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Posts from the ‘salas seeking solace’ Category

Thunderheart: All things are connected.

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“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far way.” HDT

Thank you, John Millen of Thunderheart Drums..

A quarter of a century ago, feeling a strong affiliation with everything Native American (I still do), I sought out a master drum maker and found him living in a geodesic dome home in the forests on the edge of Baltimore, Maryland.  I offered my services as an apprentice if he would teach me/help me make my own drum. He agreed on the condition that I give him 8 Saturdays, 8 hours each day.

While I helped him make other drums, he would help me make mine.
From scratch, each step a week apart: sawing the wood and letting it dry; soaking and shaping the wood; cutting, soaking, and stretching the hide; puncturing the hide in order to sew it; sewing the hide (with more hide) around the wooden frame.  Oiling all of it.  During each session I would first work on John’s drums, then work on mine.  It was an unforgettable and richly rewarding experience. Fifteen years later I painted my drum, following a visit to Taos, New Mexico where I saw in a drum store a few painted drums.  These many years later I now live in New Mexico.

When my drum was ready to be played, I solo camped for 3 days and 3 nights on Dragon’s Tooth in the Blue Ridge Mts. of Virginia. For two days and two nights I had the mountaintop all to myself, even though the mountain peak is part of the Appalachian Trail. However, on my third afternoon, while sitting in what I call the eagles aerie, a cupped crag large enough to hold a human, I heard voices rising through the forest canopy. Little did I know those voices were carrying a lesson for me.

Offerings: “I am grateful for what I am and have.” HDT

I collect stones, driftwood, shells, etc. It’s not an easy thing for me to resist bringing them home. But I have discovered that if instead I make an offering with them, and record that act, I am less inclined to acquire and more inclined to “let it go.” After all, how much do we need? And of course, some of those rocks are quite heavy.

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I actually took all of the rocks you see on this ledge home with me. In the back of my mind I kept feeling gluttonous for that act. Finally, I went alone and gave them back from whence they came.

This second time, on my way return to the car, I spotted this boulder.  I held in my hand a lovely, palm-sized red stone I had picked up after replacing all the others.  I am a rock cleptomaniac. Should I take home my hand-held stone?  Should I leave it in this quiet place? 

” I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite, only a sense of existence. Well, anything for variety. I am ready to try this for the next ten thousand years, and exhaust it. How sweet to think of ! my extremities well charred, and my intellectual part too, so that there is no danger of worm or rot for a long while. My breath is sweet to me. O how I laugh when I think of my vague, indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it, for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment. ” Henry David Thoreau

Stroke by Stroke (Life as Art)

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“He is the true artist whose life is his material; every stroke of the chisel must enter his own flesh and bone and not grate dully on marble.” Thoreau’s Journal: June 23, 1840

“She, too, is the true artist whose life is her material; every stroke of the chisel must enter her own flesh and bone and not grate dully on marble.”

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Stroke, n. — a mark made by drawing a pen, pencil, or paintbrush in one direction across paper or canvas.

Whether stroke of the chisel or strokes on canvas…the painter’s canvas…the canvas of life, we create what we choose to live, we live what we choose to create.  Creation: a beginning and an ending.  Alpha and Omega.

This time, perhaps, you choose a life uncommon.

If the muse smiles upon us, our efforts may look or feel divinely inspired.

Often our attempts at chiseling away at the marble, at the rose stone, at the life before us is a bungled lump of clay or dough.  That clay, that dough, we must fold in upon itself and simply let it be; let it rest.

DSCF0425Stroke of Dawn, n. — a time of day.

We think when young (not far beyond born, living our most recent dawn) we think we are gods and goddesses who will live forever. We are gods and goddesses falling upward* …born artist or activist, oligarch or musician, capitalist or clown, pauper, priest or penitent.

We will live forever.  We do live forever.  Matter cannot be destroyed (Law of Conservation of Mass Energy).  We cannot be destroyed, yet we disperse.  We come together and we come apart. ** Where do you think goes the slough of skin, the hair follicles, the detritus of your ever-changing body?

During these processes we will get wounded.  And OH how we may hurt!  It can’t be helped.  It may even devastate?

What do you wish for in your second, third, twenty-seventh apostasy?

canoe-paddle-2Stroke, v.an act of moving one’s hand or an object across a surface, applying gentle pressure, or constant pressure, [eternal pressure].

