Tribute to the birth of a Welsh poet

From the third story bay of an abandoned
250 year old woolen mill,
I stared across rolling pastures along Felinfach Road.

It was, quite certainly,
the most marvelous sight I had ever beheld:
the narrow lane disappeared round a corner,
while perfectly tended hedgerows
loosely held back wildness and the fertility of
rambling dreams.

Never had I seen so many shades of green.
Never had I felt transported
simply by drawing breath,
and never, ever, had my heart been all-at-once
unfettered
and calm.

At ease for the first
time in life, I experienced vast
Silence wrapping around my small body
(a dark, rich, purple tapestry
very like those that had once rhythmically
unfolded off the dusty looms two floors below me)

and I was alone.

I might have been afraid,
as each fiber of my soul expanded.

I might have leaned back
against the safe smooth timber beams,
and closed my eyes against the spinning prayers of hawk in flight
toward Aberystwyth.

I might have fled, yet
my ancestors convened.

“Bare witness,” said my Grannie
as she reached her soft gnarled hand toward mine, and gathered
me into the circle. “It’s time.”

Then, looking into my eyes, the old ones began to whisper.
They told stories of warrior’s hearts, uncommon loyalty and
the glorious rise of the great Bear.

They recited poems of faith held fast
through long hushed winters, as well as
ballads of the Beltane Queen and passions’ sweet adventures.

Laughing, the men bellowed songs about harvest fires
while the women,
skirts swinging and checks flushed,
made the floorboards tremble with their breathless dancing.

Smells of wool and
wood, sweat on sun-browned shoulders,
fermenting ale, sweet cream and
raw sugar, and the smoke of
tobacco kissed by fire
swirled like incense all around.

Joy raised the rafters, and translucent memories,
like particles of dust in sunlight, filled the old building
and showered everything within.

Finally, embraced as a child
who has arrived at last on home’s doorstep,
they marked my eyes
with rich dark coal, and baptized me in the name of
Mystical Grace and Love.

Then, Ceridwen nodded with a smile.

She guided me back to the lofty opening and pointed across the shire,
“Look there, daughter. This is your poem.

When you lose your way;
when you have forgotten who you are;
when the wildness has been tamed and the colors start to fade,
remember this day, and your heart will follow.”

She kissed me sweetly on the lips,
filled my lungs with her blessing and
left me there gazing
across the rolling pastures of Felinfach Road.

Quite certainly,
it was the most marvelous sight I had ever beheld.


Felinfach \ velin-vahk \ meaning “a small mill.”
Ab·er·yst·wyth \ˌa-bə-ˈris-ˌtwith, -ˈrəs-\ the geographical name of a Borough in W. Wales on Cardigan Bay
Ceridwen \ce-rid-wen, cer(i)-dwen\ is pronounced ke-RID-wen. It is of Welsh origin, and its meaning is "fair, blessed poetry". Celtic mythology: name of the goddess of poetic inspiration. Also supposedly the name of the mother of the legendary sixth-century Welsh hero Taliesin.

A Simple Quote

"MAY YOUR LIFE

BE CROWDED

WITH UNEXPECTED

JOYS!"

Quote by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Photos by Martha Lee Phelps

Tissue and Laptops

Illness sucks.
There’s just no question about it.
Illness - big, small, temporary, long term - in all it’s manifestations - is a drag.
Circumstances around illness can make the situation much more tolerable or completely inhumane. For the record, let me acknowledge how blessed my life has been and say very clearly - I am deeply grateful for the fact that I have not dealt, ever, with completely inhumane circumstances.

See, I’ve been down with a pretty sore throat, fever and general malaise for the past twenty-four hours. It’s been quite uncomfortable, actually. And those who know me well, know that for me to take to my bed - and actually stay in it - usually means that I feel really, really crummy.

