(Game Of Thrones spoilers in the audio.)
(Game Of Thrones spoilers in the audio.)
We’ve had a much too late spring in Maine, the landlord cut down a dead tree and left a disaster of chaos, and I saw no way to move ahead with soil, seeds, and planting given the budget.
I saw my dream of my most glorious garden yet disappearing.
But then like dominos falling, one by one, things started coming together. My landlord came out, hauled the wood, cleaned the loam pile for me, and he then used the tiller to make a nice big mound of usable soil.
No delivery required.
Friends delivered a flat of pansies that they weren’t going to use. Though I’ve never been a pansy fan, the molted, variegated colors work as painterly splashes to my entry.
They look lovely, inviting, cheery — glad singing color.
Bags and beds are filled and fed with compost tea. Garden Tower has been uncovered, cleaned, and compost prepped. Seeding has started. Crabgrass has been removed from around the beds (most of it, this is a Herculean project that needs several days, muscle, and grit).
Tomorrow I walk down the road and purchase my first batch of plants; hopefully, the plant guy will have plenty to get me started.
Lettuces, herbs, flowers, veggies.
This year, though, I’ve seeded a massive amount of mixed wildflowers.
I’’m feeding our pollinators.
The wild bergamot photo came up in my Facebook feed this morning.
This was one of the first plants I cared for as I discovered the gardening art, from my first year of watching things grow.
Funny that it came up, because it was taken in July. Not how those Facebook memories work, but there it was to greet me.
Not a bad picture for my pre-iPhone days.
Every year the growing (and photos) gets more voluptuous; every year I grow with my garden in ways I never would have dreamed.
Today I’m exhausted the way that one ought to be when we work and watch life lead us — in this case, gardening.
I’m exhausted, But here is this week’s entry: a testament to how things come together when we least expect it, that we can accomplish more than we believe, and a reminder of how Life takes care of things in unexpected ways.
I hadn’t a clue how to make this week’s entry work given my level of physical and mental exhaustion.
But here I am, and here is the entry.
And this sweet little bee balm plant reminds me of how far I’ve come, and how beautiful has been the journey.
This week, I started painting my commission, though it’s been percolating for a couple of months.
The title is “Aurora Leigh,” a reference to Browning’s epic poem. Browning’s poem is organized into nine chapters, the use of nine is her reference to the Divine Feminine. Specifically for Browning, the Sibylline Books. The number nine is cross-culturally associated with Goddess traditions, and it’s also the number of completion. The inter-webs have buckets of information on the mystical significance of nine. Joseph Campbell elegantly discusses this symbolism in ‘‘Sukhavati’.
The work comes together magically. When my friend offered a commission, I had a set of ten blank canvases waiting to be opened. I put out five, thinking of a dialogue between them. I didn’t want to take on too much, as I do.
But it struck me with clarity: no, this work needed to be nine canvases.
Nine canvases connected by elements, including a Sacred Circle: one work, nine canvases.
I knew this work would carry the Divine Feminine.
I gessoed the canvases inside (like priming walls before painting), but had to wait until Maine’s weather let me work on the porch.
The weather was warmer this week, the river is swollen with music, and the birds are chatting it up nonstop after the winter.
A thought flashed in my mind: wouldn’t it be lovely to go on the porch barefoot and start painting. Barefoot seemed important.
And that’s what I did.
I hadn’t read the ‘Aurora Leigh’ quote yet, hadn’t decided on the work’s name, didn’t even think it would have a title.
Nor did I consciously realize that I was starting the painting under an approaching full moon. A Blue Moon, no less — that fact occurred to me while writing this entry.
The only thing I did have in mind, while choosing the base colors, was sky and earth — merging a richness of blues and greens as how we experience the natural world: sky and plant life.
My porch crammed with heaven.
The bliss of losing myself to color, rushing river, budding trees, birds singing, and Purcell’s Fantasias streaming from the Bose.
Heaven crammed into a porch, a day, each conscious breath.
The other details, the title, the quote, how this thing might play out, started giving themselves to me in unrelated ways (business phone calls, accidental web discoveries) as the day went on.
Here are the first layers — more to come. It looks scary because I have an thing for layering my works with textures and light. Read: glitter and shimmer and metallics and color saturation that strain against kitsch.
“Stained glass like,” my friend has said.
May She prove him right.
