7.24.14 We Would Always Encounter

When my two younger kids were small, while the older one was 13 or 14, well engaged in other older things, I devised the perfect way to go enjoy art galleries in Northampton with them, without the danger of them reaching out and touching everything- a very natural response.
We had been over-exposed to a pesticide, which had made us environmentally I'll for several years, until we fixed it all up- which necessitated them homeschooling (reactivity to school chemicals and all). 

When we prepared to enter Michaelson's Gallery, our favorite , I would ask them to fold their hands together, and keep them that way. To pretend they were glued together; to point with both hands stuck together. As we wandered about enjoying all there was to see. 

In the entrance has ALWAYS been a Leonard Baskin sculpture, bronze and remarkable; quite imposing- titled 'Another Angel', and we would always encounter that first off, the three of us circling it carefully, without a touch, noting the huge feathered wings, the tiny head atop the intimidating body.

We would venture into the back room, that held the prints from children's artists and illustrators, such as Dr. Seuss, Maurice Sendak, Eric Carle, and so many many more. I would flip through the prints in boxes for them, and hold them up while we laughed and talked about what we loved.
The magnificent double staircase, separating at the top, always enthralled them-and we would go all about the upper level, guard rails on the edge, so that you could get up on your tiptoes if you were five and six, and peer far down into the main floor of the gallery .

Insects and owls and magical creatures and real and unreal situations of all kinds filled the floor.
My personal favorite was the local painter Linda Post , whose large paintings of multicolored individuals flying, and in dreams, over the Connecticut River, far above the Pioneer Valley, took our breath away.

Listening to a five-year-old and a six-year-old, or a six-year-old and seven-year-old, to their perspective of what on earth all of these pieces of art looked like and felt like to them was fascinating . 

One day after our customary tour, we went back down the fabulous staircase, and began speaking to the people working there about what we had seen, them asking my children questions full of curiosity. 

When we mentioned our fascination with Linda Post, they disappeared into the back room, only to bring out one of her newest paintings, maybe 4 x 6'? We knew that was a treasure to behold.
And we all stood ,in a semicircle around this resplendent work of art, just gazing at it.

There are so many wonderful ways of learning. One of the things that happens with homeschooling is that children become absolutely accustomed to being spoken to as an equal. Versus being spoken down to as someone less than; someone who is a child.

So they begin to approach the world in this manner, this anticipation, and often times that is the response they begin to receive. Simply due to their expectation that they will be treated respectfully.

Always, when I walk by Michaelson's gallery, I stop by the front where the sculpture of the Chimara is crouched, smiling, with it's beautiful flower-like mane about its head , and I run my hands down the golden brass back. Across the beautiful differentiated front paws. And often, I lean forward, and kiss them on the lips. 

So when we would leave the gallery, they would unglue their hands, shake them out, laugh, and I would tell them what an amazing job they did, holding hands together for all that time!
And we would turn to look at the Chimera, remembering what mythological creature it is.

They would ask to be picked up, and they would hug the creature about it's neck, snuggle into its mane, slide their hands from head to tail, Or possibly ? Kiss them.

And then, as if their hands were suddenly lonely, each would take hold of mine, and down the street wit would go, them jumping, hopping, telling stories they were making up about the artwork they saw. 

Once back home ,out would come the large pieces of paper and the pastels or the watercolor or the markers, and off they would go on their own magical path, creating their own stories through their own inimitable artwork.

7.22.14 World Without End

     I love lives. All sorts of lives. Tree lives and glacier lives and insect lives and people lives. I love lives of the past and possible lives of the future; I love dreams of lives , and your dream of what your own life can be. 
     I love watching the lives of newborns slowly grow into five-year-old lives and twenty-year-old lives and fifty-year-old lives.
     I love bittersweet too short small lives ,and long lingering lives. I love lives of those so old and tired of having them -and those so old and sad that their lives are now ending.
     I've loved lives of sick dying children and lives of those who can no longer speak or move ; and those who took their own, to end their immeasurable, unimaginable agony.
     I love stories of lives , and in my own imagined Forrest Gump-type movie, I'm the person , perpetually on the park bench, waiting for one person after another to take their turn, sitting down, opening their box of lives, carefully leafing through hopes and dreams and tragedies and gifts. Through their long hot eventless days ,and their times that just flew by, only to end up nestled in their heart ,forever.
     For that is one of the secrets of lives - the nestling, the heart, and that forever.
     I love the life of the next day's cloud as it passes by overhead, and the life of the enormous old toad in the garden bed. I love the lives of each and every bird and insect and creature and moss and human on earth-even the ones who hurt and harm and then harm again.
     I love having a life today and yesterday and hopefully tomorrow; though making assumptions about our lives, versus just breathing thankfully for this given moment, increasingly becomes not a great idea, as we age and our wisdom does grow.
     Most of all, I love how there is no actual beginning, nor any end, but simply being a grateful part of the continuum . Of All That Is.
     "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be:
world without end. Amen."

