This photograph - which is not a fake - is extraordinary in many ways, not the least of which is that is has countless layers of symbolism and story and the truth of dreams. Every time I look at it, I see more.
Tell me. What do you see?
September 08, 2011
August 11, 2011
Dreaming true, like it or not
On the last page of every issue of her magazine, Oprah writes a feature called "What I Know for Sure". It is usually a distillation of - or perhaps the inspiration for - the theme of that edition. This month's theme was intuition, the feeling of just knowing that some course of action is right or wrong for you.
"The intuitive mind," said Albert Einstein, "is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift." We all are intuitive, but we don't listen to our gut feeling. We learn not to, in fact. I often have to defend myself against myself, as logic and common sense and the "right" way to do things conspire to blow out the spark of insight and drown the fire in the head. Even when I do listen, I don't follow what I hear all the time. Bad marriages, bad business decisions - how many such griefs could be avoided by just paying attention to the little voice, the synchronicity, the dream?
In April 2002, I dreamed I was singing in a club with my band when, partway through the first song, the piano player started to collapse and couldn't continue. I wrote the dream down, and then forgot about it. Several months later, in August, 2002, I was playing the Rosendale Cafe with my band when, partway through the first tune, my piano player, Vinnie, started to collapse, and couldn't continue. A friend took him home. Eventually, he was diagnosed with severe Lyme's disease, and received treatment. I still didn't remember the dream. I only found it earlier this week, as I was tracking a different intuitive dream guidance that has been insistant, but that I, to my regret, have brushed aside for years.
Often I find I have to defend myself against myself, as logic and common sense and the "right" way to do things try to blow out the spark of insight and drown my fire.
Coincidences, or "life rhymes", are another of intuition's angles of appproach. Years ago, when I was nursing my dogs through cancer, I found Maukie.
Maukie is a little Flash cat that purrs when you "tickled" with the cursor. She - or he - is black, with white paws and white whiskers, and big green eyes. It cheered me sometimes, when I was feeling very dark, to hear that purring sound even though I knew it was ones and zeros, pixels and beeps.
Several years after that, when I moved back into the city, I discovered Diane Duane's feline wizards series, and The Book of Night with Moon, which I loved. Rhiow, the lead character, is described as a small black cat. On the book's cover, she is depicted as black with white at her neck, white whiskers, and green eyes.
This past May, Mrs. Peel stormed my Castle of Common Sense (impractical to have a pet in the city, I do too much traveling, vet bills, etc.). What did she look like, do you suppose?
One could say I was primed to choose the black kitten, but there was no other kitten there. She had been pre-chosen for me. It was a Divine set-up, and all my logic was worthless in the light of those green eyes.
Oprah's intuitions, she says, have led her to wealth, influence and success. Mine have not been so spectacular, perhaps because I have resisted them more often. I have gained confidence in fit and starts (much more slowly than I gained the appearance of confidence). Conventional wisdom and advice have not served me particularly well over the years, less well recently. I am renewing my membership in the Dream Library. Rhiow says, "A claw goes further into the ear than a thousand explanations." I intend to be paying keener attention to the wisps and the whispers, so as to not require the big fat can't-miss-'em signs, the claw in the ear, and the cosmic kick in the keister quite so often.
July 21, 2011
July 19, 2011
Oh, the places we'll go!
Once I have loaded my steampunk laptop (see previous post) into the gypsy caravan, along with my sister Babette, her dog, my cat, and a teakettle (of course), this is the map we will be consulting:
Map via danmeth.com
We'll be singing all the way.
July 16, 2011
June 24, 2011
Rainy day, dream away
Another grey day. What to do? Even I can drink only so much tea. Mrs. Peel strolled into her little carry crate hours ago, curled up in a ball, and went to sleep. The crate is in my office, with its door always open; she likes to nestle there when I am at the computer. And indeed, I have been at the computer, trying to create and maintain an illusion called Getting Things Done. Things are never completely Done, especially when I am distracted. I miss my friends in England. In fact, I miss England.
I might need a scone.
A scone is, to me, what a madeleine was to Proust, and what the Tardis is to Dr. Who. But, there is no scone in this apartment, and there is no scone in this neighborhood, either. Without one, how else do I visit England in dream-quick time? It's actually easy.
Poets speak of "the wings of song", and for good reason.
Off I go, with two of my favorite British singers:
June Tabor...
...and Maddy Prior.
I'm back. The NY skies may still be grey, there may still be no scone, but the scent of the rain is sweeter, and the inspiration, bright.
About that painting up top.... That will be me and Mrs. Peel, in another 50 years or so.
June 22, 2011
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down
You know those weeks when everything falls apart? When you seem to be in a cosmic gravity vortex, and one thing after another slips from your fingers, eludes your grasp, and crashes to the floor?
I am having one of those weeks.
