Words & Art

Since the Southern Oregon weather forecast calls for snow showers right into Easter, I can't resist posting this favorite poem of mine by Billy Collins. Enjoy, and by the way - Happy Springtime!

Shoveling Snow With Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

Snow covered Buddha Photo
 taken By MLP 

 

Extending Life's Radius

 Mt. Shasta - a mere 76 miles from home - taken from Hwy 89 vantage

I heard somewhere that it’s not unusual for “most” people in the world to be born, live and die within a twenty mile radius. This is easy to imagine, when I consider the lives of folks living in developing countries, but it’s damn near impossible to fathom when I look through the rose-colored lenses of my middle class American educated upbringing in comfortable Ashland, Oregon. Nevertheless, the girls and I pondered this “leaving one’s known twenty mile turf” theory while our odometer logged in more and more miles in the opposite direction of home. We were readily able to acknowledge that our act of packing up and making a 1500 mile trip would be considered a very large departure of the norm for many folks.

Perhaps that was part of the reason our trip was such a stretch for me; I was actively choosing to drive away from a safety net I have had anchored in place since I was about ten years old. See, I was the kid who wouldn’t accept a sleepover invitation unless it was close enough to home that I could easily walk home (or be picked up by a sleepy parent ) at 12:30 A.M. That was about the hour I would invariably realize that I was SO wickedly homesick, so painfully anxiety-ridden with fear of being away - that,  with knees literally knocking together, I'd make the walk of shame to the parent’s of whichever friend had invited me over and ask permission to call home.

Mind you, after playing out that particular scenario two or three times in elementary school, it ceased to continue with regularity because I became a skilled practitioner of avoidance and was adept at politely refusing most invitations to slumber parties, Friday night sleepovers and summer weekend camp outs. In middle school, when the social ladder is as much a part of one’s overnight luggage as a comfy pillow, it was often a very tough call between accepting an invitation (and perhaps spending a night in overwrought tension) or declining (and being left out of essential adolescent  exploits to be shared among peers on Monday morning by the lockers). Sometimes I would momentarily forget my angst - in the excitement and thrall of potential adventures, and I would say “yes” to a generous friend who wanted my company. Then, I would remember my looming apprehensions at the last moment and crumble in complete humiliation - disappointing tenfold whomever my pal was with a phone call to say, “Sorry; I can’t make it after all.”

By the time I was fourteen, my parents were ready to disown me due to what they considered irrational behavior. It wasn’t irrational to me though, nor was it complicated. I didn’t particularly need THEM to be at home; in fact, they could travel away all they wanted, as long as they left me there  - safe and snug. About the time that they began to surrender to the idea that I would live in Ashland forever and never trot the globe, I began to conquer some of said homesickness by the company I kept, and made my first successful trip away with my high school sweetheart and his parents at fifteen, and the rest is - as they say - history. Sort of.

Diagnosis-wise, I’m fairly certain my symptoms were anxiety attacks, not exactly your run-of-the-mill childhood homesickness, but truly scary events. Do I still experience that knee-shaking, belly quaking fear from time to time? I guess the fact that I have traveled happily and successfully for the past three decades is some sort of “Proof of Ability,” but the honest answer is: Yes. Absolutely. (And I’ve learned to get over it.)

The first two nights spent with my son in the oncology unit at Oregon Health Science University gripped me like I’ve never been gripped, and since Reid’s cancer diagnosis, I have become reacquainted with fearful feelings I haven’t felt since adolescence.

So this first trip out and away since leukemia moved into our family, this first time away from Reid since he got sick, THIS was a big departure from the “new norm” of our life. All the way to Death Valley, California I asked myself, “Is fear of FEAR big enough to hold me back anymore? Do I decline otherwise new journeys because I’m afraid of being sick to my stomach with terror in the middle of the night? After having come all this way - after having left behind all that we once believed was comfortable and familiar, is worry big enough to keep us from venturing out, kids in tow to see, share and discover this amazing planet?”

