Collateral Beauty

Death is a subject that most would like to avoid discussing. Myself included. However, after attending four funerals in three weeks, I’m feeling the need to ventilate. Yes, I’ve heard the statements, ” Death is a part of life,” and “We all have to leave this place some time, or “She/he is in a better place now.” In truth, these sayings don’t bring much comfort when you’re in the shadow of the death. This is not meant to be some philosophical exegesis on the idea of death and dealing. The fact is that death is hard and mysterious, no matter how much religion, knowledge, or preparation you think you have.

One of the funerals I attended this month was by far one of the saddest. I found myself standing there in a begging mode of prayer for the family members of the deceased. Each one of their cries reached all the way down into my soul and sent my mind in a lurch to make things right. The crushing realization that I couldn’t set me in a slow motion orbit where my imagination, in defect mode, defied the gravitational pull of the emotional pain. I saw the family. Each one of them, still in the land of the living. Dreams and hopes, though presently obscured, still resided within them. All around that hole in the ground was life. That life and the realization of its frailty was now illuminated with heightened intensity. The Book had been closed on the loved one in the box. For the living, it was a part of another chapter.

I thought about the resolve and strength of the family members. The challenges overcome and views toward the future. I was inspired by what was still here, still possible. By looking deeply into the situation, I saw beyond it. Just like a cool drink is all the better on a sweltering summer day. There’s nothing like death, the threat ot it, or the thought of it to heighten the appreciation for life. That has been one of my methods to see behind that dark cloud. The knowing that there is something that will come to aid us not necessarily a result of the tragedy but in our adjustment to it. Although, in the smothering moments, we may not be able to see it. If we breath and look into a dark situation long enough, our faith will grasp onto the knowing that the sun will shine again. And it will, if we allow ourselves to see it. In our reeling world, we are in need of more of us who have an eye for the collateral beauty.

collateral beauty is defined as the beauty that lies within. It is the hidden beauty around anything dark that is happening as it cannot be seen directly. Not everyone believes in or accepts the concept.

Photos by Imani Moore

The bEARTHday Gift

It was the summer of 2018. I was in Chicago and had set my intention on meeting world reknown artist, Kerry James Marshall. I had no idea how this was to come about but that was my goal. I had no plan. I began by sharing my quest with a few friends. A day or so later, one of them called and informed me that Marshall was a doing an artist talk on June 21st in honor of the Charles White Retrospective exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. Since this was the esteemed Kerry James Marshall, you had to have a ticket in order to attend. I was in for sure. This was going to be way easier than I could have imagined. As soon as I could, I went online to get my ticket. Right there on the screen in a boldfaced black rectangle were the words SOLD OUT!

Aw hell naw! There was no way I was going to get this close and miss that boat. It had to happen.I had to be in there. I called the museum and was informed that there was an expansive waiting list already. I hung the phone up, head heavy with thought. How was I to bring this to pass? I was supposed to meet Kerry James Marshall. The idea had come. The intent had been set. The possibility has been glimpsed. Now I was here, in this liminal space of not knowing what to do to make it happen. I went to a well connected professor at the School of the Art Institute. Surely he could find a way. “Kerry James Marshall is rockstar status. There won’t be any comp tickets.” He told me. “I’m getting in that auditorium”, I told him. “Even if I’m the guy setting up his chair or adjusting the microphone.” Before long all of my cohorts were aware of my intent, even down to sweeping the floor in the auditorium. I talked that up like nobody’s business without a clue of a how. I just knew the what, when, and where.

The days were passing and the date was drawing near. It appeared I was no closer to my goal than before. In my chest though, there was this knawing knowing that would not go away. Each Wednesday, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago would host Artist Talks at the MacLean Center Auditorium. on Michigan Avenue. It was June 20th, my bEARTHday and still no leads. The day was filled with well wishers and bEARTHday meals with friends. That evening, I walked in the auditorium and headed to my customary center, second row from the front, seat. Greg Bordowitz, the Low Res MFA program director walked down the center aisle and greeted me as he usually would. Then he said, “I heard you wanted to see Kerry James Marshall.” I confirmed, eyebrows raised. “I got you on the VIP list.” he continued. ” Just go right in on tomorrow and tell them who you are and they’ll get you seated.” Although I knew in my chest, there would be a way, it was still hard to believe. I would be in that auditorium the next day! “Happy birthday.” He said with a smile and walked away. My gratitude was a groundswell that surfaced in a flood of thank yous.

