The Creative Heart

I watched as my son, Alex, carefully undid the wrapping, opened the wooden box, and lifted a corner of the quilted cloth. On his face, I saw a strange look of disbelief. “It’s broken,” he said. Now it was my turn to be stunned. The beautiful ceramic bowl sat in broken shards on its rose-colored cloth. I was crushed and horrified. It felt like a betrayal.

A few months ago, I wrote a blog about Kintsugi — the Japanese art of repairing a broken bowl with gold. For Christmas, I offered a Japanese tea bowl that had been repaired using this method, to Alex and my daughter-in-law, Connie. I felt it would be a meaningful gift as they embarked on married life together. With baby Vita now a hear and half, a new baby on the way, and the opening of a store in Asheville, North Carolina, East Fork Pottery, their life is full. I thought of the Kintsugi bowl with its veins of gold as a symbol of creatively and beautifully overcoming challenges.

A week later, I was still feeling badly about how my gift turned out. I thought to myself, I should make something with these shards — a sculpture — and give it to them. I mentioned my idea to Alex and he seemed a little put off — then he said, “Yes, um, we should do a repair.” And I understood that he wanted to repair the bowl himself. I had kept it anticipating that I would return the broken shards to the gallery, but they graciously refunded the price I had paid. We decided to talk about it in early January when we will next be together.

Everything in our world is impermanent. Wood turns to ash and fallen leaves to compost. The broken pot shards can become something else. Accepting change is about no longer being stuck in what was, but moving on. This moving on is the awakening of our creative heart.

I know that my well-being depends on feeling that I have connected to that place of creativity inside my heart. With days of less meaningful doing, I begin to fall into this dark abyss of my own mind. I become disjointed, my body altogether not my body, my limbs connected like a puppet. I don’t act with spontaneity and wholeness. I can be in the most beautiful place and if I don’t feel connected to it, I can’t appreciate it because I block the beauty from entering my bones. I can be in the most loving relationship and not allow this love to enter.

Each creative act makes use of something that is unresolved in our hearts. Each creative act makes the world whole. In this new year, let’s make whatever is broken whole again. We don’t, in fact, can’t know what it will look like. Who would ever imagine that a river carved a canyon that enthralls millions of people thousands of years later. I can’t imagine what will possibly come out of this box of pot shards, but this is precisely the process that heals broken places and turns them into art. 

In this new year, I’d like to remember that broken bowl when I find myself slipping away from my creative heart, when I feel alone and cut off.  For I know that in doing the work I will find my way back. We all share this longing that is deeply human, that beseeches us to be fully our own life, to belong completely to the entirety. Our longing is the gift we can offer.

When I started this weekly blog, Apples, Art, and Spirit, one year ago, I thought it would be a one-year project and I would be using the orchard as a springboard to write. With 2016 being a year of no apples, they have been a very silent partner. I’ve decided to commit to another year, and hopefully with some good winter chill, we will have an apple crop and there will be more apple-inspired writing. Please join me, share the blog with your friends, and together let’s lift the corner of the new year, white, and pure, and unknown. It’s ours to create for the very first time.

A Christmas Tale

Babushka is a fairytale set in Russia about a little, old woman. It begins on a snowy and cold night inside a little hut with a warm fire and a rocking chair, and Babushka sitting and rocking quietly when she hears a knocking on her door. In Russia, on a cold winter night, Babushka knows it would be rude not to open the door. She rises from her chair, shuffles over, and opens it. Three colorfully dressed men are cold and wet and hungry and she invites them in. They stomp in with snow and mud and muck on their boots. She feeds them and lets them warm themselves by the fire. Then they tell Babushka why they have come.

          “We have come here to ask you to join us. We are wise men and we have studied the stars. We know that a baby will be born tonight in Bethlehem — the Prince of Peace. We were told to stop here and bring you with us.

          “What do you have in those wrapped boxes?” she asked.

          “We are bringing gifts of frankincense, myrrh and gold, to the newborn child.” 

          “Oh, I am an old, old lady and my blood is thin and it is cold. I can’t go cavorting out in this weather.”

 Annoyed by the intrusion of the three wise men into her peaceful evening, and ashamed because she had no gift for this Prince of Peace, Babushka showed the men to the door and sat back down on her rocker.

She rocked and she rocked, but she was agitated. Why would I want to see this Prince of Peace, she asked herself? Then she imagined this wee baby and her heart opened.