I know it will be a damned tough call at times. Sometimes, like this past week, I will have to dig very, very deeply into my heart, remind myself to breathe and resolutely plant one foot forward. Being able to set forth and journey - both literally and figuratively - was and is a privilege and a joyful act of life celebration. The learning opportunities outside our doorsteps have as much to do with what we experience while away - as how they impact our return and the changed, hopefully sweeter relationship we will bring back home. 

 McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park, CA

127 miles from Ashland, OR

Once upon a time in Luning

Luning, Nevada. Located in Mineral County. Listed as a ghost town.

 

While Southern Oregonians are generally the first to make proud declarations about the scenic beauty of their home, it’s also part of the human condition to forget how good we have it - until “it” is either gone or absent. Being away from the valley recently served as a pointed reminder to the girls and me of what an magnificent place we reside. With the forest-laden mountains surrounding and an abundance of water, there is exceptional allure to the State of Jefferson. Even our smallest towns are attractive, and it’s clear that the people who live in this area are actively invested in and have a care about the physical environment of this place.

Driving south from Fallon, Nevada along U.S. Route 95  (the major  646 mile long highway that runs north to south directly to Las Vegas), one is treated to a stark and dramatic landscape of both naked nothingness (or so it seems to the novice passing eye) and nature in her most raw miraculous form. This is high desert county where daily survival of plants and animals is an act taken neither lightly nor for granted. Rough dirt and sand stretches blandly away from the asphalt into distant rolling hills, followed by folded steeps of curved perfection, into valiant and ruggedly stunning snow-capped monumental ranges of the truest velocity.

Most of the little towns - pinpoints along I 95 map - are simply and literally falling apart. We saw wind blown and weather-wrecked buildings, trash heaps and gully-washed ruts large enough to swallow whole houses and cars, abandoned everything (even military bases)...clapboards shacks, mining machinery, rusting signs, now broken promises of cold beer - hot coffee - rooms for rent - ice cold Coca-Cola, whispers of lives that once were - banging unheard along the exposed highway.

Passersby barely slow. They maybe, just barely, even give it all a notice or a thought - that once in Mina, you could get a hair cut or have your oil changed, and once in Goldfield, you could stay at the historic hotel where today each window across the first floor bares a bright red "No Trespassing!" sign, or three miles down the road you could find the Shady Lady Brothel.

All this evidence that “humanity came here once, but gave up and left” poked at my heart, as we made our way across the Silver State. While the distant ranges and changing colors of the steeps and mountains pulled us forward in anticipation to our adventures in Death Valley, the forlorn roadside trash provoked me - the way watching a bloody boxing match makes you want to look away and yet, you can’t. 

It’s the stuff of life. It’s the oddness of human behavior flanked by impressive natural beauty, and it’s hope declared out loud and then lost in silence to something more powerful. 

Thanks to those among you who endorsed my recent two week break from blogging. It's been a rich time with pen and paper and a healthy step back from the screen. It's also lovely to be home. ~ mlp

Contracts and (Re)negotiations

renegotiate |ˌrēnəˈgō sh ēˌāt|
verb [ trans. ]
negotiate (something) again in order to change the original agreed terms : the parties will renegotiate the price | [ intrans. ] she asked to renegotiate after signing the contract.

If memory serves, the attached note was composed by a seven year old Reid. One day at summer soccer camp pick up, the young YMCA director - with a firm hand gripping my son’s shoulder - approached me with a “concern.” My boy had not only been side-talking while coaches were instructing, but Reid had declared during a match that the officiating "sucked." Clearly this kid was a trouble-maker, and if he intended on returning to camp the next day, a letter of apology would be necessary. The terms were non-negotiable.

Sitting in the car together, Reid explained all of the reasons he was not at fault. He declared that, despite his obvious innocence, he would “write the stupid letter,” but only because he really wanted to keep playing soccer and not because he was admitting guilt.

As a still-novice mother at that point in time, I’m sure I was bugged by Reid’s seeming lack of willingness to accept responsibility for his actions. Now, I look back on the incident with amusement and appreciation for the way he “sucked up” (pardon my language, Coach) and re-negotiated within his own heart and mind so that he could stay in the game that he loved (and  continues to love) so much.