Within the past seven days, I had to cancel a concert, I lost my live-in cat care for next week while I'm at Ashokan, and I turned down a future engagement because I was already committed on the date, only to find that the gig I agreed to was moved to a date I can't do, and the one I turned down has already gone to another artist. What else? Let's see. The bluetooth headset for my phone has learned how to shut itself off, and does so blithely, but only on the business calls (and don't tell me it's an inanimate object, because I have news for you: there's no such thing!). A dear friend I'd hoped to see when he came over from England is not coming after all. A play in which I was cast has been postponed. People I urgently need answers from are not responding to my calls, while my mom is annoyed because I don't call her often enough. Little lightnings everywhere.
And tumblings down. None of these things are big. but they are all coming at once. Ouch! It makes me think of the tarot Tower card.
For me, tarot cards are wonderful tools for focused meditation. The cards are works of art that I can lay out on my kitchen table now and then (unlike La Grande Jatte or Michelangelo's Moses), and the archetypal images speak to my dreaming mind.
The card above shows all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and they are hammering on the tower. Blam! Crack! Blow, winds, blow! Kapow! The squiggly symbol on the left side of the tower, just above the falling guy, is my birthsign, Capricorn.
In this simpler card below, the Tower is called La Maison Dieu, the House of God. When things are flowing very smoothly, I feel God's presence, and all places are God's house. Then I stub my toe, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, and I am kicked to the curb. I feel as if I am pelted so hard, with so many little (and round!) problems, that they've knocked me right out of the tower. Clunk! and... well, there I was, and here I am.
One other thing I noticed in this particular card: the tower has three windows. Third century martyr, St. Barbara, was told by her father to watch over the building of a bath house as he was traveling. In his plan, there were two windows; in her cosmology there had to be three, for the Holy Trinity. So, she altered the design, and added the third window. When her father returned, he was so outraged that he drew his sword and attempted to kill her on the spot. Last October, I was privileged to be involved in the world premiere of Holy Women, a cantata by composer Robert Sirota and librettist Rev. Victoria Sirota Robert. St. Barbara's aria, gloriously and madly sung by Abby Fischer, still rings in my mind's ear. Rumor has it that there is to be another performance, this time in New York City. I will post the date as soon as I know more.
And in the meantime, mind the gap.
June 05, 2011
The red red robin
After endless cold rainy weeks, we have been suddenly catapulted into spring and summerm with sunshine lighting the fuse for an exposion into bloom of every pollen-bearing thing. Last week, while awaiting delivery of a package, I decided to clean the windows in my apartment. In wiping away the layers of soot and golden dust, I made two interesting discoveries. The first: my apartment is not quite as dark as I thought.
The second: there is a robin's nest in the bush just outside my bathroom window, and hunkered down in it, several hatchlings. I had not seen them until I opened the window all the way, as the glass is frosted. They were motionless and quiet until a parent arrived with food - then they stretched their necks like E.T., their gaping mouths outlined in bright yellow, clamoring, "Put food here! Here! HERE!"
Several days of engrossing baby robin watching have ensued, with Mrs. Peel sharing the observation post with me. She is riveted to the scene, and has learned to chatter "ack ack ack" in the ancient cat tradition.
I have been saying my own version of "ack ack ack". And I have been counting. Sometimes it has looked like four babies are occupying the nest, sometimes three. This morning, it is three. But for the first time, I can see clearly that, a day or two ago, it was four. There are three fat chicks in the nest, pushing and nudging each other, stretching tiny feathered wings. There is also one little head hanging over the side of the nest, from a thin limp neck. One of the chicks has died.
So many things can kill babies that it is a wonder any creatures survive. Myriads of survival mechanisms exist. Some species, like horses, bear young that can be up and running away from predators in a matter of a few hours. Others, humans for instance, and wolves, have a longer outside-the-womb helplessness, and mothers, packs, and tribes that assist in the care. Still others have vast numbers of offspring that require virtually no parental care, ensuring that at least some will make it. Years ago, in a time of frustration and despair over a pre-existing flea infestation in a house I had moved into with my animals, I had a dream conversation with the Queen of Fleas. "I need your people to stop biting us, and leave," I told her. "If they don't, I will use strong poisons, and they will die." She turned a cold eye to me, and conveying the attitude of a shrug, said, "What is that to me?"
Four eggs, three living chicks: 75% survival rate so far. Not bad, I guess. I am reading Ron Powers' splendid book, Mark Twain, a Life, and have learned that Twain saw three of his four children die in his lifetime, which in his era was not uncommon. The losses never left him.
The robins' parents' behaviors don't seem to have changed. They race to and fro, bringing food and removing wastes. The surviving chicks are still quiet till the parents arrive, although this morning I heard the largest chick start to make a tentative version of the adult robin's bossy "cheep!" That one, at least, will probably do well.
