Apologies to Emily Dickinson for using a line from one of her poems, but it pretty much sums up the ache I have when I haven’t had a project to find myself lost in. Each time I sit in my little corner studio, Bach on Pandora, brushes clean and waiting, paint tubes all lined up, I hope this will be the day when I catch the breeze and fly. Sometimes, as with the quince or with the seed pods, it is just practice and preparation for the day when my wings unfurl.
I painted a picture I took of a quince as a way to keep creating. We have a huge quince bush in our back yard — it blooms a delicate salmon-pink flower in the spring and then ripens about ten fruit in the summer that are so tart the squirrels won’t eat them. Not much excited me about the subject as I sketched it, or kept me in a sweet flow as I painted. Unlike the seed pods, it wasn’t a tortured process, but it felt like practice. Come to the canvas, mix the colors, listen to music, and fill a brush with paint. Repeat.
But the universe was talking to me, I just wasn’t listening. As I became bored with painting, I grabbed one of my favorite books, An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols by J.C. Cooper (Thames and Hudson, 1979), and looked up “quince” on a whim. The quince is an ancient Greek symbol of fertility, the food of brides and sacred to Venus. Like ancient Sarah, I audibly snorked and chuckled when I read this — what a strange sign! I am now fifty, so my baby making days are well behind me. I’m in a phase of my life where I see my children ripening into adulthood.
I put the book down and returned to the canvas — a verdant sea of green. As I played with hues and shapes and shades, I realized that the sign for me was that my life is fertile ground, not my body.
That is the lesson of yoga as well. Asana (poses) is what most people think of as yoga, but it is only one limb of an eight limbed practice. There are also the ethical disciplines of the yamas and niyamas, the appropriate use of the life force in pranayama, and the abiding in silence and cultivating stillness to deepen an awareness of our connection to true self.
The practice of yoga is a tool to help us till the fertile ground of our being. Once we have prepared this ground, we can fully bloom.
At my goodbye party at Iona, I explained through a very ugly cry, that I was leaving because of my yoga practice. This life on the mat has helped me understand that challenges are at the very root of growth and development. Challenge helps us question, discover strengths and quiet the internal dialogue that binds us. I had grown comfortable at Iona and had lost my beginner’s eyes. While I could have stayed for many more years because I loved the work and the people, I knew comfort wasn’t good for me or the organization. I took a position at First Book on July 22 and I have beginner’s eyes, hands, mouth and feet. I remind myself every evening that just like headstand, this is the challenge I need and I will learn.
As I was leaving Iona, I decided to do a project for the teams I worked with. As a conceptual artist with a laundry basket full of 3.5 ” cubes of wood, I decided to do a block for each of the 12 individuals that would form a whole.
I started with the facade of the bouquet — since I thought of each person bringing a unique beauty to the whole — the sum being more beautiful than the parts. This facade took a long time, and to tell the truth, I was disappointed that it looks like a mundane painting on a china vase.
And, the process would be too long to produce the project by the time I left. On the other facades, I painted the Lao Tzu quote that was going through my mind about Iona’s strategic planning process and my own thinking about my own future journey.
The other is a white foreground with black lettering:
The last facade was more opportunistic. Ben sent me an incredible picture of his time at Ocean City. I loved the shimmer and the mystery of this new place. Fourth facade done.
By this time, it was my last week. I had to step up the pace to complete the process. Interestingly, these are the images I’m the most happy with. I had to move fast, and to riff on the outer facades. So the words “bloom” or “flower,” the images of a shell, a bird in flight, then a feather flowed onto the wood. I began to use the wood as part of the design rather than to cover it up. I had to stop capturing reality and move to flowing creatively. I love that these are the images that are the “inside” the reality. Fitting for a team or an individual thinking about the future. According to Keith Sawyer in his new book on creativity, Zig Zag: The Surprising Path to Greater Creativity, a good way to bubble up ideas around a problem or question is to give yourself a deadline or a boundary so that you can’t get stuck with one idea. Another way to bubble up ideas is to “topple,” to help your mind create ideas by association. For example: I didn’t like the picture I painted of the bouquet, but I really liked the idea of “blooming,” so I concentrated on a quick painting of the opening of a day lily. Then thinking of yoga, I used the stylized lotus to imagine the same bloom. Then I got realistic about what it was I wanted to say and I “said” it with image and word. Three blocks down in an evening, instead of in a week.