But here’s the deal - I’m snug in my home, the roof is solid, there’s sunlight shining through the curtained windows that I can look through from my comfortable bed, and I have not one - but three pillows propping me up. I’m pausing to sneeze and wipe my nose (yes, on tissue), and then I’m pondering how I’ll need to sterilize this laptop when I feel better.

Tissue and laptops? Yeah right. I’d say that having a nasty virus in my world is easy-peasy compared to what folks in other places, under more difficult circumstances have to deal with. I’d hate to have a head cold just after an earthquake or tsunami, for example - just after having my home reduced to rubble or losing someone I love. I’d hate to have a fever in a little tin roofed shack that is shared by five other people and getting clean water involves a long walk to a well or a river.

It’s important to count blessings every day, even if one is counting in between nose blows. It’s vital to look around notice not only what makes life “tolerable“ but what - when put in the proper perspective - makes it pretty damned extraordinary and miraculous.

With gratitude ~ mlp

Squeak (Part II)

(A continuation from yesterday's post...
Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

Badwater Basin and the Salt Flats were incredibly beautiful. 

With Telescope Peak rising to its full 11,000 feet on the west and Dante's Pass behind us, we tip-toed around honeycombed basins of salt water. The rims of delicate crystal and mineral deposits, encircling each pool like lace-work and hand-hewn tatting, stretched for miles around us. The whole white scene was blinding to the eye and compelling to the soul. We simply HAD to look.

The girls picked carefully at the salt deposits. Mindful of the strength of their human hands on this hardy yet tender ecosystem, they touched with tenderness and marveled at the wet glistening gems on their palms and the sensation of soft chalk that it left on their skin. None of us could resist putting out tongues against our fingertips, as though our palates were the final authority of whether or not this was, in fact, a salt basin.

Heading back toward Furnace Creek, we detoured along the Artists Palate Drive to see an amazing crayola box of natural hues stacked upon each other throughout the surrounding cliffs and hills. 

This particular spot is a six mile stretch of tribute of the planet's age and ever-changing form - the layers of color showed us where glaciers, volcanoes, water, ice and heat have all conspired over time to geologically blend and separate varying colors and textures. It was powerful to acknowledge that whole mountains have uplifted and laid themselves upon one another, like great stone sweaters on a shelf. Moving mountains...now there's a concept.

Rich dark browns, tans, reds, black, beautiful swaths of palest blue, washed-out green and even an occasional stripe of lavender showed up for us as we roller coaster-ed through the looping narrow road of the scenic drive. 

 

The squeak had retired, both literally and metaphorically, as we made our way along in the Beckinator with mid day desert heat rising around us. 

Virginia's biggest concern was the number of images her wee Nikon would hold. Sarah was momentarily beyond concerns, as she was on an internal hike deep into a John Muir-ian state of being. I was just hanging out in a willingly suspended state of awe - for the day, the planet and the miracle known as "right now." 

Squeak (Part I)

(Death Valley, California
Monday, March 22, 2010)

We’ve been waking right around sunrise each morning. The desert birds have a lot to talk about, and their celebratory tones invite participation...that fact, and I’m needing to stiffly extricate myself from sleeping bag and sardine can tent.  I leave my sleeping companions alone so they can spread out just a bit more.(Did I mention that we accidentally brought the two-person tent instead of the four-person? Yes, the quarters are beyond cozy.)

Today, after a marginal camp breakfast, I underestimated how quickly over-easy eggs will cook in a good cast iron skillet at - 203 feet below sea level, we headed south to Badwater Road and points beyond. Our destination: Badwater Basin, elevation -282 feet, the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere.

As we navigated yet another long, mostly straight, two lane highway, a small squeak spoke up. “What’s that?” I asked Sarah.
    “Not us, “ she replied.
    “Hmmmm,” I responded with a frown.

After another mile, while passing a sign that read “Next Services 73 miles” another squeak - confirmed with windows rolled down for better hearing - that it did/does indeed belong to us. Or, it belongs to Becky, our steadfast bright red Cruiser. For this trip, we’re calling her “The Beckinator.”