I shared the news with my cohorts who couldn’t believe the news. On more than a few times that night they reiterated the fact that I had this uncanny ability to make things happen. It certainly appeared that way. Nevertheless, I was not about to question anything between that moment and 6pm June 21st. I was busy trying to wrap my mind around it all.

The next afternoon, I decided to take a nap. I rarely take naps. I wanted to be fully rested and fully awake for the presentation. I had just drifted off or maybe I was just deep in thought, when my phone rang. It was Bethelhem, a friend and fellow artist. “Jahni, I knew you wanted a ticket to see Kerry James Marshall. Lucas can’t go and wants you to have his ticket.” In my brain something hit like those things at the fair when you hit the hammer on the base to make the bell ring. I thanked her profusely. The resulting adrenaline had driven every ounce of sleep back to my infancy. I called home and shared the news. Again I heard how things I truly wanted seemed to appear.

Before 5:30 I was walking over to the Auditorium. I had called another friend and promised her the additional ticket. When I arrived, there was a line down the sidewalk, rockstar style. I walked up and got in line. Then I remember that he had told me to go right in. There was a strange mixture of guilt and pride as I passed all the people in line. A well-dressed lady inside, looked up my name, took me to a side door of the auditorium, and pointed down front. “You can choose any of those seats.” She said. “Any one of them? I repeated. “Yes, any one of them.” She repeated, smiling. I walked my happy butt down there and sat smack dab on the front row.

That night after the event, I walked out the building in conversation with Alabama native, world reknown artist, Kerry James Marshall, his wife, playwright, director, actress, Cheryl Lynn Bruce, along with John White (son of artist, Charles White) and some friends. It had come to pass.

Please allow that be a testament to the power of purpose and intent. I didn’t know the how in the beginning. I just knew the what and kept my focus there. In a series of unfolding events, trusting the process, it came to be. And that professor who said there would be no comp tickets was there too, sitting toward the back in the regular seats. A lot of us saw the power of intent at work that night. In truth my bEARTHday gift was the realization of that gift. Investing the time with Kerry James Marshall was a byproduct of it.

Space Is Our Place

I grew up in the beating heart of the gallant south. In fact, for years, a tagline on the local license plates read,”Heart of Dixie.” Navigating this plane in a black body has been more than interesting. Along the way, I’ve encountered what most meet on any lengthy travel; traffic jams, roadblocks, dead ends, spans of open roads and the ever challenging notion of space between myself and other travelers.

In 2017, I came to know of Sun Ra. I’d heard of him before and knew of him only as an eccentric musician. Not much beyond that. It was in Chicago, where I came to know him. One of my professors was a collaborator in a book about him. She set me on the road to the Alabama native via Chicago. Sun Ra signaled to me in various forms. It was in innerspace, a few years later, where I met him.

In 2018, I was commissioned by Google to do a mural in Huntsville. The final destination for the piece was a large metal wall facing the Butler green at Campus 805, a local brewery and entertainment venue. I submitted a number of concept sketches, wanting to expound on the “Rocket City” theme without focusing on overdone rockets. Each one came back with notes from too racy to too sexy. Finally we landed on an idea that would fly. Now I was wrestling with the wording that I wanted to add to the piece. While sitting at my desk at the school where I was teaching at the time I pulled up a documentary on Afrofuturism as part of my continued research. It started out with the words…

“The term Afrofuturism first appeared in an essay titled, Black To The Future, by Mark Dery, in 1994 – but its roots go back to a fateful night in the late 1930’s in Huntsville, Alabama. On that peculiar evening a beam of light shot down from the sky, and lifted Herman “Sonny “Blount into an alien spacecraft. On a voyage to Jupiter [actually it was Saturn], his captors prompted him with a mission: To transport Black people away from the racism and violence of planet Earth. “Sonny” became Sun Ra…”

I turned to look at the video and replayed it to be sure I heard what I thought I’d heard. Sure enough, it went on about Sun Ra, who has been billed the father of Afrofuturism, and how he had received his vision and charge lifted from the edge of a corn field on the outskirts of the campus of Alabama A&M University. Yes, Alabama A & M University, my alma mater. I knew in that moment, the name and wording of the mural. I was also reminded that I was born in this space capital, at this time, in this body, and set on a cosmic quest.

