Windblown

A shadow box, a snippet of a poem and an excerpt from The Daimon: 

                 

                Where do beasts go when they’re not with you?

                Who else has known the beast?

                The little girl has seen the beast...

                The little girl holding her chickens

                Barefooted,

                Knock-kneed,

                Gathered dress.

                Yet, she doesn’t carry a stick

                When she goes for a walk.

                “Snake in the yard!” yelled her brother, Joseph, as Little Elisabeth sat, playing in the dirt.
                 Drawing abstract configurations, trailed by her stick to a faraway land.  To a place, perhaps, where the Yorubas carved the same pattern in their faces, unfamiliar to a five year old.  To be imagined, not from the influence of television or National Geographic magazines, for those things were not present in her home, but from the consciousness of knowing.  Accompanied by the soft buzzing sound of the atoms, Elisabeth had been composing.                
               “Get the hoe!” Momma commanded, “I’ll get Daddy!” 

                Little Elisabeth’s hand froze in mid-motion.  Her intuition clung to the resonation of her brother’s cry, locating the snake within her mind’s eye.  She turned her head to see Joseph running for the hoe, and there beyond her--a few feet--coiled a rattler, threatening to strike. 

                Waiting seemed like eternity.  Clinging to the powdery dirt, Elisabeth’s toes cramped with stillness, sensed the energy of pending violence vibrating the earth.   She could hear Daddy cursing as his deliberate stride covered the yard.  He had come from milking, for he recognized Momma’s sharp “Daddy” cry while resting his head against the cow’s warm body.  Lulled by the rhythmic sing song of milk squirting into a bucket, a hypnotically pulsating motion of hands squeezing tits--a daily chore that Daddy did to give his family sustenance.  He had been spirited away through lifetimes.  Little Elisabeth knew that Daddy would come though, like a warrior, strong and tall. 

                Standing next to her, he swung the hoe, ordering, “Run!” with one breathless unified motion. 

                Little Elisabeth ran.  She cried.   She shook.  Clinging to the inner folds of Momma’s skirt, Little Elisabeth could hear Daddy’s grunt, synchronized with the rattle of the snake.  Then the striking of the metal blade, as Daddy chopped off its head.  Peeking out, Elisabeth saw it lying just outside the encircling border of where she had sat and drawn. 

                Little Elisabeth watched her nine year old brother hesitantly approach Daddy, to walk with him, as he carried “The Kill,” dangling headless from the crook of the hoe, to be flung out across the perimeter of the yard.  As if on cue from an unknown source, Elisabeth’s favorite rooster crowed, releasing the tension in the air.   And Momma, as usual, had to nudge her youngest one from underfoot.

                “Go on now!  Go gather the eggs, before it gets too dark.”

                Elisabeth dragged her feet, side-stepping toward the hen-house, trailing her right big toe from the outer circle she had drawn.  Like a spider spinning a dragline, she reeled in Viola to give her courage.  Little Elisabeth knew that snakes feed on chicken eggs. 

We are not Alone

"We are not Alone" hangs on my garage, weathered by the elements of Mother Nature.  The words of my ancestors, in search of a better life, ring true to me.  The headless fates present themselves in metallic marker on window panes.   They reveal a collage of ancestral photographs, photocopied and pasted on newsprint about Pope John Paul II having brought "the word" to St. Louis.  The lap of Lachesis glows bright from my point and shoot camera. 

The following is an excerpt from The Daimon:

To choose the newly spun golden thread from the lap of Lachesis, the old soul knew that one would re-live the life of a medieval tale.

 “A dark fairy tale!” The Daimon, keeper of destiny, had fore-warned, “Expect to encounter demons.”

                Next in line, the elder one tentatively approached the three fates, with Lachesis in the middle, lounging next to her sisters.  As Atropos cast recollections of lives past, there stirred an earthy, musty smell of autumn.  Wafting from the yarn on Clotho’s spinning wheel, a familiar aroma lured the soul to move in closer, to be permeated by its essence.  Lulled by the accompanying mantra, “The way is not in the heavens, the way is in the heart!”  The spirit came forth, with soulful volition, choosing this lifetime to re-create a myth by re-casting the past.  

                Lachesis snipped a length from the precious thread, sending the soul to Earth.  Watching, in a protective stance, The Daimon stood in-waiting.