Sarah and Ginny continued their gaze of appreciation at the Pinamint Mountains to the west and the Black Mountains to the East. I, on the other hand, immediately begin to fret about the Squeak. I moderated our speed, breathed deeply, and said my millionth prayer for no mishaps.

I decided to be proactive with my fretting. You know that old trick where you think of the worst case scenario, acknowledge it, contemplate all the ways one would deal with said horrific scenario - and then release it? I did that. I played out visions of tow trucks, being hauled to Las Vegas, putting the girls on a plane home, waiting for car parts, expensive mechanics and a long, lonely drive home weeks from now after having suffered the full wrath of the Squeak.


It then occurred to me: that’s not the worst that could happen.

The worst that could happen would be one of us getting hurt (or worse) and with a intuitive wash, I began to breathe deeply and peacefully.  We are well and whole, and all the rest is just idol squeaking and desert dust in the  cogs of the car.

Then, as if for confirmation, Sarah looked at me long and hard. “Are you worrying again?” She probed. I shrugged. And she raised her eyebrows and said in her most knowing voice of wisdom, “When you worry about stuff, I worry about you. Please stop.”

Do we all have a squeak that occasionally stops us from seeing the world around us and steals away our ability to be present and attentive? There’s no question about it. Sometimes, our squeaks actually manifest into something that requires action, but mostly they just work us over from time to time. The trick perhaps, is to treat the squeak not as an element of ominous foreshadowing but as a reminder that although we have no control over the events of our lives, we do  choose the attitude with which we’ll deal with it.

Not suddenly, but finally and wonderfully, the majestic mountains and the stunning whiteness of the salt flats and the brilliant cerulean sky climbed into the driver’s seat.

Healing with Sound

I've been enjoying working with Synthesis of Sound on their new website. It's concise, clear and lovely. The GENESIS sound therapy system is a fairly unique healing modality and quite extraordinary to experience first hand. Rather than try to explain, I hope you'll enjoy exploring the materials, images and resources of their new site. I also highly recommend that you contact Anthony John and try out the GENESIS for yourself! 

“Music washes away from the soul
the dust of everyday life.” 
~ Berthold Auerbach

Presence

presence -
is about holding
true, beautiful,
strong and vibrant no matter
who is
or is not
watching.

it is a way,
a manner and a spirit
brought to each moment —

without self importance,
without self recrimination,
yet with
the truest of one's Self

it is the all-at-once recognition
that
we are both essential and non
essential,
and always
we are able
to choose
presence

in grace and love.

Words & Art

“Every now and again take a good look at something 

not made with hands:

a mountain, a star, the turn of a stream. 

There will come to you wisdom and patience and solace and,

above all, the assurance that you are not alone in the world.” 

~Sidney Lovett

"Bird" monotype-collage by Martha Lee Phelps

Available for purchase

Tardy Due to Detour

I’m running a tad bit behind this morning, but what the heck. It’s Friday, after all, and the sun is shining in truly glorious ‘queen of the heavens’ fashion, and I’m my own boss-lady; so hey, what’s a few extra minutes? See, this is one of the perks of having a home studio.

Having been a public schools teacher for sixteen years and then an “in the office - in the field” park manager for another decade, I think I have a thorough understanding of the schedule many working parents keep. I know about early (and late) staff meetings, punching in by a certain clock time, being unreachable all day long, sprinting to do my banking between work’s end and the bank’s close, squeezing the household and garden chores into evenings and weekends, that panicky feeling one gets in their gut when the alarm clock doesn’t go off, showing up even when ill, giving my kids every spare moment and giving my friends the meager leftovers. Of course, I also remember the regular paycheck, the decent benefits, the community of co-workers, the measured successes that could be seen and appreciated, the uninterrupted flow of the days, the clear boundaries between work and home, the clear boundaries between “on” time and “off” time, and the rhythm of the calendar that gave me a sense of balance and calm.