Nursing TIme, Bronze figure and rusty alarm clock, LH

She did have something for the newborn child. No spices and jewels, but, in her closet she had baby clothes, baby blankets, toys, and trinkets — all kinds of things she had saved after her own child had died.

         “I will go with them,” she decided. “I will leave in the morning and find these three wise men.”

Babushka set out at sunup wearing all she could fit on her body. Three pairs of socks, three vests, three coats, and a big red shawl over her head and tied around her neck. In a big basket she carried toys and trinkets, blankets and sheets for the baby. She asked everywhere she went if anyone had seen the three wise men, but no one had. Babushka stopped along her way, offering a gift to every household with child.

Woman Walking, Bronze Figure, LH

Babushka never caught up with the three wise men, and she never made it to Bethlehem that Christmas morning. But she continued on, walking always to the next house, always farther, trudging onward. Babushka continues to this very day. Every Christmas morning she brings toys and gifts to families with children.

The odd history of this story is that it is not commonly known in Russia, and seems to have been created by the American poet, Edith Matilda Thomson. Apparently Thomson’s poem was so popular it was retold and retold, until the origin of the tale was lost. Which brings me to wonder about our own Santa Claus.  

When I looked up the origin, I came upon the book, Santa Claus, Last of the Wild Men: The Origins and Evolution of Saint Nicholas, Spanning 50,000 Years, by Phyllis Siefker. The author makes a case that Santa Claus is not related to jolly old Saint Nicholas, originally from Turkey, but belongs to a lineage of ‘Wild Men’ who were worshiped in fertility rites and came to America with German immigrants who settled in Pennsylvania. Siefker’s Santa Claus belongs to the line of pagan heroes like Robin Hood and Puck, and to harlequins and jesters and those wild men wearing goat skins and bear fur. Perhaps even our own Johnny Appleseed with his horny feet and tin hat shares these same ancestors.

We remember these ‘wild men’ most of all for their generous spirit — food for the poor, trees for the settlers. And we remember Babushka because she transformed her personal loss and loneliness into an offering of love. Babushka has never stopped giving. This is the real message of the Prince of Peace.

Merry Christmas!

Who are the Crones?

We are the crones, the old and wrinkled, wise ones. We have many names— Hecate, Spider Grandmother, Demeter; Siren, Gaea, and Oracle. We wait at the crossroads. We praise and encourage the living, we honor and care for the dying. In times of darkness, we know spring will return.

Woman Launching Boat, bronze sculpture, cherry wood, LH

At the time of the winter solstice ancient people believed that we must help the Light to be reborn. In many cultures, the crones facilitated this return. Women carried the mystery of life and death; women labored to guide back the sun. 

 Then things changed and men took control of women, especially in matters of religion.

Buddhism has traditionally followed the established social norms of the patriarchy into which the Buddha was born. When the Buddha established the rules for his followers, he differentiated between nuns and monks. Any nun, no matter how old or enlightened, had to bow down to a monk, even a novice. In Zen monasteries, the lineage of the transmission from one male teacher to the next has always been chanted as part of the service. Recently, things are changing. At Zen Mountain Monastery we now chant the names of the enlightened women of the way in addition to the male lineage. There were many great and compassionate teachers who taught students both male and female. Today, we have an altar in the front of the meditation hall for Mahapajapati, the first Buddhist nun and teacher.

I began to think about other groups of women left unsung. In the American frontier world, Johnny Appleseed is a celebrated hero. He stands out as a bold revolutionary, spreading seeds and saplings, helping the settlers establish ownership to land by planting an orchard, and sharing his beliefs based on the Swedenborg religion. But who are the frontier women who helped create this country?  I found a few famous names—Belle Star, Poker Alice, Pearl deVere, Annie Oakley, Etta Place, and Calamity Jane. Belle was known for riding in a black velvet dress, six guns on her hips, and holding up stagecoaches. Poker Alice—you guessed it—was a devilishly good poker player, and bordello owner. Pearl deVere operated The Old Homestead, a lavishly upscale brothel in Cripple Creek, Colorado. You get the picture. Nice women don’t make history, but the names we choose to remember determine the history we remember.

The myths of ancient people are filled with stories of goddesses whose powers equaled that of their male counterparts. The history of women in the West is much more than brothels, bars, and Wild West shows. It is the story of hardworking American women, Native American women, Spanish-Mexican women, and the Chinese immigrant women who were sold and shipped to California by their impoverished families to work in laundries, bars, and mining camps. We need to remember all of these women and what a dark place the world has been for so many of them.  