                In Momma’s womb, the brave soul manifested physical form, lacking a male member, arriving on Mother Earth into a family of three girls and a boy.  And on that October day in 1952, when she made her appearance, Daddy, who needed more help on the farm, showed grave disappointment.  The old soul, in a new body with a strong heart, cried the lungs open and The Daimon received her just in time to clearly read Daddy’s intentions.

                “She’s no child of mine!” Daddy’s disowning sent Momma into a fit of despair, blanking her of all possible thoughts to welcome this little one with a proper name.

                “Name her after me!”  Nurse Elisabeth cooed, hearing the cry of Momma’s brand new baby.

                Thus became the family story of how Elisabeth had bore her name.  Answering the call of The Daimon, Little Elisabeth grew to be a Prairie girl, entangled with the far outreaching darkness of her ancestral karma. 

One Truth

         " I am not ashamed for taking a stand...I am not ashamed for taking a stand...I am not ashamed for taking a stand..."
          It's time to work on this unfinished piece for an upcoming show that documents my inner world,  responding to the outer world.  A true/false take on the news.
          I'm not good at minding my p's and q's when it comes to convention and form for writng, and technique and skill for drawing, but I have finally come to use my words and images to express myself shamelessly.   Thanks for observing my discovery process. 

A note from my college student in '02 after sharing my work at a campus showing:

Gennie,
          One truth to be defended. That is important for all of us.  It allows us to hold our heads high.
                                                                                                               J.

An artist statement from January '02:

          I dreamt that my eyelids had taken a fluid form seeping into my eyeballs and the orbs soaked up the molten matter, blinding me with the silencing of fear.  Negotiating with Truth to claim my vision of Breaking the Silence,  I dedicate this show to all those who envision a life without fear:  a fear of hatred or love,  of oppression or freedom,  of joy or sorrow, of death or life, of self or others, or, a fear of God or of no god.  I shape my life as an artist, a writer and a teacher, to be unafraid of sharing my visions.  It is from the world around us, before and after us, that we gather our collective spirit of strength, hope and courage.  As we become soothsayers of truth, we no longer hang our heads as helpless and silent bystanders, instead, we stand as one. 

        

         As you stand with me, reading my blog, I will share a chronicle of a retrospective body of work, while continuing to search for the truth in telling my story.   

Impermanence

     One of my co-teachers prompted this entry.  She was my student when I had taught at a small liberal arts college.
     "My favorite memories are of you reading your writing to us!" She gave encoraging words after reading my blog.
     I opened an old writer's notebook from 2000 and found words to accompany this image, inspired several years later, by a neolithic bird goddess with a long and graceful neck.   I worked on her while in therapy for my neck, while suffering vertigo.  Sadly, she broke before I could finish her, tumbling off the mantle.  But, I had told her story:

     I tread softly, not wanting to overshadow the guide who leads my way--who knows the way of my words.   I work slowly and carefully for I want to stay in her midst and not be left with an empty image with meaningless form.  "Stay,"  I plead. " I will craft your story as we listen to the rain."
     It's hard to come back to school after Fall Break at such a pretty time of the year when hearts soar and leaves spiral through the air, changing colors as they drop.  Yet, it feels good to be with my class as I read aloud on my blanket, to--in turn--inspire words and images.  That's my favorite way to reflect, a blanket on the lawn, with yard noises all around.  Of course it has to be the right time of day, or year, so the air is refreshing, and it helps when the sky is blue.  If sheltered, a rainy day makes for a backdrop, with the sound of raindrops over head.  What Joy!

The Mind's Eye

I dug in my bins of writings and drawings to find words and images to share with you as you witness my reflections.  This is a copy of an entry I had made in a roving journal, for another artist in my art club.  She had inspired the following response: 

         

           The pull toy waits for the initial tug to roll its wheels and bring squeals of magic to young ones with little hands.  It sets on my shelf waiting for that day, of stories to be told of leopards sleeping in trees, and of a grandmother's healing journey.



          Thank you for taking me back to my childhood playground when bells that rang to go inside brought relief.  There were many things that frightened me:  the slide, the teeter totter, the big boys.  I felt safe within a book, turning my pages, feeling at peace within my mind's eye. 
          It was this same mind's eye that I took with me to Kenya.  And it is the same mind's eye that recognized a sacred sight, as our driver put the pedal to the floor of our Land Rover, so that we might catch a glimpse of leopards, before it got too dark.
           Huge cats, so relaxed, draped over the branches, as if they had no muscles.  Immediately, I knew that my trip with my daughter had become a pilgrimage.  I have played with that image often, melting the tension from my weary neck.  It's a tug of war--letting go of childhood fears.
     