I remember both sides of that particular and very special coin.

Now, I have a different coin in my pocket. It’s a little foreign to me, so I’m still learning it’s value. On the one hand, I can work any time of the day or night. If it’s a beautiful morning like this, I can opt to take a walk right now - and work on my client’s website after sundown. But of course, if I choose to work in the evenings, then my children get a little less of me when they need my time and attention. So when interesting weather beckons, I choose carefully.

Scheduling my days requires a precise, mildly uncomfortable-at-times discipline known as “keeping on track,” wherein there are constant neon sign-like distractions winking and flashing at me. Friends and family know exactly where to find me and in loving, uninhibited fashion sometimes drop by to say “howdy.” Those who do it too often or stay too long have suffered my impatience, as I truly don’t like being interrupted when I’m “in the zone.” Neither do I always answer the home phone, even though it’s ringing only a few feet away from my desk. After all - if I were “at work,” I couldn’t answer it there, so why should I do so here - “at work?”

But the wonderful flip side is that there are many occasions when someone will call first (what a concept!), and I’ll be able to take a coffee break with them down the street at the Roasting Company, or we’ll go for a quick power walk, or I’ll sit on the stoop with them for fifteen minutes and hear the latest news. It can be lovely and rejuvenating, and often helps stimulate fresh ideas for my next wave of industriousness.

The importance of keeping the place tidy is greater now, for client visits, so I’ve learned to juggle some of my chores at the same time I’m operating in my office. Starting the washer or dryer is a walk down the hall, taking out the recycle is three minutes of fresh air, and sweeping the kitchen gets tacked onto lunchtime (which I also get to share with my fourteen year old most days, when she walks home from school for a quick bite).
The home-based cubicle offers multitasking at it’s best, which says a lot - since I personally think multitasking with anything other than domestic chores is a bad idea, but that’s a topic for another day!

I absolutely miss my professional community and the sense of being a part of a greater good that one can sometimes attain in a cooperative environment. I definitely miss the regular salary and benefits, but have learned a lot about faith, hard work and creating abundance. I sometimes miss the respect and understanding that others have for more easily defined careers, but I have huge gratitude for those who take the time to acknowledge and encourage me to continue pursuing work that I love.

So this morning after dropping off my youngest at school, as I drove through town, I saw an elderly man in a bright tropical shirt standing in the very very brisk 30 degree morning sunlight with his thumb out for a ride. I pulled over. My hitchhiker climbed into the warm car, smiled broadly at me and introduced himself. “Walter” had just missed the bus and was on his was to an AA meeting on the opposite end of town. I asked him if there weren’t closer meetings to his home, and he replied that there are, but he just loved the community of friends he has at the further location. I drove him all the way to the meeting while we talked about Ashland, her people, about how times change and how grateful we both felt to be where we are on such a fine day. He was kind and hopeful and reflective. The drive was simple to make. As I dropped him off and shook his hand, I said a little prayer of thanks for many many things.

This too, is one of the perks being the CEO of Martha Phelps Studio: on my way to work, I can choose to make a slight detour, and it can make a little difference.

May you all have a wonderful weekend, and may your schedules afford you an opportunity for a detour or two. ~ mlp

P.S. Thanks for the tardy pass, AJ! See, I wasn't just putting on my lipstick!

Blue Iris

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Can't fly, can't run and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, I can read books.

"What's that you're doing?"
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

"What's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing

in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.

It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.

"Doesn't it?" says the wind, and breaks open, releasing

distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,

the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

"Blue Iris" by Mary Oliver
From the collection What Do We Know ©2002

Photos by Martha Lee Phelps

 

Supporting Folks We Believe In

One of the most enjoyable aspects of design arts projects in the studio is getting to help spread information about people whose work I believe in.

