Releasing The Soul-Bird

When all the preparations for the exhibit and performance at Saint’s Retreat were going forward, I started an angel sculpture to accompany my drawings. No time to complete her before the hanging of art on Thursday, so yesterday – with the performance joyfully behind me – I faced the sweet emptiness of Sunday and the angel hovering incomplete. I changed my bed and started laundry, delaying the gratification that I felt was imminent. I wondered at myself for the delay. Yet doubt had been left behind when the dance was released from my body with ease. With my Saturday flight so recently accomplished, faith was strong, anticipation delicious.

Usually, when I realize the gesture of the figure, the completion of the sculpture follows. This one eluded me, as the dance had prior to its actuality. This one seemed a question that would not be answered.  The figure seemed destined to lack its completing element. I kept walking past her where she hung, perplexed that the pleasing parts of her did not add up. I loved the profile I had given her: strong, assertive, and even hum0rous.  Ahhh, the nose… It seemed to hint at what it could be. The rest of her waited, unsure – as I was – of the answer.

Now, on this Sunday – with my bed freshly made and the laundry in the dryer – I looked again. I looked also at other unfinished bits: a goat begun, a heron closer to completion. The heron with its lighter weight gold wire seemed worth my attention. I sat down and gave it a second wing. Even this simple contact with the wire released my mind, which drifted back to the dance and recalled the soul-bird released from my body as I danced. Courage – surpassing fear or physical limits – had released that bird, and her flight had carried others along for those moments in the light-filled space of Saint’s Retreat. The soul-bird flew, and the soul-birds of those who watched tasted freedom also.

I held my heron up to the light and saw that it was good. I took it downstairs and placed it on the palm of the waiting angel. Maybe this could work. But would it weigh the figure too much? I must take the risk, but first I would give the bird legs and feet to trail behind her and balance her forward surge. She was not meant to sit quietly on the angelic hand. Her feet must drag and release simultaneously. I gloried in the problem I had set for myself, trusted the mystery that would emerge from my fumbling fingers.

It is always a challenge to attach a separate element and make it one with the existing element. As the figure of the angel was already hanging before the black cloth for better visibility, I must reach above my head during the attachment. I must carefully weave the thinnest wire around and through; discerning the right places for attaching can be tricky. The angle of the heron’s flight is important; continual adjustments must be made for the sake of balance.

When I finally let my aching arms drop and stepped back, I couldn’t help laughing, delighted at the transformation that met my eye. The weight of the bird caused a tilt to the figure that gave her movement, releasing her instantly from her static waiting. The diagonal motion is undeniable; from the angel’s toes to the heron’s beak is one long line of ascending flight. They are one. We are one. Released…

That seems such a perfect ending, but I can’t help sharing the frivolous act that followed the sculpture’s obvious completion. As I came down to earth from that transcendent moment, I looked again at the large, very human nose on the angel. I looked at the nipples and pubic patch, aware of the liberties I had already taken with a spiritual icon. My next action was positively impish. I took up the thin wire left from the labored attachment, and gilded nipples and pubis, giggling all the time. All by myself with my surprising creation, I laughed and I saw that it was good.

A Dancer Visits A Saint and His Goats

I have been asked by my friend, Earl, to dance at Saints Retreat.  Saint’s Retreat is a quaint white structure that stands as though planted in the green that surrounds it: A luminous flower of a building. I have driven by it countless times over the years, and always thought it reminiscent of a chapel. The name seemed perfect, though now I know it was named for the people who once owned it: the St. Johns.

It belongs to Earl these days and he and my sister, Mary, have planned a two day art exhibit with many of the talented artists of our community participating. Earl is naturally magnanimous, and having been recipient of his generosity over the years, I can testify to it coming from a heart that overflows on those dear to him. He is honorary Godfather to my son, and I thank heaven for the resulting richness of Vanja’s growing up years.

On Friday morning I drove out to Saint’s Retreat to see the inside and consider it as a space that would lend itself to my dance. As I turned into the driveway I was instantly entranced, distracted from the beauty of the building by the the grazing goats in the adjacent field. Earl’s goats… Tails wagged and beards were aquiver as they munched the lush grass, and my smile was still in place when I met Earl at the door and we shared a hug. It had been quite a while since I had entered Earl’s world.

He proudly led me into the main room of the retreat. The soothing space with its high beamed ceiling is not too large or too small. It is spacious and intimate, calling out to the dancer who in younger years hosted and danced at many a soiree. A small grand piano stands in one corner and the worn oriental rug on the shining floor is a promise to my tender feet: You may stand here and let your dance unfold as it will.

With Earl by my side, the doubts that accompany all possibilities of dancing publicly were laid to rest. I will be among friends and, with Earl’s blessing, I will do my best to bless in turn his vision for the future of Saint’s Retreat.

Heron In The Rain

It is a mood:

a mood that corresponds exactly

With the steady drip of rain

surrounding stillness.

It all began in the innocence of morning. I had returned from walking the dogs through the drizzling freshness of the park to find that I was still there. I had retained the rain-dropped surface of the marsh-lined water, become, if you will, the solitary heron and its moving stillness. Standing in my studio, I found myself breathing out what I had received into something like a dance. My body was moving not to move but because it was manifesting something deep and true. This dance evolved: a bamboo brush was moistened and dipped in ink. It hovered timelessly over the blank white paper surface before descending. I then became rapt observer of the line appearing, barely knowing that my own hand moved the brush. The image that came to life before my eye was more than physical application. It showed me my own longing to be me.

Summer Longing

It’s the peak of summer – the heart of the season – yet the summer has seemed old to me, and tired. The leaves already dulled by the barrage of heat. For weeks the lack of rain has allowed the dust to gather on roadside foliage. I have found myself spiritually parched, longing for the humid heat to be replaced by drenching rain. I want the sheen back on the leaves.

Yesterday, I took my camera with me to the park, hoping that having a conscious eye would lead me to beauty. It isn’t the best time of year for flowers; I mean the kind that pop out pretty much on their own. But I did find bright orange trumpet vine, and got close enough to be nourished by its strangeness and its color. I was pleased to discover a utility pole overrun by the vine with clusters of blooms dangling luxuriantly from the dense tangled mass at the top. I shot it, though my little camera could not do it justice. I moved on to the nearby Acacia bush and found pregnant pods in green and brown. Their plump seeds swelled the thin skin of their casing in a promising way.  The future of the acacia is ensured. The summer seemed slightly less tired as I focused my lens and my psyche on persevering nature.

Last night came the storm and the drenching rain, so sudden and fierce that the answer to my prayer propelled me from my bed and down the stairs to huddle with my equally nervous dogs in the downstairs hallway. It was some time before I returned to my bed for much needed sleep, and even then Music, my older dog, sought comfort in his usual fashion by standing on my body or lying across it, so not much sleep.

In the morning, the sheen was back on the leaves, and in the park the orange of the trumpet vine was even brighter with drops of water still clinging to its tender blossoms. I can almost imagine a fairy tilting a leaf to drink her fill.