Once I began play on the mural, the rains decided to come and work with me. I took every dry moment I could, to paint. I slung paint in the mornings before school, after school, and on weekends. With the rain, I had less that two weeks to fully complete the piece. Nature definitely put me to the challenge. One morning I came back after an evening of painting into the night to find that a misty rain had melted the face of the main image. I kept going. We don’t stop. One day a man from the neighborhood walked up an asked if I was really putting “one of us on a wall. Bruh, that’s alright.” He said, and walked away in pride. A blonde woman from inside the venue would come out daily to watch me paint on her break. “Thanks for doing this.” She said one day. ” I was so glad when I saw you were painting a woman there.” Another day, an Asian woman walked by, stood gazing at the piece for awhile, got my attention, and simply said, Thank you so much.” I knew the nature of her gratitude. Even before completion, the art was doing its work.

Finally I completed the piece and stood back to look at what we’d done. An employee came out of the building and exclaimed, “Dude, it’s so cool that you’re honoring Sun Ra, and on his birthday.” “Uh, yeah for sure.” I replied, totally physically unaware that is was Sun Ra’s bEARTHday. When the gentleman walked away, I snatched out my phone and checked the facts. Sure enough, It was May 22, Sun Ra’s bEARTH date. There it was, that connection beyond connections.

Summer of 2019, I invested an insane number of hours pouring over mountains of Sun Ra archives in the University of Chicago Library. On my return to Huntsville, I went back and added to the mural, the image of a man levitating to the heavens, honoring Sun Ra’s space baptism. Sun Ra’s revelation led him on the quest for liberation by way of music, claiming space as our place, pulling heavily from ancient Egyptian culture. I honor that celestial philosophy and take artistic license to add that the space between us is also vast and in need of exploration. There are worlds of possibilities that vibrate in that space, if we could just see past the limiting notion that it only separates us, and realize that it also connects us. In all of its forms, space is our place.

Liberty With A Twist…

Last week, I shared the story of how we acquired my daughter’s Jeep. Fast forward to about a year later. My sister reached out to me about finding a car for my niece, who was in town attending Alabama A&M University. It appears they thought I was pretty good at finding deals. My niece came over and we discussed cars. A few weeks went by and nothing was gelling. Finally I asked her what did she actually want. She didn’t have a clue. Therein lay the part of the problem. She, and subsequently, we had not set our divine GPS. I asked her to decide on exactly what she wanted, down to the color. She finally said, “I like Imani’s car. Something like that would be good, except I want mine to be white.” Cool. Before the evening was over we had scoured the internet looking at white Jeep Liberties.

I found one she liked in Montevallo, AL. It fit the profile and the price range. The next day, my niece and partner met at the bank to get the financing together. I planned to drive down to Montevallo and proceed with the purchase of the car. For some reason, they took forever and a day to get the bank stuff in order. I was hours later leaving than planned. Now it was going to be thigh thick with Birmingham rush hour traffic. I was not a happy camper. I called my daughter on the way down (She had transferred to University of Alabama in Birmingham). I figured since she had a jeep she could be instrumental in the details. I scooped her up from UAB campus and continued my journey.

Highway 280 was horrendous. I was stopping every five feet, it seemed.. We would never make it there before dark like that. My anxiety was spilling out in the car. “This is utterly ridiculous!”, I stated at the beginning of my rant, from the snail paced traffic, to them taking so long at the bank, to the world state of affairs. My daughter was quiet. I could feel her looking at me from the passenger seat. “Being upset won’t get us there any sooner. There’s nothing we can do about the traffic.” Yep. she did it again. Found that button that had been stuck in the on position and adjusted it accordingly. I took a deep breath and exhaled. With that breath went the anxiety. I had breathed in the realization that I wasn’t going to affect any of this with my attitude. Just be in the moment. Sometime our children have an awesome way of giving us back to ourselves.