Take Karen O’Dougherty, for example. Karen taught for a decade at Lincoln Elementary School in Ashland, Oregon where - among many things - she created a powerful “body changes awareness” program as a part of her 5th grade curriculum. After leaving the public school classroom to raise her three daughters, Karen was encouraged by parents of former students who had younger kids, to begin teaching and sharing the program again to interested youth and families. Body Basics I was then developed in the form of private group lessons and has been empowering girls throughout Southern Oregon since 1998.

My two elder kids (one male and one female) attended Body Basics classes during their eleventh years and learned to safely and openly discuss issues of puberty and sexuality as well as gained clearer insights into who they were then as developing  individuals and amongst peers. I look forward to my youngest daughter being among Karen’s students sometime this next year, as Body Basics has become one of our families’ educational rites of passage.

When Karen recently asked me to develop some flyers for local distribution, I was eager for the project. The flyers, one aimed at preteens and the other for teenagers, came together intuitively with images that worked well. This is a bit of the magic that happens when working on something I believe in, like the Body Basics Program.

If you'd like to see fuller format versions, check the Design Portfolio on the studio's website.

Sand Dune Sisters!

Sometimes, sand is not just sand... 
Check out "Sand Dune Sisters!" 
(I recommend double-clicking and watching in 480p on YouTube!)

Work and Play = Contentment

As has become a part of my pattern, since we're within the first few days of the new month I'll offer a couple thoughts and links about the past month's postings that were "highlights.”

March was a full month, even with a two week hiatus from active posting. There were over 375 unique visits to the Martha Phelps Studio blog page and the visitor counter is starting to push toward the 1000 mark! Thank you all for the honor of being a part of your busy days.

I’d have to say that my favorite post this last month was one that didn’t even appear on my own own blogsite, but the site that was created as a community venue for sharing information about my son’s experience with leukemia. Day One Hundred Ninety-One shares the news and reality that is nearest to my heart and our family.

The posts Faith, Cartoon Sampler and Simple Monday Message are meaningful to me because they include a wide variety of artwork - from images that come through the camera lens to some of the painting I’ve been doing this past year to the whimsy of a quirky sense of humor conveyed through very rough computer-mouse generated cartoons. Making and sharing visual images is a joy.

Once Upon A time in Luning scratches the surface of the journey that was made to Death Valley, CA  - and there are more stories yet to unfold from that adventure, while Extending Life’s Radius was an extremely personal revelation that I took a risk in sharing, but what the heck - how else do we all learn, except by showing up and showing who we truly are?

This whole public journal is a part of the commitment I have made to continue to reinvent myself, even at 47. I loved getting Seth Godin’s blog today, Accepting Limits, where he succinctly talks about this very notion. I hope you’ll take a moment to check it out, and I hope you’ll continue to look in on what is happening here with An Untamed Life On Purpose.

Those of you who are fans through Facebook, thanks for inviting your friends and companions to also become followers. I mainly use that page to post my blog, but also offer regular interesting quotes and (hopefully) provoking questions.

This photo, a new profile shot, was taken by good friend, Jim Schlight. Yes, I really am that happy with a camera in my hands! I hope you all have work and play that make you just as content. 

Have a wonderful day. ~ mlp

It Ain't No Million Dollar Mansion

Do you ever look at something you own, something you’ve seen hundreds, even thousands of times, and find yourself surprised that - not only are you still happy to see it, but you are still - after all these viewings - a bit shocked and genuinely thrilled  to realize that what you are seeing belongs to you?

Last night as I walked around turning off lights and locking doors, I realized that even after two decades, I am extremely thankful for our old funky house. I regularly have the experience of feeling startled - not just by my continued fondness for this place - but by the fact that I’ve been here enough years now to outrank those in my childhood home. I look around at its overly familiar turf thinking, “Wow, we are so lucky,”  and there is a sensation of incredible good fortune that washes over me.