I've lived long enough to know that living things die, even sweet, innocent, beloved beings. So I am not devastated as I would have been as a child, and not broken and wailing in pain on the floor, as I was when my dogs Shekinah and Shadow, and my BobbyCat died. But there is a sadness on me nevertheless, and, rising on a breath, a prayer for the little wings that, in life, never got to fly.
June 02, 2011
The city that never sleeps
In my dreams, I often live on a gentlewoman's farm, or in a thatched cottage, with animals all around, a thriving flower garden, and the perfect desk for writing. In my waking reality, I've lived in or near cities most of my life (except for the eighteen years stretching between 1988 and 2006). With my family as a child, or on my own as an adult, I have made homes in Birmingham (UK), Paris, Brussels, Los Angeles, Chicago, and (three times!) in New York City. From 1988 to 2000, I lived in the Adirondack Mountains of far upstate NY, in the least populated county east of the Mississippi. There, I learned that I am not a very good gardener, that twenty-two horses is twenty too many, and that everything that happens in the city - good and bad - happens in the country too, though perhaps more quietly, and in locations that are farther apart.
My return to urban living took several years, and I like to think that it was the river that drew me back. Where the Hudson originates, deep in the Adirondacks, it's a small stream you can step across. It grows in size and strength as it travels south toward the ocean. When I left the mountains, I followed its path, living in the Catskills for a year, and then moving further south to the New Paltz area. I finally surrendered in 2006 to the irresistible pull of the river, and let it sweep me into the magnetic forcefield of this great city.
I think it was James Joyce who described the Catholic Church as "here comes everybody"; I think of NYC as "here is everybody". Every language, every ethnicity, every economic and social level, every philosophy, every faith, every occupation, every challenge, every grace, every magic: all here. The Queen told Alice to believe three impossible things before breakfast; in NYC, we do that before we even brush our teeth.
For the past two years, I have belonged to a community called the Order of Urban Missioners (OUM) that is based at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. At the moment, there are 36 of us, some clergy, some not, some working in the church, most not. You will not see us standing on the corner with pamphlets. We are not missionaries. Rather, we are Christians who believe that we are called by God to live and work in the city at our various trades and to love with Christ's compassionate love. We meet regularly to share our stories and concerns, to look at scripture, and to join our hands to support each other with prayer.
Recently, one of our members, Marsha Ra, offered a meditation that closed with a beautiful prayer which I've asked for permission to share with you. She has graciously said yes. If you decide to pass it along, please give credit to the author.
Dear God we give you thanks for life in the City, for the millions of souls with whom we share this urban life,
We thank you for their variety,
For their thousands of houses of worship,
For the 170 languages they speak
For the interesting food they cook
For the street fairs
For the parks and trees;
For the birds and other wildlife that share this space with us, often unnoticed; for the companion animals of every kind
For owners of skyscrapers who voluntarily change the skins of their buildings or just turn off the lights at night so that the more than 300 types of migrating birds that pass our way may do so safely;
For the volunteers who plant flowers in parks, on street medians, around trees and those who put up window boxes
For political clubs, block associations, building associations, business improvement districts and all organizations set up to improve city life;
For those who grow orchids, and those who play music, for those who paint and sculpt and act and dance, For lighting designers and make-up artists,
For the creative writers and composers
For the teachers medical workers, police and fire fighters
For the strangers who reach out to strangers when they trip, get sick, get lost, need help
For the doormen and handymen for postal workers and Fed Ex guys, for Fresh Direct and CSA’s
For over 300 colleges, universities and research institutions
For great hospitals
For dog walkers and housekeepers
For the bus drivers and taxicab drivers
For social workers
For the garment district, the flower district, the sports stadiums
For restaurant workers and those guys in trucks selling coffee and hotdogs
For those who have been here all their lives, for those who are just arriving from all over the world,
For everyone who lives in the City:
Help us to do better Lord in this great City.
Help us to improve our school system
Help us to find the way to affordable housing for everyone, help us to solve the problem of homelessness and poverty so that everyone who chooses to live here can find a safe place among us.
Encourage those who are discouraged
Watch over the children and be easy on the old.
Help us to improve accessibility to the disabled.
Help those who work in finance and real estate to avoid greed and to remember You and the poor even as they strive for success;
Support the diplomats
Help those in the judicial system to judge fairly;
Let us see the good human intention in the noise of traffic and of construction so that these city sounds can become a song to our ears.
Above all, give us patience and help us to always see you in the faces of the millions who cross our path.
Be with us, God, in the City. This we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.
May 28, 2011
Deep in the heart of Texas
Do not pass "go". And do not wait. Just trot right over to my friend Paul Overton's blog at Every Day is Awesome. If you tend toward tears when in the presence of beauty and noble actions, have a hanky handy.
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