My daughter was here with me and we would be in the car for a while so that time was of value. We ended up having great conversations about school, life, and just stuff. She had pulled some good laughs out of me by the time we pulled up to the white Jeep in the parking lot of Montevallo University. The owner drove up as we we walking around the car. The internet photos looked so much better. The paint was really scratched up. The tires were all odd and worn. The beck spare was a different size. The interior had seen better days. When I started it up, the sound was less than satisfying. There was something that wasn’t quite right. My mood was dropping right along with the prospect of this being the car. I asked my daughter how it sounded to her since she drove a Jeep. She said it sounded different. We took it for a drive to a local mechanic shop. After a few minutes, I had a subtle sneaky suspicion the shop owner and the car owner knew each other. The mechanic on duty was about to tell us something. The shop owner stopped him and turned full tilt into a car salesman. The jig was up. My spidey senses were tingling all over the place. My daughter looked at me and asked, “Do you get that same good feeling in your stomach as when you bought my car?” “No, not at all.” I replied. The car owner wouldn’t budge on his asking price. We took the car back to its resting place and left.

As we drove back toward Birmingham, I keep saying to myself. “I don’t understand. This was it. This was the trip for the Jeep. I really though that was the car. Everything was in place. It was supposed to happen. Was my method faulty, my faith finicky?” It just didn’t make sense. I decided to take my daughter’s earlier wisdom and enjoy the journey and time we had. We stopped at the Purple Peanut in Birmingham and had scrumptious veggie burgers. I asked here not to tell anyone about not getting the Jeep, especially my niece. She would be devastated since she was expecting me to return with the car. I took my daughter back to campus, checked the fluids in her Jeep and headed back home to Huntsville.

Still befuddle, I kept replaying everything in my head. All the signs had been in place. Where had I gone wrong? I made a few calls on the way home, using the time to catch on on some chatting. As I talked to my partner, I shared the events of the evening, from my disappointments to the wonderful time I shared with Imani. Then I missed my exit. “I’ll get the next one.” I said, a bit frustrated as it had started to drizzle rain. I hate driving in the rain. “Don’t tell herabout the Jeep.”, I said, feeling defeated.

“Why not, she’s going to find out anyway.” she responded.

“Just, please don’t tell her.”

I missed the next exit too. What the heck was going on? I’d taken this route more times than I can remember and never missed an exit or turn. By then I had called my mother and shared the events of the evening. “Well, everything happens for a reason.” She gave her usual reply. It wasn’t helping, but I took it. I finally got off at the Athens exit and headed back to huntsville. “I’m all the way in Athens, Mom. This is crazy.” “Well at least you made it back most of the way safe.” She said. This woman was not going to let me grovel and groan in peace. As I headed back to Huntsville from the opposite direction, I caught a glimpse of a white Jeep to my right. I was just about dark so I wasn’t totally clear. I said, “Mom, I think I just saw a Jeep like the one we were looking for.” “Be careful, she exclaimed. It’s dark outside.” Mom, I’m grown.” I said only to myself and excitedly whipped my car around, went back and pulled up next to it. “It looks good.” I said. “Let me call you back.” I got out of the car and inspected the white Jeep Liberty I had been led to. The mileage was much lower than the others we had seen. The paint look nearly new, as did the tires. The interior was all intact and without visible wear. Although the price was beyond what we wanted to pay, I knew this was her car. I called the number on the window. The gentleman on the other end said it had been his niece’s car. He’d only had to replace the tires and windshield wipers. he was self employed so he could meet me the next morning to check it out.

As I sat in the bank office with my niece next to me and the car parked outside, I turned to her and said. “I guess I should let you know that the Jeep outside is snot the one I drove down to get.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “It’s right there.” “That’s not the same one though.” I responded and went on to relay the story to her right there in the office. She sat there in awe through the last part of the story. The Loan officer, smiling behind his computer, chimed in, “Now that’s God in action .”

