My new companion

Confession: [I seem to do that a lot here] I have a thing for mannequins that I think stems from an incident as a young adult – and I blame my mother.

She and I were downtown Cincinnati walking across the Pogue's bridge between the store and parking garage. That should give you a clue as to how long ago it was. Of the three or four major department stores in town when I grew up, Pogue's was the smaller and more upscale of them. It closed in the 1980s. I digress. As we were tromping over the street on the enclosed bridge, I looked down into onto the street and a dumpster full of precious treasure: full-body, lime green, flocked female mannequins. Stiff limbs outstretched as if awaiting rescue. Patient to find a good home. MY home. Someone had actually thrown them out. No matter how much I bargained, I could not convince my mother to help me retrieve them, let along finagle them into the trunk. "All you'd have to do is hoist me," I pleaded. Wasn't like it was illegal or anything, but it was broad daylight. My mind raced with the possibilities as I churned over how to get them myself. Impossible. I had to let that one go.

Over the years, I have tried to replace those glowing-green gals. I even dream about them sometimes. Where would they be now? How would I have used them? Would they still be flocked or well-worn?

I once invested in a soft-grey sewing form, later to find a lone mannequin head that I pieced together to attend my 1950s bar cart and several Halloween parties. Kids came and she was relegated to the basement. No room and her constant lurking in the shadows always caught me off guard. I resold her to an equally ecstatic guy, whom I am certain gave her a very creative, loving home. I hope. The head is somewhere floating in the basement, along with Sheniqua. She's a cosmetologist's  model. The kind with flowing hair and a face ripe for make-up. I inherited her because my aquatics instructor's family was spooked by her. Mine was, too, so she's hidden and will give whomever finds her a jolt.

What is this pleasure derived from body parts? I do have a dark side and sense of the macabre, but there's just something so darned interesting about these half-finished creatured. They can become almost anything. A canvas of sorts.

So it as with much pleasure I stumbled upon a crop of them freshly delivered to the local St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop a few nights ago. "Guy on a Harley with black trailer dropped them off," the attendant offered as he was cooping them up for the night. "They be here in the morning?" I asked, wanting to make sure my studio could accommodate another object and knowing I may be moving. "Yeah, they're not even priced yet and we may be keeping a few."

Lily was with me as I inspected the crated lot: one VERY tall one on a collapsable stand, a few short one on pedestals and some teetering on their own from the buttocks up. All very clean except for one with rings around the appropriate appendages. I posted a photo on Facebook and most comments asked what I was waiting for ... thinking time, how I could justify these purchase.

When I realized we were making a scary movie for the next Artsy Fartsy Saturdays, the arts exploration for 4-6th graders I lead, I knew who the star could be ... part from the kids, that is. I was all set to return the next morning before they were gobbled up.

Only I didn't. Other things reared their heads that morning and I traipsed off to the studio totally forgetting my mission of the night before. Something made me remember -- maybe a call from the lifeless forms themselves echoing how their flocked cousins had bellowed to me years ago. Maybe my sense of adventure and fun. 

Who knows, but I returned to the store to see them all boldly displayed outside, front and center. I was elated and began choosing. A different attendant from the previous night encouraged me to look closely because missing parts prevented them from attaching to the stands. Ooohhh, that changed things. He pointed to the tall one with the rings. "She's the one that works," he said pushing her form higher up on the metal bars until she reached an intimidating height. I had almost settled on her until we realized she could not be separated from her stand and how problematic moving and storing her could be. So, I removed the tag from one that stood on her own haunches and looked pretty clean. "Good thing you didn't pick the one who looks like her boobs were dragged through the mud," the cashier congratulated me. Silently, I think we both wondered what happened to her on that ride behind the Harley in a trailer. I am envisioning a Stephen King story now.

I paid, then swept her under my arm and was about to whisk her into the trunk, when a woman who could have caught a fly by the way her face was positioned in gawking at me remarked: "What the heck are you gonna do with that?" I quickly replied "Halloween," which wasn't a complete lie, but not entirely the truth either. No matter the season, I would have bought her.

No imagination, I thought, then changed my mind about the trunk and placed her next to me in the front, passenger's seat: my new companion.

• What makes me crazy with creativity?
• Are there certain things that really get my juices flowing?
• When have I made an insane purchase based on nothing but elation?
• How come some just can't see the possibilities?
• When does my (inner) artist come out to play?

enraptured from
the moment the
sun struck their
felty neon skin

only to NOT
possess them

I was haunted,
searching for
a substitute

creating them
from pieces,
never satisfied

until a mysterious
driver on a Harley
dumped his stash

including the one
with dirt circles
around her chest

and her partner,
now mine, has
the best story yet

Listen to this post:

Finding Spirit's cup in the dark

Chalice/pastel and paint on paper

Are the mystical path and the creative path one in the same? If not, do they intertwine?

Those questions have been ricocheting in my head and heart since my last shamanic-counseling session. Ostensibly, I was poised to share how well things were going: that I had triumphed in a good, but tough, parenting moment, I was being faithful to my call to lead eight weeks of spiritual-nurture sessions and the arts ministry I do for under-served kids is blossoming.

I began with the parenting and that's where everything I was about to say unraveled. I suspect that, unconsciously, I knew it would. If there's anyplace I can unravel, it's with my shaman. There was so much unraveling that we had a mere 10 minutes for body work, which I desperately need and I left confused, a first. However, Gary insisted that I had done "very good work today."