The story of our little house is worthy of several blog entries. In fact, this may well be the first of many. There would be an entry about it’s age (103) and historical merits. There would be another about the number of times it’s been “remodeled” (3, maybe 4) and what that has entailed. Yet another entry, or maybe two, would offer accounts of the Crowson family (who I bought the place from in 1989) along with some sweet anecdotes of how they gave this home some of its special moxie. And those tales naturally, would chronologically navigate straight into stories of living, personal history: the last twenty years and now.

Yes. I have lived at this mailing address for twenty years. Good grief!

Twenty years tallies up to a whole bunch of “lotsa time” in one spot. For a nomad, military person, or perpetual adventure-seeker, I’m guessing this situation would be inconceivable and even uncomfortable. Yet I’m realizing that for me, twenty-mostly-happy-years in this particular dwelling equals deep tap roots, investment beyond dollar bills, memories tenfold and a solid foundation of joy.

Let’s get perfectly clear here. The events, people and experiences that have evolved at this locale may inspire some heartwarming yarns, but it ain’t no million dollar mansion on the hill with a view. This is not some movie version of the place you invite old friends from a college reunion to have cocktails by the pool. We have neighbors within arm’s length (that’s no exaggeration), so issues of privacy and sound are continual; we have bermuda grass in the front and puppy-induced potholes in the back; there are occasional vermin in the shed and piss ants near most of the faucets; ancient wavy window glass rattles in the living room when heavy trucks drive by; the doorways are drafty in the winter; the yard - like so many in the historic district - is roughly the size of a postage stamp; the plumbing in the kitchen (which is not 103, but a mere 70 years old) sends me S.O.S. signals regularly, and the upstairs toilet handle needs to be jiggled to make it stop running. This is NOT the perfect “retirement house,” “trophy house,” “artist’s retreat” or craftsman showcase. This dwelling has...character.

What it is, beneath the surface flaws, is a safe and gentle place to sit down and take a deep breath. There is life here - art on the walls, live music played every day, color everywhere (because it’s just paint, right?), a dining room table seasoned by amazing meals-company-laughter-wine-flowers in vases, honesty spoken in every room, passion that passes back and forth - like a summer’s breeze (and sometimes like a gale force!) from the front door to the back, a garden tended with care and courage, and plenty of clear creativity - spicy opinions - and simmering dreams. Most who come around here can feel the pull of joy in the walls, and those who abide within know the goodness of fit and gratitude of belonging.

It’s a good thing to say “thank you,” to whatever roof you find overhead. Even when it feels as though God may be conspiring to blow the top off of everything around us, it’s nice to realize the blessings of both literal and metaphorical shelter, invite those we love to join us within and share our hearts.

Condor Dream

By water’s edge I realize the great bird’s presence.

First, a momentary shadow dancing across the shoreline. Next, leaping over waves, and then back
above the trees.

Instinctively flinching,
I am small prey
(caught)
in the open, before tilting my head to heaven.

He dances!
Gliding on some airborne path of heat
and wind,
purest white, on black, on blue;

ancient god, on earth, in Love -

he dances alone; an aerial soul in single purpose:
to carry Life on wings outstretched.

Ancient silent hymns are rising.

All that is ‘my world’ evaporates in the presence of this
dark mystic who has crossed eons of time and dignified the ancestors
by righteously (and fiercely) ascending over and over

to balance on the edge of timelessness.

To him,
there is no shadow against the terra firma,
there is no me,
nor is there an earth-bound longing for something lost from Grace,

there is only this flight.
There is only a perfect continuum of the dance.

No fooling, I had the blessing of an opportunity to photograph

this amazing fellow in the wild (though it was on a ranch) from about 

18 feet away in April of 2008.I was learning to use my (then) new, 

bigger bolder Nikon and wasn't sure exactly what I'd end up with.

This is one of many incredible shots given to me by California

Big Sur Condor - Tag #68 - the first condor born out of captivity since 

they became a protected, yet endangered species. The poem came later.