Trust the process, even when you don’t understand the manner of unfolding. Everything on that journey was serving as an informant to usher me to a new level of understanding and trust. Sometimes you’ll be taken out of your way to get to the way. Once you set you intent and begin the process, trust it. I no longer limit my faculties to the realm of belief. It’s a type of knowing now. I always go a little further, get clear, make up my mind, and walk in that space that I like to call miracle territory. That’s real liberty.

Trusting The Process

Those were words I consistently shared with my students, children, or anyone else who fell under the sound of my voice in conversation. Trusting the process is an easy concept but a challenging charge. I’ll share one of a multitude of examples where I’ve had no other choice…really.

Some years back, my daughter drove a little black Jeep Liberty. That Jeep came from a process of trusting and, I must add, setting intent. Before that she drove the cutest darling red Volkswagen Beetle. When I bought it for her, the Christmas of her senior year in high school, she just sat in it on that usually warm winter day and cried tears of joy. That joy multiplied in me many times over, just seeing and remembering. That little Beetle was a dream come true…all the way up until it wasn’t. It transformed into a time and money chomping little beast. It ate up most of her earnings from her job at the movie theatre, and a good share of mine. The electrical system went haywire. The moonroof decided to get stuck open right before a torrential downpour. One day I came home and she had the dash and door guts spread out on the ground in front of the garage. I looked at her in passing, saw the determination in her face, took a deep breath, and picked up my steps to the door of the house. Hours later she had mitigated the problem. I then realized that this little fella was helping me parent. It was actually teaching her lessons about patience, perseverance, hard work, hard times, and all that good stuff. Plus, I had a requirement that to have a car, you had to make enough money to pay your own monthly insurance premium. My daughter never missed a payment, even with all the beetle juice draining.

It was a Thanksgiving holiday when she came home for the break from Jacksonville University. She had gone away to college at sixteen so I was a little more than protective. That little beetle sputtered into the yard and she hopped out, glad to be home. I knew then, it was over. I sent her back to school after Christmas in my truck. This came in handy because we had a snowstorm that winter and the truck was right on time for her. Not for me though. I needed my ole trusty truck back.

When she came home for spring break, we had already decided that we were going to get her another car. The beetle was resting in the driveway, waiting to see what the end would be. I had informed her that my truck would not be going back to the university. We decided on the type of car she wanted, all the way down to the color. Then she added, “And I want a sunroof.” She had grown fond of the little hole in the top of the beetle. I understand though. I’m a sunroof man too. My response to her was, “I don’t think they come with a sunroof, doll.” “Ok”, she said without any argument.

Nights after work, I’d been pouring through online ads looking for a black Jeep Liberty. One particular night, still sitting in my tiny office, just as I was about to sign off, I saw it. At a local dealership right in town. A basic black Jeep, no sunroof, no leather seats, no 4×4. Just a basic basic. But it was a black Jeep Liberty and in my price range. I called and it was available. I knew I wouldn’t make it there before the dealership closed so we planned to go the next morning and claim our Jeep. The timing was perfection without practice. I’d found the jeep and she was home for spring break. She would drive that jeep back to school. And I would have my good ole truck back.

The next morning I called to let the dealership know I was on the way. They couldn’t find the Jeep. They eventually told us it had sold the night before so late that the salesperson neglected to put it in the system. I didn’t understand. That was our jeep. I was inclined to take my frustration out on the person on the other end of the phone but decided otherwise and let them go, unscathed. But my feelings were thoroughly scathed. It was right in my price range too. It seemed perfect. She was home from school to get her Jeep. The one she described, sort of.

In my shadow of defeat, I went to my laptop, halfheartedly opened it, and began to surf. After a few minutes, I found one in Ardmore, AL about 30 miles away. It was more Jeep than I had planned for and the price was above my range. “Can we at least go look at it?” she asked. The hopeful look on her face and the memory of the time, care, and dollars she’d poured into the beastle pulled a reluctant, “Alright then.” out of me. This trip would have a dual purpose. It would keep me from having to break it to her that we couldn’t afford that car and it would give her something to set her sights on. We headed to Ardmore.