It had been exhausting, but I promptly drove to Starbucks for an ice tea and sat down, outside, to write the wisdom he had given me and the insights I had. Two days out and I can't quite remember all of them, but what sticks is what he said about the lonely path of the mystic and artist. It's no cookie-cutter life, he'd said, reminding me that the lives of the saints were filled with suffering. Oh great, I thought. I'd recently read how Catherine of Sienna had to pick herself off the floor to go tend someone and I wondered how, perhaps why, she did.  He also related the story of directing a small group to write down their problems, lay them in the center of the circle and suggest they pick another from the pile. Invariable, they all chose their own.

So, this is my life. Of. my. choosing.

Revelation was the topic of last night's nurture group and we began with a half-hour scavenger hunt and meditative walk, then dipped into that experience, what revelation means and our personal knowledge. I'd done some preparatory reading from Evelyn Underhill's classic "Mysticism." It was great for the class, but rich for me personally. I specifically looked at the sections on purification and illumination. The former reached me personally and the latter spoke to the group.

Underhill wrote about going against the grain and I underlined that passage to share with Gary. She spoke of the death of old habits and ways of thinking and a birthing of new. I recognize that I have been here before, but am, once again, struggling with leaving something I've held close behind, several somethings: money, security, living within the norm and doubt when I step outside of that.

My shaman said to think about against the grain as "in-grained," something within I am fighting to loosen. "You may think it's external, but it's from within." Almost in the same breath, he mentioned that one line of thinking about fibromyalgia suggests it's an auto-immune issue. "You mean like I am allergic to myself?" I quipped. I already know that.

I think we all fight something in ourselves. I just had this discussion with my youngest, who gave into impulse, to which she was able to admit. We discussed how we all have good parts of ourselves and others we're not so crazy about. That's a piece of our life's work, I told her, to explore those parts and shine some light on them."

Wow, I thought, that's exactly my lesson right now as well.

The other passage from Underhill I shared during counseling was the story of brothers who were given the holy chalice from which to drink. Those that drank wildly and took every sip were totally filled with the light of Spirit. Those that were timid and only partially drank or spilled some, were given partial light, which means they also had partial dark.

My wise friend gave his interpretation: "The cup is always full and there other chances to drink," he declared. "It's not a one-time thing." He said a constant drinking from that cup is what grounds us in Spirit (my word, not his), however we can not handle to whole cup. That'd be death. he warned.

When I asked how he handled the dark experiences, he said "with an Irish drinking song: do something fun to transform those." I giggled when he bellowed out an example; he's not a drinker and I identify his persona as Native American more than Irish.

Here's a beginning of mine:

when you're
down in the mud
remember the cup
so sit up
drink up
aye
remember the cup

so sit up

drink up

aye

• Where are the lonely places in a spiritual life?
• How do I handle them?
• How and where do I unravel?
• What truth is revealed in the unraveling?
• How do I find Spirit's cup in the darkness and loneliness?

Listen to this post:

Meyham and foolishness

Ever have fun and not realize you really are working?

Twice a week, most weeks, I schlepp to the pool at 5:45 a.m. for a water class. Gets my day off to a very energetic start. We'd had a very loyal teacher for the past year and, suddenly to us, she was replaced. So, of course that day, I was grumbly.

I've since changed my tune. This morning as I was entering the locker room, I heard them singing Tequila in the pool. Sounded like a BIG party. It was. But once I jumped in, grabbed a noodle and did the moves, yeowoooosah. She was really working our cores. No one minded.

Lotsa karaoke happening as we twisted, splashed and yanked our bodies all over the pool. I even said to her she had a way of making us think we're playing when, in reality, she was whipping our cores into shape. She just smiled and said, "If it's not going to be fun, I don't want to be here."

Later, this morning, I watched a video about students at Wilmington College who have been identified as leader-scholars and are claiming a larger Quaker presence on that campus. It was entitled "Meyham and Foolishness" and began with this small group cutting up. Not the stuffy Quakers that might come to mind. The end settled into showing the depth and emotion of their companionship and collective journey. But they've had a lot of fun along the way.

That's what I want. More fun along the journey. Fortunately, my children often call me to that place and not always willingly.

Last week's very intense spiritual writing conference was softened and enjoyable because of several humorous forays. The deep connections can also be joyful, I often need reminding.

I hadn't banked on so many business sessions and academic discussions. There were exceptions, like being overjoyed at the crayons and paper spread across the tables of a workshop. I saw many tense at the props. The person next to me and I dove right in as blissful kids.

In the midst of many writers, I could see that as an artist, I was on a different page. A very non-intellectual page.

Thankfully, the pockets that flew in a different sphere, or the young adults who had just published a very living book stoked my creative fire. A bleak picture of the traditional good-old-publishing network was shattered by the enthusiasm, challenge and adaptation to new media of the younger generation. They worked hard and played hard – a great model.

This girl just wants to have fun ... as often as possible.


• Where is the playfulness in my life?
• Do I enjoy or seek it out with others?
• What's a time when I approached something serious with humor, joy or lightheartedness?
• What difference did that make?
• Do I model it for others or need permission?


tight
restrictive
dark

so
counter

to the
lightness
of creativity

I want
a playful
spirit

no
matter
how
I am
engaged

the kind
that kicks off
her shoes
even if the
stream
is too cold

instead of
missing
the
opportunity
to wade
in the
living
water