Sometimes, in order to get what we want - or serve the greater good - or make amends - or simply make a shift, we have to accept different terms and conditions. Every day - from business to personal, from political to spiritual, from children to adults - agreements change and new contracts are drafted. It’s maddening in many many ways (just ask any attorney), but it’s part of the human condition. Sometimes the easiest way to accept something that is non-negotiable, is to work a little inner renegotiating and healthy surrender.

This morning, my desire to stay in the game is so great, I am about to back down from the covenant I made with myself to blog continually for ninety weekdays in a row. Since I am the creator of my blogging contract, my own boss - so to speak, this renegotiation has not been a simple or necessarily peaceful process. I’m a tough boss to myself. In the end, I had to call out my inner mediator to successfully seal a new bargain between Martha, the writer and Martha, the hard-assed boss lady. True story.

The result of these new terms: I am taking the next two weeks off from public journaling to make a couple of geographic trips and hopefully, a multitude of creative intangible journeys. There’s essential business and play to attend with my kids and myself during this break, and I want to give each moment my undivided attention. I will return to this written account of my wild untamed life on purpose on Monday, March 29. Meanwhile, I’ll be out there living in it, and I invite you all to do the same!

All will be well ~ m.l.p.

Lest She Leave

I’m having a difficult time lately, dealing with the sirens
of life’s details (around me)
 
managing the stacks, stickie notes, lists, things-to-do,
bills, payments-due-by, office correspondence, 

unfinished projects on the “art”
table pushed unceremoniously 

toward the back corner by a recent occupation of
holiday mail-order catalogues 

like glossy prefabricated subdivisions. I’m
organizationally challenged right now, see?

Because, what really
needs my attention is the muse
who scatters the papers
impatiently
and with demanding
petulance (and who I really am quite fond of, though
haven’t admitted yet to her)
stands between me
and the details.

She is achingly
beautiful
and hard to ignore

She follows me to the mailbox,

to the hardware store, to the office; 

brushes up against me at the coffeehouse,
talking on the phone, eating, bathing, sitting with
my children, embracing my lover.

Sometimes
teasing, she will throw a handful of precious ideas
into the air
(just to hear me gasp)
and watch me scramble comically
trying to catch them before they hit the ground
and burst.

She slips into bed
with me at dawn and asks with a sigh of sweetness, 

“Why must you sleep?

Get up, I want to be together.”

And (lest she leave)
I roll over and embrace her.

Lest She Leave © 2007 Martha Lee Phelps

March 10, 1929

Today, Like Every Other Day

Today, like every other day, we wake up empty
and frightened. Don't open the door to the study
and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.

Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

~ Rumi

Happy 81st Birthday,
to the woman who has not only taught but also shown me,
that there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
I love you.

Jeanette Alden Bennett Phelps!

Los Angeles, California 1935
Six years old with her elder brother Norman
and younger brother Charles

1946 - Top of her class at LA High

June 19, 1948 Mr. and Mrs. Dean Phelps

1962 - Baby #5

1966-ish

1977 Dancing with her younger brother, Chuck

Late 70's

1990 (Baby Reid)

 60th wedding anniversary

Taken this last August 09 with Reid

The 63 Word Decade

Two days ago, I was contacted via Facebook by a woman who was one of my dearest high school companions. We shared some incredible adventures thirty (oh lordy, I hadn't done the math lately) years ago. Sometime when I'm plowing down memory lane, I'll post a story about skipping econ class my junior year to go drink black coffee with Pat in her always sophisticated high heels. At seventeen, she claimed that a woman wasn't truly complete unless she wore pumps, but I digress...

This morning I get a perfectly-Patricia message. It is brief, witty and delightfully demanding. In her message, she encapsulates her life since we last saw one another (1997), into sixty-three words and then challenges me to do the same "speed catch up."
 
Ack! Those of you reading this blog or knowing me for any length of time know that I can't do anything in 63 words. Nevertheless, I've given it a go.
 