The last creative idea was to think about the how the individuals I know and love would make their own mark at Iona. I created a space for them to do this, using chalkboard paint.
It’s three weeks later than the day I left Iona. I spent yesterday tying a bow on the project, literally and figuratively.
I spent time thinking of the gifts I had received from these people in the six years I had worked at Iona and thanking them in writing, choosing the very right piece of the puzzle for them and wrapping it up. I wonder if they’ll have time to put the puzzle together?
Mother’s day flew past in a whirlwind of doing. Our major fundraiser at work on May 3 was the most successful yet. It required considering the “what ifs” and “what happens when,” reams of paper with seat assignments, thinking through processes of pledges received and acknowledged, of financial reports to file and contracts to sign. I was drained by the time Tom and I got away to celebrate a strange new mother’s day without our mothers or anyone around to mother. But the doing kept us moving forward — there was packing, driving, friends to see, the beach, the great new restaurant in town…then, back at work to refocus on website redesign which has been left too long, teaching more classes than normal, Emma’s homecoming, a weekend workshop with Tias Little at Sun and Moon Yoga Studio…and today, the inevitable wall. Thud.
My body has told me that I must undo the effects of charging my adrenal gland up to the max. I must un-do and non-do.
So how ironic is it that on my day of non-doing, I am pulled to the studio to the 29 blocks in our laundry basket, awaiting transformation? I painted this facade today, inspired by the poem by Wendy Videlock, written for her mother:
They are fleeting.
They are fragile.
They’ll surprise you.
They’ll remind you
that they aren’t
and they are you.
I’d found the poem about a month ago when the flowers for Dorothy’s funeral were fading and I took pictures to remember them. Today, as I painted this facade, I lost myself in the process of painting — in the color and the line. Even though I was doing, I was undoing — undoing some of the sadness of my mother’s and Dorothy’s passing, of the exhaustion I feel today and other negative emotions that have been stuffed and packed in nooks and crannies of my body, mind and spirit. There is no tomorrow and no yesterday. Just this moment, this brush stroke.
As Tias explains in an article he wrote for the Sun and Moon newsletter, in the Taoist tradition, non-doing is “wu-wei,” a highly esteemed way of living life. His workshop helped us instinctually understand that we are “doer devotees” and that this approach is antithetical to yoga. The first session of his workshop started with sitting in meditation, listening for the deep thunderous silence rumbling. Today, I heard a moment of this silence as I became a flower.
For the longest time, I’ve been working on a “prequel” to my painting of a bee beard. I got serious as my 49th birthday approached. I found that I was industrious about the task — not getting stuck in old ways of over-thinking the concept, or of perfectionism about the line or form, or becoming bored by the tasks I had laid out for myself day by day. I just got to work and when I was tired, I laid down the brush. I was…well, like a bee. The result is here.
When I did let myself ruminate on bees and bee beards, I couldn’t remember why I wanted to paint them at all. I’m sure it originally related to the concept of apples and honey that I had painted as I worked through the Eve and the Garden series so long ago. Just wanting to keep that alive. The bee beard painted itself almost, and remained an oddity — a question mark. It needed a prequel. Here’s the painting of the bee beard:
I looked up the meaning of the symbol of bees in the illustrated encyclopedia of traditional symbols and began to get a murky sign from the universe about why I had chosen the subject, and to my sensibilities they seem holiday oriented. The bee is a sign of immortality, rebirth, industry, order, purity and a soul. In Christianity, the bee is a symbol Mary, mother of Jesus; in Hinduism, the bee on a lotus is the symbol of Vishnu.
The symbol of the ancient Greek goddess Demeter is the bee. She is sometimes called the “pure Mother Bee,” and the Greeks worshipped her as the bringer of the harvest. In ancient times to whisper something to a bee would bring the message to the spirit world.
The way these paintings came to me felt as though they were a whisper to me from a place of collective and universal consciousness. I found joy in the process of painting them and then in thinking about what I had painted, rather than what I would paint.
Bees, I’m sure, don’t think about the honey either. Hope I can carry this into the new year.
And now, a beautiful poem about bee beards given to me after she saw the strange bee beard painting by my dear friend and amazing poet and artist Marie Pavlicek-Werhli:
The Girl with Bees in Her Hair
Eleanor Rand Wilner, “The Girl with Bees in Her Hair” from The Girl with Bees in Her Hair. Copyright © 2004 by Eleanor Rand Wilner. Used by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.