The Alter Ego

          It was at midlife that I came to realize that Viola, my invisible childhood friend was actually my alter ego. Through oil pastels,  I drew upon Viola's invincible energy.  

“Up here!”  Viola called.  She was always taunting Little Elisabeth in a loving way to get her to step out of her fears, to climb higher or run faster or speak louder. 

                Elisabeth’s favorite game was to see if she could be as invisible as Viola.  She would gladly trade places if only she could figure out how to present Viola to her family.  There must be a way Elisabeth thought to herself as she followed Viola’s lead and climbed over the tail gate of Daddy’s big red truck.

                “What was Viola up to now?” Elisabeth wondered.  Viola was always spiriting an adventure.

                Although Little Elisabeth’s fearfulness made Viola a little crazy, she couldn’t stay mad at her long.  Viola knew that she couldn’t exist without Elisabeth so she might as well play by the rules and wrestle the biggest and meanest demons along the way while Elisabeth cowered shamefully. 

                “Fall backwards!”  Viola commanded. “Let’s make angels in the wheat!” 

                Little Elisabeth flopped down upon the mattress of freshly harvested wheat kernels. Her body framed a pillow, a perfect fit for a five year old. She shifted her weight and felt the chain reaction of the kernels, under her toes and between her fingers,  simultaneously coursing around her very ticklish neck.  Elisabeth giggled with contentment knowing once again that Viola could say, “I told you so!” for having a wonderful idea.

                 Elisabeth breathed in the moment, being one with Viola, she exhaled a sense of wonder, marveling at the star filled sky--a giant bowl covering her existence.

                “Do you wonder about the vastness of space?”  Viola nudged Elisabeth from her reverie. 

                Little Elisabeth couldn’t imagine that when middle aged she would be able to Google Planet Earth and swoop into a dot from up above, magnifying its existence to reveal hidden details.  Exposure is what Elisabeth feared most.  She had become comfortable with the transparent nature that she shared with Viola.   It made her nervous though to think of anyone else zooming in to her inner most thoughts, and finding something that had not yet been revealed to her, even though she had experienced it.

                “Someday you will see clearly through the vastness of space and through the course of time!”  Viola reassured Elisabeth, by speaking for The Daimon, whispering into Elisabeth’s ear as they star gazed.

Stillness

                 

          The holidays are over and tomorrow I return to teaching.  I know my time will be limited for my personal work.  I look forward to this blog as my committment to share.  Over time,  I have gathered together my words and images and have come to realize,  if I maintain stillness,  I  have a story to tell.  It begins in the following excerpt from The Daimon.

Chapter 1:  Conception

                 Stillness penetrated the air, the brewing kind, even the hens had quit cackling.  If sound had traveled Little Elisabeth could have heard the scuffing of his farm boots, kicking up the dirt across the yard, for he had gotten wind of Momma hiding in the chicken house.   

“Go on!” Momma shooed her from underfoot. 

“But Momma…”­­

“Go play” She nudged as if nothing was wrong.

With great pains, Elisabeth returned the eggs to the nest.  They both knew what was coming down the path, something other than Daddy.

 “Auch, those Volga Germans!”  Momma used her Old German dialect on such occasions to admonish scars of oppression from lives past. 

                “Don’t you tell Daddy where I’m at!”  Momma needn’t say.  Tears softened her sternness, “Now go on!”­­

                Little Elisabeth imagined Viola coming to the rescue and left Momma pacing amongst the chickens; it wasn’t the safest hide-out. 

“Get to the house!” Viola coached.  Elisabeth’s legs broke into a run.  She could see him out of the corner of her eye. He cast that look of otherness; she ran faster. 

                He tried to charm Little Elisabeth with his toothy grin while scoping the direction from whence she had flown—like a stool pigeon—she could almost hear the taunt, crystal clear, in his blue eyes. 

                “Where have you been?”  He called out with a chuckle.

                 “No where!”  Her voice, though barely audible, resounded powerless, as she closed the back stoop door on a storm about to break. 

                Upstairs in her bedroom, Little Elisabeth played dollies with Viola in tow, hushing the babies so they wouldn’t cry.   Fear lurked in  Elisabeth’s psyche, taking shape in various forms through previous lifetimes.  Thankfully, she now had Viola as her companion.