Solstice Fire, Old Frog Pond Farm, photo: Alexis Pappis

December 21st is the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. At the farm we have a solstice fire where we reenact the return of the sun. In our ritual, it is the crones who go on a journey to find the sun and rebirth the Light. The crones remind us that there are many kinds of darkness. The darkness of racism and sexism, of hatred and war, of injustice, of sorrow and loss. The crones also remind us that there is darkness inside each of us, as well as a light. It is from this light, this often forgotten or darkened light, that the Goddesses labor, and birth the sun. Like Demeter knowing that she will be rejoined with her daughter, Persephone, we need to trust that the light will return, grief will be healed, and plants will bear fruit again.

Carl Jung said, "One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious." In remembering the names of those women who are forgotten, we shine light into the darkness of their cultural obscurity. As we light the solstice fire, we bring light to this world stamped with anger, aggression, and force. In gathering and opening our hearts to one another we grow the light. Happy Solstice!

The Olympic Bell (Part Two)

Last night I shared dinner with two friends, Mike and Ron. We sat around Ron’s dining room table surrounded by a Castor plant with its reddish feathery leaves, the large spear-leaves of a Bird of Paradise, the succulent greens of an enormous Clivia, and the large strong vines of a Night Blooming Cereus. Ron Kearns, a landscaper and plant lover, designed and planted the wildflower garden around the Olympic Bell that is in a quiet grove between our two houses.

The Olympic Bell is an installation by Paul Matisse, my former husband, that now permanently resides at the farm. Paul designed and built the bell for the Olympics in Greece, where it was installed below the Acropolis. I wrote a blogpost, The Olympic Bell – Part 1, during its installation at the farm and posted a photo of its installation in Athens. Now, I want to share its incarnation among New England’s version of stone columns, our majestic white pines.

The installation went smoothly, the bell rang all summer and fall as visitors to the farm discovered its magic and walked away carrying some of its powerful embodiment of depth and conviction. Some people visited it for the first time, and then returned again bringing their friends and family. The bell offers that kind of gift.

I walk out usually once a day to give it a ring, noticing on my way the footprints of other creatures like deer and beaver who make this same excursion. I enter the bell’s grove, stepping over the flat rock threshold. Pulling on its mighty rope, I like to lift the heavy hammer once, let it fall back, and then give a strong, long heave, letting hammer and bell meet. The sound penetrates down from my head and rises through my feet meeting somewhere in my heart space. It’s a deeply satisfying sound, as its maker describes it. I am filled with weight as I take it in. I feel the responsibility and greatness of being alive on this earth.

My friend, Linda Fialkoff, rang the bell and then sent me these words that expressed its sound.

Oceans

Cosmos

Aeons

Linda Fialkoff Ringing the Bell

Another friend said, “You know, Linda, I think it should have another name.” I looked at her in surprise, but asked, “Well, what would you call it?” She paused and then said, “The Earth Bell.”  I thought, that does describe it. It is a bell of the earth.

Ron made us vegetarian chili, opened a bottle of red wine, passed a plate of grated cheese, chopped cilantro and avocado. Mike, the other guest, brought thick fried spicy potatoes with onions. I asked Ron what he wanted to do for the next ten years, but he turned the question back to me.

“I want to get my book published.” The words flew out out before I gave it any thought. I have been writing this book for at least five years, and it is time to finish it and move on. The memoir begins when I leave my marriage of twenty years to Paul and move to this small farm in Harvard with an old apple orchard. In bringing back the orchard, I connected to part of myself that was underground, a seed waiting for fertile ground to put out my first tender rootlet. With the bell’s arrival on the farm, it feels like a completion of all that I was trying to understand and share in the writing of the book.

We each have our own way of connecting to our creativity, the seeds deep within. They need our nurturing, and it does take persistence and patience. The wildflower garden that Ron designed and installed creates a sacred grove that takes you outside of the farm, away from time. The sound of the bell opens the door to that fertile field.

You are welcome to come by and ring the bell anytime. Park in the usual spot and walk around the pond. If you have never been here and don't know where to go, please ask. Let’s keep sounding the bell and let its deep sonorous tone fill the air, creating more space for our deepest seeds to resound.