One stroke, then another, we paddle our swift, sometimes rickety, crafts through life.

Across the River Styx and back to first shore – ever vigilant.

Either we face our demons, or we may become one.

We are Warriors.  We are Angels.  We are Friends.

We live fiercely!  Let us not be Foes.

If we are fortunate, we stroke the skin of those we love and laugh with abandon.

Stroke, v. the act of hitting or striking someone or something a blow.

sculptor-3Art is an act of activism.  To make Art we must Act.  Art.  Activism.  Redundant?

Yes!  Strike the chisel over and over again.  Seek perfection.

I shall pierce my HEART and feel it bleed love and wonder, fear and frustration, sorrow and awe.

Sore feet, sore hands, sore heart and mind; I want to experience everything!

And having felt it all, decide what is good for me and what is bad. “…And not to feel when i have come to die I never really lived.”

I will write it; I will dance it; I will scream it from the mountaintops.

I will drum it; I will test it; I will inhale it from the canyon ravines.

Discernment marks my quest, Yet I trip so many times: over the stone and stumble, under the rock and rumble,

Schisms, and chasms, and stuck between.

I shall pierce my SOUL, leaking promise and potential, to know the truth of IT…to be true to myself this moment in the universe as honestly as I am able in the spiral dance of life.

Stroke of Genius, n. – a thought or an act of brilliance.

May we be so fortunate to follow in the footsteps of those we revere.  Oh, to experience even a single stroke of genius!

Stroke, v. – to caress.

I have felt the winter wind whisk mere wisps of hellish flailing; every living thing shuddering, trembling, quaking at once.  I have felt the whisper of love on my cheek, the breath of those I adore caressing my skin.

Stroke of Luck, n. –- something good that happens to you by chance.

Having your best friend nearby when you are struck down by circumstance.

Stroke, n. – a sudden disabling attack or loss of consciousness caused by an interruption in the flow of blood to (part of, all of) the brain, especially through seizure.

We cannot know when life’s circumstances may seize us and render us incapacitated.  It is terrifying to feel yourself lose control…wave-1as if out on a great, wild sea watching the water’s wide wave approach, lifting you up to dizzying heights of fatalism.  Yet, if you are fortunate (I cannot speak for always), a calm overtakes you at the beginning of the tempest.  You give yourself to the fates as willingly as you give yourself to a wise teacher.

We ride into the storm relinquishing ourselves to destiny, the ending of which even Fate is not certain…though sometimes, it seems, the outcome may be a matter of choice.

On November 12, 2016 I suffered a stroke.  I write now from the visual perspective of 120 degrees having lost partial sight, peripheral vision, in my right eye.  I write now from the philosophical perspective, the intuitive perspective of a great many degrees more.  I am a fortunate one.

Stroke, v. – an act of moving one’s hand or an object across a surface, applying gentle pressure.

Oh mother, father, lover, child, friend…sister, teacher, adversary: caress my fragile, fight-filled, sometimes frightened soul that I may know we live.  Soothe me with murmurs of eternity…

In my next apostasy:

img_0066Far below…I’m the shadow on the hill.

High above…I’m the ghost rain tendril.

Gaze across…the plains of Augustine.

I’m the cloud…living out my next dream…next dream…next dream.

Look at me, I’m flying!

Further Inquiry:

Music and Book Credits

  • A Life Uncommon, Jewel
  • Falling Upward, Richard Rohr
  • Ain’t Life a Brook, Ferron

Art and Photo Credits (in order of appearance):

Sculptor at work – stock photo

Weight Loss – Alexis, 2003

Self-Made Man – Bobbi Carlyle, 2000

Dawn & Vulcan Clouds – Beverly Salas, 2016


Chasing Water…Finding Flowers

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Rio Grande del Norte Taos, NM

Gradually, the village murmur subsided, and we seemed to be embarked on the placid current of our dreams, floating from past to future as silently as one awaked to fresh morning or evening thoughts. Henry David Thoreau

How blessed are we who can ride these currents, swim with the fish, dance in two mile high gardens?  Gratitude, humbled by the scope of nature, and the gift we have been given.

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Clarity on the East Fork, San Juan River, CO

You there! Mingle in the mountains, waltz with the wind, float the rivers big and small.  Give yourself over to the current…cooling your skin wetting your soul.