When we arrived, the Jeep was right up front. You know how the small dealerships park the best looking vehicles up front toward the street. My heart skipped again. It was extra clean. It was black with heated leather seats, low miles, alloy wheels, great tires, 4-wheel drive…and a sunroof. My eyebrows went up. Right along with the price tag. As we talked to the salesman, I was trying to give my daughter the eye to not appear so excited. Then something kicked in. I call it the faith factor. My daughter’s name actually means ‘faith’.

“Are you financing with us? Do you have a trade in?” the salesman asked. “I have my own financing and yes, I have a trade in.”, I responded. My daughter’s head whipped around to me. The surprise in her eyes was undisguised. I gave her the side eye and she played it cool. She’s good at reading me. I described the beetle to the guy and he really seemed interested. “Ok, we’ll be back in about and hour or so if we decide we want the Jeep.” I said nonchalantly. ” We can do you right with that beetle.” he tagged on. I waved and we kept walking toward my truck, never looking back.

“He really wants that beetle.” I finally told her when we were pulling off the lot. “I think it may work.” “But that Jeep is way over the price you said…” she started. I cut her off, “It is right now, but I have a plan. And I believe that’s your Jeep.” We got home and I told her to get the keys to the Beetle. I could see the questions in her eyes. The Beetle actually ran fairly well. Plus the shiny red paint made it look way better than it actually was. She retuned with the keys. We hopped in and headed back. It was a long shot but one I was going to take. “He’s a car man. He’ll decide what he’s going to do. I’ll be straight with him about it, and we’ll see what happens.” The beetle had other plans. About a mile or two from the house one of the foglight just popped right out. We both heard it hit the concrete. I pulled over on a side street and rigged it back in. “This thing is fighting not to go. We just need it to get us to that lot.”

We pulled up a little over a half hour later and in less than forty five minutes, we pulled off that car lot and headed back to Huntsville in a shiny black Jeep Liberty with new tires, heated leather seats, 4-wheel drive…and yes, a sun roof. At a point, I had conceded and began to trust the process. I knew something was unfolding for us. I accepted that this was what she wanted, not just what we would settle for. Let that sink in for a minute. And with the beetle trade-in, it came within my chosen price range. There’s power in that that thing-the faith factor (that could have just as easily been the title of this post). I’ve experienced it more times that I can count on all my digits. At those times when doubt creeps in and settles down beside me, I remind myself to trust the process. Do remember though, that process is an action word.

Safe Haven

On yesterday a dear friend of mine had the honor of meeting the parent of two of my former students. I must note here that I am no longer in the standard classroom. My spirit pushed me out of it like the last bit of toothpaste from the tube. She called me afterward to share the experience.

Of course my first question was how did either of them make the connection to me. My friend had started the conversation as she was meeting her appointment at the office. The lady had mentioned her daughters and art. My friend mention me as an artist and former classroom art educator. At that point I became the uncommon denominator. She said my students’ mother’s eyes lit up. ” He was the best she said. Even my children who were not in his classes loved him.” She went on to talk about the influence on her daughters and proceeded to ask for my number and send some pics of one of her daughter’s (now young woman) works of art. She had actually chosen that as a profession.

“You were a safe haven for her daughters.” Those words stuck to the sides of my brain. It made me think about how desperately we are in need of safe haven in our world. Perhaps my mission as an educator, and artist who taught, had been on point. I wanted my students to know that in the space I prepared for them, they had arrived. The had come to a space where I would unsettled them traditionally and inspire them creatively. A place where they were safe to be who they were beyond judgement or fear of being. They were safe to make the necessary “failures” that led to their successes. I listened as much to what they did not say as I did to the words they spoke with their mouths.

In my studio classroom, I referred to them as world changers in effect. The world I referred to specifically was their own, first. Next, was our world within that creative classroom lab. The one that I tried to make as much as possible into a microcosm of the real one in terms of creative challenges. I often told them that my number one job was to prepare them. If they learned to like or love me along the way, I was okay with that. If they did not, I’d be okay with that too. “But my number one job is to prepare you.”

