Breathing Blue by Anish Kapoor, 1954

Lazy mind

lets me disappear.

Reminding me that

I was never really here.

 

 

 

Miss Mouse comes out faithfully every night

when I am watering the garden,

making sure that I see her

as she walks up the same garlic stalk

night  and night!

 

It’s been a loaded summer,

our intoxicating attachment to “story”

mine , yours and everyone’s.

But nature insists that we learn

the most basic of truths

and most of us do it the hard way.

 

They say that you’re not ready to change

until you “bottom out”.

I like the word “bottom”.

“Sandy Bottoms” is a place my dad

used to grab a beer and a gruber sandwich.

 

The medicine of mouse

is to pay attention to details

but not to forget the whole.

 

Our journey is a circle,

no beginning or end

but we sure do make a lot out of it!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“When might I abide in such a place

A place unclaimed and ownerless,

That’s wide and unconfined,

a place where where I might stay

At liberty, without attachment”

 

A passage from The Way of the Bodhisattva,

composed by Shantideva in the 14th century.

I have been working with this material for many months

illustrating one passage at a time.

 

 

1. The drifting old couple

still water fishing.

She will catch his eye

wearing that red shirt

the color of the boat they love.

 

2. I suggested that we sleep outside

to catch  the shooting stars of mid August.

Feeling our years,

we grumble as we drag out mattresses,

he refusing an extra blanket

and did get cold like I knew he would.

But those stars welded their magic

and this morning my smile has softened

I’m such a tough old nut!

 

 

 

It was a  ragged week of strife

and undercurrents

and hot weather,

building the studio,

long hours in the sun.

Now, resting beside him

hearing the sputter and breath

of a necessary nap.

I lay still

so he will sleep.

Wearing the blue linen shirt,

I bought and wash two times a week

and those grey shorts tied with rope.

Tan tapered legs, one of his best features

like his feet.

 

I will resist a clever ending to this poem

I’ll just let it go at that.

One Unto Herself

Heavy with child she lumbers,

this impossible pregnancy.

What was she thinking

when she said yes to God?

Not, carrying the world in her belly

His infinite seeds, fertile mother earth,

the dark and the light,

a snake eating the mouse.

 

I didn’t think it would be this bad

this full, this heavy.

The great weight of matter.

I will need divine assistance at her birth.

Delivering me from my own duplicity.

What are we midwifing here

Everything?

 

Sally King, Lady Godiva Day 2020

Photo of Sarah carrying her daughter Rumi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The exertive womb

Pushes

While the nurturing womb is yin,

the pushing womb is yang.

Two aspects of the feminine.

Right Ladies?

 

The breath always helps in right action,

the essential pause

to find out what is best suited,

in this  moment

nurturing or pushing?

 

By   Jay White,

 

She  stood at the helm of the storm

And she was the one who could sail

The little boat of death

toward the far shore without panic.

So much good can happen out there

with the wind tearing things loose.

You can fling tears from your face

without worry.

You can feel your arms and legs

welcome this vigil.

You are the person who knows,

What your boat can do

at such a rare point of weather.

 

My brother’s poem

in response to an insight shared,

a trust.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What a time we are experiencing,

so much change, so much limitation,

we can’t just do whatever we want, when we want to. 

For the first time that I know of,

 our “white culture”  is experiencing the squeeze

of less freedom and choice. 

We can’t get on an airplane and  fly to  Europe or  Canada

or  go to restaurants or movies or parties.

And now we are panicking about resources,

our own and our neighbors.

Economic shortfalls are  making  the society  less safe

as it becomes less stable. 

We are getting our first taste of how our indigenous

and our  people of color live life everyday. 

Welcome to Club Humanity.

The upside  is that we  finally have  a level playing field,

a shared experience with our “marginalized others” 

Suddenly there is no other 

just we.

For Maria

 

Laurens Van Der Post wrote The Mantis Carol,

a tale of synchronicity, wonder

and the truly joyful nature

of an African  Bushman far from home.

And at the end of  his life

She( I)  went to visit him

and because he asked this of her

she  proceeded to dance, his dance

the one she’s seen him do throughout his long life.

The Dance of Great Hunger.

A stomping step with a turn

arms spread  reaching the cosmos.

She was totally present,

with her back  still turned

she heard a strange sound,

” Like the issue of some gust of great wind

thrown at the door with such force

that it passed thin and elongated through the key -hole into

and out of the room.”

And he was gone.

 

Sometimes only a dance will do.

After the family left

I needed to dance , staff in hand

to move the stuck energy of deep sorrow

and let sway all the emotive feeling felt too tight,

giving voice to the great hunger

giving voice to the old one who knows of suffering

and still smiles.

For Maria