieces…”) “I comb the beaches…”
 
Living by the Gulf of Mexico, I have access to wonderful detritus that is cast off on the shore.  I do indeed regularly comb the beaches, collecting what is offered up, sorting the materials, playing with them and their satisfying forms. Here is a sample of new collage pieces that have come together this winter.
 
The first few all relate to reaching up, a rising energy—to what some are calling an ascension process. I don’t plan it this way; I follow the materials and put them together as it feels right, allowing the composition to emerge. Later, I see how the same theme repeats itself in different pieces, showing up in myriad forms and variations.  The sense of moving upward has been quite persistent.

WE RISE
Ladyfish(?) tails, whelk egg case sections, jingle shell, printed paper.
10” x 12”
Longing, longing for what shines above. Moving toward, rising up.

A mollusk’s egg casing is something quite astonishing.  Whelks and conchs (see below) mate during spring and fall migrations, and the eggs are fertilized internally. The female surrounds them in a gel-like mass of albumin and lays them in a series of are joined-together protective “capsules.” A single capsule may contain as many as 100 eggs. The ones that whelks make form a long, snake-like chain–up to 150 capsules attached together. It’s a striking form that is sometimes known as a "Mermaid's Necklace." The mollusk attaches one end of the egg case onto a substrate in the sand, providing an anchor for the developing babies. When they have matured, they come out of the casing in their tiny (2-4mm) shells. Most, of course, do not make it. The egg cases themselves often get loose from their moorings and come ashore, but the whelks cannot survive out of the water.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJDdOD7IJzU 
video showing knobbed whelk egg case up close.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZveJPKqFuU
video showing a lightening whelk laying eggs.

The last collage in the sample is more topical, starting as it did with the image of a struggling refugee, fleeing from political turmoil. This woman too became uplifted, however, so it is not just a tale of suffering. The woman is set against the luxury of Tudor-era velvet and surrounded by a golden aura. She reminds me of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Her spiky points of light are golden bits of Florida horse conch egg cases, which are in turn framed by 10 million year old fossilized pieces of sting ray spines and painted shell bits. It all comes together in a seemingly exploding form, love emanating from the anguish.

Something very amazing is happening, something that truly delights me as it unfolds. I’ve been connecting with my inner guide using a kind of channeled writing  (some call the process “automatic writing,” but I like Janet Conner’s term, “deep soul writing”).  This works very comfortably for me, and I’m finding it increasingly easy to access and recognize the inner guide’s voice, and receive its wisdom. The words come tumbling out, light-filled and clear, speaking as a deep, close friend. The voice has its own distinctive quality, and yet I also know is not really separate from me. In the last two months or so, one of the things that has been coming through in this writing is a list of titles for art pieces that I might create. The list as a whole has an additive or cumulative quality, but each title holds a particular vibration for a particular piece that may be ready to materialize.
 
These are resonant names, drawing from many parts of my bigger consciousness: “Counting Blessings,” “Step into the Mystery,” “Swan’s Grace,” “Being One,” “Baby’s Breath,” “Necklace of the Gods,” “Growing Roots,”  “Inner Council,” “The Banquet,” and on and on and on. Some of the titles come directly from my own past work—phrases I’ve even used in my academic writing, such as “Fair Ladies,” ”Conflation” “Intimate Objects,” “Global Perspectives,” “The Fiber of Our Lives;” or in poems I wrote decades ago—“Somewhere in the Mountainpeace,” Tunnel Walls Unwinding.” Others come from my multifaceted spiritual journey, titles like “Kadosh” (holy, in Hebrew), “Medicine Bag,” ““Inner Focus,’ “Synchronicity.”  Some are from spiritual practices or the Dances of Universal Peace: “Kyrie Eleison,” “All Here Today,” “Make it Ready,” “From This We Live.”
 
After the first outpouring came through, I copied the titles on a big sheet of poster board that I hung on the bulletin board in my studio. Yes, I might refer to it to for inspiration or even reference, but really I did it to bring the energy of the title-generating process into that space.

Soon that wasn’t enough either—more titles kept coming and my poster was full. I wanted to have the titles all together, so I started a journal notebook. I copied over the original titles, using the same format, and continued to add to the list as the terms came to me.

The flow hasn’t stopped. I may be reading something and particular words literally jump forward, asking to be recorded in this book. I hear someone saying something and it generates another idea. I think of a phrase from another context—a line from a song, the title of another artwork--and it calls out to be included. It is then transformed by being in this special company. The words begin to dance, to vibrate. Phrases take on new meaning. The title list is thus also deepening my relationship with language, giving me a new sense of long-familiar words or phrases encountered in very different contexts. It moves into poetry, what seems to me to be a poetic sensibility, poetic receptors that change words into something brighter and more shimmery. I keep thinking I will run out of titles, but to date there is no sense of slowing down.
 
I love this unfolding process! I have no idea how many of these names will ever actually grace new pieces, but they have a cumulative effect. The energy coming through the collection is literally a treasure house—the book of titles is like an energy accumulator, increasingly powerful and rich, and I can open it up at any time.  It’s functioning too as a kind of journal of what has affected me over the years, the input and experiences I have taken in, the path I have taken, and what I have created. Clearly, it is skewed to the positive side, to the growth places and the nurturing qualities rather than the struggles. But of course: this is my spirit of guidance speaking, leading me on and working with me to remember, uncover, and further energize this spirit journey.  The collection of titles forms an artwork in itself, not just as a physical entity, but as a growing energetic presence. It amplifies the world I believe in and am dreaming into being—actually, it is the world I believe in and am dreaming into being. This list stands alone (how exciting it is that it now exists!), but it is also unlimited potential. Any artwork that takes tangible, visual form in the future will be coming from the container of this dream and function as a holographic piece of it.  This is awesome, awesome, awesome, and I am deeply, deeply grateful.