We went seeking relief from the heat.  North! Taos, Pagosa Springs, Durango.  We went seeking water; we are Pisces by nature, if not by birth.  We will ride most anything down a river, including our will.  Lacking flotation devices, we often take up a mask and snorkel.  64 degree water is difficult to swim, but still possible.  These things are not without risk; though most people shy from physical discomfort.

Why…why not bear witness to universal truths using all of your senses?

Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. It’s thin current slides away,
but eternity remains…(hdt)

Inhale slowly, smell the rain-soaked mountains, truly see them.  Stick your finger in a sun-dappled columbine and taste.  Sh-h-h-h, listen to the breathless wind call out while birds and bees sing their rejoicing!

Feeling acutely aware…the rivers, the mountains, the air we breathe come from almost forever.  We live here but a moment.   Let’s be OK with that!

 

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The Unbearable Darkness of Seeing

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  The Unbearable Darkness of Seeing: Part I

“The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us.” HDT

I awoke to find myself falling down a deep, dark hole. How could this be happening when all the “omens” were aligned?

Yet now it seems I must agree with those who believe that people who see “signs” and Points of Convergence (see blog, Jan 14)) see nothing but a human construct born out of desperation: the need to ascribe meaning to it all.  But there is no meaning, there only “is” which is to say, our state of being.

Good god!  How many times must we have our world rocked before we give in…give up…realize coincidences are the children of chance?  Fate does not exist…merely odd coincidences we want to call fate because of our seemingly inherent need to understand at least some of the chaos.

There is no meaning!!!

Convergence is happenstance!  I have been running a fool’s errand lo these many years…always looking for the “connections” the universe has planned for me. Ha!  Such hubris!  The universe does not care. The universe does not contrive..the universe is but a molecular construct. Do not relegate events to unseen powers!  That is just more/different religious bullshit.

Searching for Thoreau…lost.  Where? I do not know!

Security…the word exists but the state of being secure does not.  Security = chimera = an illusion or fabrication of the mind; an unrealizable dream. a construct with no real foundation – a castle in the air.

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” HDT

I set in pounds upon pounds of solid foundation. I did my work, more than my share, yet in the end I looked the fool.  Do I now tell Thoreau to go to hell?  He wouldn’t hear me anyhow.

“There is no value in life except what you choose to place upon it and no happiness in any place except what you bring to it yourself.” HDT

Taos Dreaming…”Live the life you have dreamed.” –HDT

More than ten years ago, in July of 2004, I still lived in a glen by a creek that runs through Mink Hollow, near Highland, Maryland.  Mink Hollow was a magical place: a river ran through it, a forest surrounded it.  We danced.  Lovely, you say? Indeed!  Sadly, familiarity breeds, for me at least, a bit of the wanderlust. Which is why on Wednesday, July 14th, 2004 I found myself solo camping in Taos, NM after my first year of teaching high school.  I sought the southwest knowing I could easily find solace, knowing I could truly be alone; seeking, like Thoreau, to get “to the essential part of me.”  I needed a salve for the knocks and bruises accumulated during ten months spent butting heads with 130, sixteen year old students. I had learned and felt so much!

Sitting on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Rio Grande Gorge in 2004, I wrote this in my journal:  “Forgive me Mink Hollow for wanting anything, any place, other than you.  100_4615I do not understand this longing for the long view, but it feels so very palpable.  Sitting at the edge, here at the gorge, or on a mountain top in Magdalena, seeing the gold and green overlapping mountain ranges before me,100_5961 or the layers of earth revealed through infinity, I am filled with a lovely peace…the, I am truly  “home” kind of peace.  Here lies heaven: the smell of juniper and pinon; the rattle of snake and cicada, the whispering trees; the glorious blue sky yet more vivid juxtaposed against white clouds.

I am entranced…………..

To have access to mesas on the weekends, to be able to set out with regularity to the mountains…higher,  and higher still…where silence has a sound… 100_5602 100_5614To call New Mexico home would be beyond my most imaginative dreams…the senses in perpetual, delightful overload.

I cannot paint a true picture using only words; regrettably: my poetic palette lacks the range. Hopefully, photos and words metaphorically wed to help you see. How does one with mere syllables exalt mesas? or mountain peaks? or high altitude streams?   Instead…I return to breath, I bow.  I praise.  I listen to my soul’s longing.” 100_5648

Seven years after that journal entry, I moved to New Mexico. I found my Walden.  I call the wild places home.  Some nights you may see me running with the wolves!

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.” –Henry David Thoreau

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