Before you read on; however, indulge me. First, this exercise was sobering. To reduce a decade that I believed was significant, changing and full of dimension into a quickie paragraph rather brings one up short. It feels as though there are several thousand words missing. Then there's the reality that my life, after re-reading the allotted statement, I judge to be somewhat...shall we say -  humdrum? I don't know what I expected. I mean - I'm perfectly clear that the last thirteen years have not included the long dreamt of retreat to Greece, the Grand Canyon trek, a published collection of poetry, learning to play the banjo or even the purchase of  a new television (my kids have been offering to pool their savings -- it's actually that bad), but I digress...again. Needless to say, the life of glamour that we envisioned all those years ago while delinquently sipping bad coffee transformed into something all-together-else.
 
So, Patricia Rae, I’m digging in the recesses of my brain trying to recall how old my kids were when you passed through Ashland with a very big, rambunctious dog and a bottle of vodka in your trunk. I’m pretty sure it was 1997. Had I run the Portland marathon yet? Sarah, then my youngest, would’ve been two years old. Reid David was seven, and I was still a brunnette. Yikes! Thirteen years chronologically in the space of a classified ad. Ready? 
 
“Single mom, English teacher, met man, took risk, married man, millennium delivered Virginia, stopped teaching, worked non-profit foundation, kids thrived, eldest child graduated AHS-moved out-started college, continued my art & writing, began dabbling in photography, separated from man, middle kid started AHS, youngest in 4th grade, working freelance studio, eldest child fighting-surviving leukemia, now very different strong-loving single mom.”

Simple Monday Message

"BREAK THE RULES,

FORGIVE QUICKLY, 

KISS SLOWLY, LOVE TRULY

LAUGH UNCONTROLLABLY."

Anonymous 

Faith

I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,

faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.

But I have no faith myself
I refuse it even the smallest entry.

Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.

 

David Whyte 

This Sunday, March 7 would have marked the 97the birthday of Virginia Way Cotton, one of the grandmothers for whom my youngest child is namesake. Virginia Way brought many gifts into the lives of her friends and family. One seemingly small, but enormous gift I received from her - at the time of her passing - was an introduction to Welsh poet, David Whyte. For eleven years now, this favorite poem still brings me to my knees with gratitude and humility. In celebration of Ginny and with joy for the poets who help change our lives, may your day be open to goodness.


"Faith" © David Whyte

Original art snapshot:

Acrylic on four panel door, (circa 1907)

Available for purchase

Cartoon Sampler

For those among you missing last week's false spring or dreaming of a tropical retreat with an umbrella drink...here are a few rough-hewn beach yoga cartoons to brighten your outlook on this chilly, snow-line-way-down-into-the-foothills March day. Breathe deeply and enjoy!

Sick Days

I have a kid home sick today, so I'll keep this brief.
Assuming that most of my readers are over thirty, do you remember sick days as a kid?
I do. In a word - they were, besides bearing all the trademarks of typical childhood illness's (low grade fevers, puking, sore throats and horrid head colds), BORING.
In my family of origin, staying home sick from school meant sleeping, reading, pretending the lines of the quilt were roads, drawing pictures and occasionally, if one had an exceptionally bad headache, and if one of my parents had stayed home to adhere to those lines in the unwritten contract of parenting (Section II, article IV: "When your kid runs a fever over 101.5, you are required to take a day off of work.") - then we might get read out loud to for 20 minutes. By the time I had done all of those things, I only had another six and a half hours of feeling lousy and bored until one of my siblings came home from school. By the time I was a teenager, the sick day repertoire expanded to listening to records or sometimes being allowed to bring the 18 ton "portable" black and white tv into my bedroom to choose between three channels of daytime television.
The beauty of sick days back then were that they were so horrendously mind-numbing, the motivation to get well soon was very very high. Anything at school (except for the cafeteria food) was better than being stuck at home with a snotty nose.
Here at my house, in this grand new year of 2010, being physically ill is no less of a drag, but the stay at home perks are abundant. First off, I work at home - so Mama is on call all the time. Since 7:30 this morning, I have delivered tea, pancakes, re-warmed the tea, whipped up an egg and toast, administered children's ibuprofen and opened a fresh tissue box. The many voices of Jim Dale (brilliant reader of all the Harry Potter audio books) is drifting down the staircase into my office, and I know that when I go to check on my rosy-checked girl, she'll be contentedly snuggled down in the blankets in a Hogwarts induced stupor.
She's already asked for the laptop and Netflix, to which I replied with a firm negatory. An order for the next in a series of books she is reading will hopefully be filled at the public library. An art pad awaits when she feels ready to sit up, and the kitchen won't close all day long. She'll be amused, but not too; we'll both be grateful that I work at home, but I'll surrender much of the day (in accordance with section II article IV). She’ll whine a bit, sigh a few hundred times, and her healthy little body will race through this with nary an issue. All will be well.