In all of what I attempted, it appears I did create a type of safe space. I’ve heard that more than once or twice. I created, in artistic terms, a mock up of the world I wanted to live in. At times when I am tempted to doubt based on news headlines of murdered children and families destroyed, I am always led back to the stories. The true stories in my life that serve as reminders of our possibility to create, to construct a space where life thrives in a conducive environment beyond mere existence. A space beyond this seeming chaotic one where we tap into an inner space that no one can truly disturb. A space that makes room for safe haven.

Full Moon Musings

It was just after 4am when sleep just up and left me. I arose and went into the front room to a sublime glow seeping through the large picture window. I went to the window first, then the door to go out. The morning air was unusually chilled. High above me, the the light source made herself known. THE FULL MOON CAST HER GLOW DOWN ON ME LIKE A BLANKET. I could actually feel her just as one would feel the heat of the sun on a warm summer day. I stood there staring as if waiting for her to speak to me. After all, she had called to me, right.

The previous days activities played out in my mind, immediately followed by an unfolding of messages so clear and precise. She was speaking to me. The lunar clarity was exhilarating. I went inside and sat down to transcribe the messages. As I sat down, a verse from the Gospel of Thomas came to mind.

“If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

Then I came upon this verse…

“When you know yourselves, then you will be known, and you will understand that you are children of the living Father. But if you do not know yourselves, then you will live in poverty, and you are the poverty.”

At that moment I wrote these words. Our intuition is powerful. It emanates from our true selves. It is the voice of “God.” Fear blocks the path, halts us and ignites doubt. Doubt is fed by all of our insecurities like dry tender feeds a fire. It is fanned and spread by overthinking (a form of procrastination, which is still fear by another name). Before we realize it we are consumed by doubt, our true voice/self is seared and we stand about blinded by the smoke of our indecision. At this point we must move, just move in any direction. Just move or we will remain in that space and the smoke/confusion will only grow even more blinding…and we remain. Making a decision and acting on it is God/Divinity in action. This is what came to me this early morning when I asked a question while standing on the porch gazing at that full moon glory, so powerful, magnificent, and divine. We must find the quiet moments to listen, be still, and know. Trust the process…

The Renting of The Veil

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For the last number of weeks, about a month now, aside from my early dawn journaling, I’ve not been moved to write.  The last post was a few days before the box office murder of George Floyd. If all the world is a stage then we are living in a snuff film. A week or so ago, I spoke with a fellow artist about creating work dealing with the current events.  His statement to me, “What can I create?! All I feel is rage right now.”  That became his piece, and perhaps will lend toward his peace. The work is in two subdued shades of green, a most calming color on the human eye. It is eerily relaxing. Reminiscent of nature.  The blocky letters are spaced within the space. This work to me, is a groundswell, a restrained explosion of epic proportions.  It’s charged.  That is where I am at the moment. Amid throes of protests and its peripherals is a releasing of pent up energy on the heels of the corona scare. My hope and prayer is that it is more than a reaction, more than a fit of rage, a tantrum, a populist cooption, more than a rising emotional wave that will crest and settle into a waning tide only having made noise crashing against a shore, and washing back out to see in the distance, faded shades of dream once again deferred.

My prayer and action will be for us to know what justice looks like; when we look in the mirror. Justice to me is to want for another, the basic rights, freedoms, and privileges that I desire for myself. To look into the face of one who you assume to be the least like you and to see yourself, your son, your daughter, your mother or father, even a reflection of your God. Would this change how you see, how you perceive another as so different and deserving of any less than you?

The front and center murder of George Floyd or Ahmaud Arbery is by no means an anomaly on the historical screen of American cinema. It’s a festering outbreak of an American cancer; a debilitating malady her founding fathers and their seed refused and refuse to acknowledge or chooses to ignore.  It will continue to eat away at the heart and soul until a most certain demise ensues..  It is deeply imbedded in the psyche of the American way of life.  So much so that it may not even be noticed on the daily by the benefactors beneath the pomp and circumstance of perceived progress. Perchance this latest outbreak will trigger a turn of events, the catalyst for the paradigm shift in the conscious of the American psyche. Hopefully it is the Renting of the veil.  The veil of American illusion also known as…to be continued…

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Tend Her Heart

Heartsound“Tend Her Heart”  graphite on paper…from my sketch pad (future mural)