And because there is no end to light, here’s a detail from a small mandala that is almost finished.
Until next week, may joys lead.
After my mother passed, a friend of hers told me that Mom hated Mother’s Day.
According to her friend, a woman of good character, one day when they were together Mom broke down crying, because she said every Mother’s Day she felt like a failure, “I hate Mother’s Day.” I suspect Mom’s reason was that I was so different (and, then, unhappy, i.e., clinically depressed) from what she expected.
She wanted her daughter to be making a good Christian family, with a husband, going to church every Sunday, and making her a grandmother.
I’m sure there was also a flag waving somewhere in this myth.
You see, I was her miracle. The doctors told her that she’d never have children. So Mom prayed for just one child, a little girl. I was the answer to that prayer, but I didn’t turn out she hoped or expected.
Here we get to religion. Specifically, America’s version of Christianity. Gender norms, so-called family values, sexual stereotypes, and cultural habits that have less to do with Incarnate Love than symbology, rituals, and cultural habits.
So Mom suffered from missed expectations about her only begotten, so much so that when I went through her stuff after her death, all my photos and baby pictures had been relegated to closet floors and a spare bedroom. She came to replace my photos in the living room and well-trafficked hospitality spaces (she was everybody’s best friend, and always had lots of dinners and get-togethers) with comforting pictures of her friends whose values were ”Christian.”
I’m certain all of this was a way to deal with her pain and disappointment with her perpetual student, sex worker daughter.
Her expectations were Christian crazy, not just in terms of Jesus and Company, but who we were and how I was raised. She confused her Jesus and her faith with a cultural heritage, and there was no way in hell that given our marginalized years and lives, I would end up buying an easy, comforting script. Being poor, marginalized, bullied, and sensitive, I saw through collective hypocrisy way too young.
Then there was Mom: a single working mother of singular strength and courage — a force of nature who really hated being that woman, because of her faith, and the stories she believed about that faith, again, mostly normative.
My role model was a force and a fury, a woman who wasn’t nurturing, but who got stuff done no matter what, and not through polite subservience.
She was a feminist by circumstance, not choice: she wanted a myth (read, mainstream Christian, stay at home Mom) but had to live a reality.
Because of that myth, she never saw the miracle of me that was right in front her — and she did better than she ever gave herself credit for.
It never occurred to her that my life was her prayed for miracle. My extraordinary journey of education, dealing with mental health issues, my spiritual pilgrimages, and the healing art of sex work have been filled with miracles galore.
For the extremes of this strange creature that I call my life demand either more miracles than can be counted or the grave.
So many miracles, I keep tripping over them in joy.
For her sex work meant shame. Education was threatening. Other religious beliefs were . . .not Jesus, not the Bible.
But I think that these were easy projections, and that there was a deeper shame for her. One that she never confronted. During those years of busting her backside as a nurse‘s aide at minimum wage, to get her miracle baby into braces as well as paying the rent, she carried too much pressure that spilled out in corrosives abuse, verbal and physical.
All that life force she had — which I have inherited — was Joan Crawford like.
Just as severe, and just as traumatic.
She never acknowledged the abuse, never saw that she never nurtured her miracle.
Notably, I wasn’t breastfed, she had no milk.
Now that’s a symbol, right there.
Three years ago, I had the excruciating realization that no one ever read me a story growing up — ever. I always read to myself, by myself. She bought me books when she could, and she proudly boasted to her friends about my reading test scores, “she’s only in fifth grade and already reading at twelfth grade level.” But this poor woman never knew the joy of holding me in her lap and reading.
I mourn my loss; but I mourn hers more.
There were realities and behaviors in herself that she could never own, for they eviscerated a more important narrative: I was a miracle, proof of God’s love for her. And the only thing she could allow in her story was the extraordinary work and sacrifices she made to honor the miracle.
How do you reconcile a story of perceived failings to the gift from God (and his only Son, Amen), especially when the thing you hate the most is emotional and intellectual complexity?
You don’t. Ever. And by riding a boat down the river of denial, she made life even more complicated and full of unnecessary pain than it needed to be.
I am better for loving her without expectation, finally. And letting go of expectation allows me to do the real work: holding my pain with gentle kindness so that I may move through it. Only in this awareness can I give as I would receive
A part of me still wishes this could have been her Christ, but I check my expectations and then love us both a little more, a living honor.
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