 

My gal on a feeling great day, not so long ago!

The Thrilling Anxiety Of It All

Okay, I admit it. I’m thrilled and anxious at at once.

First, I’m thrilled by the realization and discovery that - given just an hour or two of solitude a day (along with the willing suspension of perfectionism) - I have a well of creativity to pull small buckets from on a regular basis and make this blog a reality. On the other hand, I’m anxious over the fact that this discovery is now asking me to rearrange the already precious-few hours in the day. (As in: I write, no matter what. I write, even if it means tacking more time onto the day’s end.) Yikes! My muse is a demanding character. Thank goodness!

Second, I’m thrilled that my blogsite welcomed 487 unique visits in the shortest month of the year, and that the studio has fans that I’ve known for years as well as some whom I know not at all. What an amazing combination of compliments! Meanwhile, I’m anxious because everything I read about successful blogging suggests that I’m really going about this in as bassackwards kind of a way possible. (And I’m humored by the fact that this is not at all uncommon for me.)

Third, I’m thrilled that, without a nudge from me but perhaps a giant one from the universe - the studio is picking up business. (Insert photo of me smiling here.) Out of the blue, I’ve been given the opportunity to take some portrait photos and design some promotional materials for folks who I have not only been happy to say “yes” to, but I am honored to support. Nevertheless, I’m anxious that I still have a secret longing for a big sugar daddy or some generous and devoted “sponsor” to swoop in and fund my wild untamed artistic life, as well as send me to Greece for an all-expenses paid writer’s retreat where (I promise), I will continue to post daily poems, beautiful photos and essays that are deeply thought-provoking and inspiring.

Fourth, I’m thrilled that February’s most popular posts yielded: The Boot Collage, Boot Size: Men’s 12, The Soul of My Boots (I guess y’all really liked Boot Week), The Sanctuary of God, and Visual Inspiration. And, the truth is, I’m actually not too anxious that posts: To Do or Not To Do, Tales That Defy Words and Putting It To the Page were the least popular. It’s true, they  touched on more “serious” topics and have fewer illustrations, but I felt great about them so, it’s not that big of a deal.

Fifth and last, I’m thrilled that spring has sprung here in Southern Oregon. I like the light, I like the daphne that is threatening to explode in a aromatic plume at the end of the front porch, I like seeing my youngest’s bare feet with dirt on them, and I like that my high schooler knows exactly how many days until spring vacation. But it's also a fact, I’m feeling anxious as our household heads into a month of new information about my son’s health and the next series of steps in his journey.

So dear friends - whom I know in real time, and who know me in cyber time - here's wishing you all a thrilled, low anxiety, fantastic, madly wildly blossoming, sweet smelling, hopeful, creative, abundant, time-on-pause, kiss the ones you love March. Thanks for visiting this Untamed Life On Purpose. Please make comments. Please share a link or two with your friends. Please breathe deeply. ~ m.l.p.

Marching Forth!

March first, march forward, march your self, soul and heart into the arms of joy in the moment! I invite you to witness such a moment in time (just last week) with my favorite ten year old. March into gladness and click this link: Swing! 

(You may want to make yourself a cup of tea while it downloads, it seems to take a minute or two. Sorry, this is one of the techie issues of Blogger. Nevertheless, it's a 1 min. slide show that's worth the wait!)

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
 
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
 
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.
 
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing to you as no one ever has,
 
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.
 
 
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~