The heart is more than a shape, it shapes… During this extended time of settling and setting, staying over going, and remaining in place rather that going out of place, many have risen to a new level of presence; tapped into a heart space that had been crowded out by too much doing and not enough being. With churches, temples, synagogues, mosques, and ounfos closed, what has been the nature of your worship.  Beyond program, ritual, preaching, and singing, how have you tended your heart space? This morning I asked a small group of people, “What feeds your heart?”  Sadly, none could answer. I quickly shifted the weight and asked they they allow themselves to think on it in their own space and time.  Mine was not to ask in order to task but tend toward tenderness. Notice how we attend to everything else at the neglecting expense of our living center. There is no wonder that imbalance is in abundance.  A heart has never attacked anyone, they seize and shut down because we neglect to truly tend them. We show more care to  static edifices of brick, wood, plaster, mortar, and glass.

“Because our heart dwells in unattended dark, we often forget its sublime sensitivity to everything that is happening to us. Without our ever noticing, the heart absorbs the joys of things and also their pain and care. Within us, therefore, a burdening can accrue. For this reason, it is wise now and again to tune in to your heart and listen for what it carries. Sometimes the simplest things effect unexpected transformation. The old people here used to say that a burden shared is a burden halved. Similarly, when you allow your heart to speak, the burdens it carries diminish, a new lightness enters the body, and relief floods the heart…the state of one’s heart inevitable shapes one’s life; it is ultimately the place where everything is decided….because it is where God dwells: the heart is the divine sanctuary.”                                              +John O’Donohue, This Space Between Us.

Return To Roots

Roots

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

In one of my favorite films, A Walk In The Clouds, a fire destroys the family vineyard. The father, in a fit of a pain induced drunken rage hurls a lantern, setting generations of family wealth ablaze. The next morning in the ghostly mist, the once lush vineyard lay in gray dusty waste.  The patriarchs are crushed, the women lament, all seems lost until a newcomer, an outsider remembers a small hill above the vineyard where the mother plant lived.  He races there to find that her deep-running roots have not been charred by the invasive flames.  Hope is rekindled. Even more so a bond is formed and a return to the true wealth of family connection is inspired.

There is something about the human spirit that is sometimes galvanized by adversity. Under the current circumstances we may find ourselves taking inventory on preparedness and daily habits. At present, gardening and back to earth activities are at an all-time high. Is it because people are staying at home or because they see a greater need for some level of self- reliance? That reliance piece is a potent point to ponder.  We have watched our government fumble and flood us with jabberwocky as they struggle to lead us through this. Most of them know only as much or less than the average one of us.  At the end of the day, it does not matter whether those that govern our nation know exactly what to do in the face of a such a threat.  We have a right, even a need, to take more responsibility; the ability to respond in a way conducive to our well being. When the boom falls it boils down to how we respond as a community; individuals coming together for a cause beyond commonality to lighten the overall load. The governing voices to many are distant babbling echoes. Why, because they will still be compensated and voted in again, and it’s the marginalized who suffer most. It’s a little easier to tell someone to be patient from a comfortable position. Millions more are without incomes at this time, businesses gone belly up, and day to day living has become a matter of survival. We’ve focused so much on “terrorist” threats from beyond the borders, spending billions on military might that we (some not all) never imagined this coming.  This alien invader will create a major paradigm shift.

More is yet to come.  Govern your own ship. Reclaim your power.  Plant a garden, teach your children, turn off the programming and learn a marketable trade, take care of this body that transports your spirit through this life.  Reconnect to mother earth. Reconnect to   your abilities.  Reconnect to each other. Reconnect to whatever force or power you believe set the course of life into motion. That is our root. The depth of that connection will determine the development of human life as we move forward in harmony with the natural order of things. We’ve adapted to a manufactured environment and built an artificial life force that is not solely sustainable in a time of unpredicted unrest.  In a state of fear and confusion, we have allowed politics to dictate reality. A.R.T. (A Resurrecting Truth) will help us to truly perceive that reality and subsequently create one in which we can do more than merely survive.  In this state our development will be in harmony with the natural world rather than a pseudo-progression at the expense of it, and ultimately us.