7.21.14 Fritz Perls: "Don't push the river; it flows by itself."

7/21/14 As We Remember Them

One of my very favorites, for all time- Words from the Book of Jewish Common Prayer.

"In the rising of the sun and in its going down,We remember them.

In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winterWe remember them.

In the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring,We remember them.

In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer,We remember them.

In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn,We remember them.

In the beginning of the year and when it ends,We remember them.

When we are weary and in need of strength,We remember them.

When we are lost and sick at heart,We remember them.

When we have joys we yearn to share,We remember them.

So long as we live, they too shall live,

For they are now a part of us,

As we remember them."

7.20.14 There you go. High, low, medium, wavy- one more precious day on earth.

7.20.14 Togetherness

7.19.14 Pastoral Somewherelessness

I swear, we were just driving by, the horse-phobic, bicycle-phobic, sheep-phobic, cow-phobic pup and I, the olde one fast asleep at home, on a task, when I began struggling to, yes, drive safely-

you know- full attention to the road, no gazing nor gaping at cloud formations or blustery delicious summer winds....when I was captivated by the deep green of the fields up ahead, and the cattle that now replaced the goat herd of late.

So I pulled over to my regular spot- curving the car about, on the dead-end street opposite the fields of this farm, put on flashers, shut all windows so that the cattle would not be bothered by the now rather nutso dog (who I work hard not to put in these situations, but for once, I chose to stop.

A small group, not too old, mixed sex, they were enjoying the day. Not many flies or insects bothering them, plentiful gorgeous grass, temperate evening, with a small Westerly wind. 

They eyed me with curiosity, as I wandered closer, and one smaller one came near, while the young to be (?) bull looked skeptical, and pulled way from my hand. And yes, the smaller one was interested, then delighted at what a rub IS. And stood stock still, as I rubbed and scratched about their face and ears and jaw.

Then, the clouds rushed by and, except the passing clouds and the now-quieted dog in the car, there was really noone at all, it seemed, in the whole universe, save the trees and the stream slipping by down past the pathway, and the cattle who are not on some cattle farm off somewhere being fed corn, but here, in the valley, a few of them- growing up, grazing happily, then hunkering down to sleep - as the day draws to a close. 

     And I stood there, inhaling the sweet smell of summer, of winds from another place on earth, of dust of stars that we all know is fluttering down upon us day and night. Of our own star, up there, having BEEN born and having a LIFETIME so much bigger than ours, suspended in what stars do - have a solar system about them, orbiting; being part of a galaxy, of all things, that is part of a universe. Heady stuff. 

     I watched the cattle readying for the night, watched the clouds that had begun somewhere and were on their way out of town, closed my eyes, and imagined us all covered with universe dust. Part of endlessness and timelessness and somewherelessness, just all of us, having a life.

7.18.14 Wearing Flip-Flops and Never Any Coat At All - Having All Windows Wide Open ; Fresh Air Barreling Through

I wonder what it is that makes one person love all surprises and changes and the unexpected with weather , and another simply want some warm steady sunny climate. 

Certainly it's not genes- though I often used to suspect that my favorite weather being a cold rainy freezing cold winter day, out tromping through the woods, was due to being a MacLean/McClellan

But having lived in Eastern MA, Southampton. NY, Westchester, NY, Albuquerque, NM, NH, VT, and then Western Mass, (which considers itself quite the separate entity from Eastern Mass, ) 

I can honestly say that although there is a distinct pleasure in gardening- in waking up and wearing flip flops and never any coat at all - 
in having all windows wide open for fresh air to be barreling through, 
still- the unanticipated changes captivate me . 

The never-the-same-sky or July weather or rain daily from 4:00-4:30 in Albuquerque... that oppressive mild regularity simply makes me miserable. 
Maui is lovely with an amazing history , but as Massachusetts is my witness, I crave and flourish with this change change change. 

No one here even NEEDS to check on the weather unless you make sure you need to water or not water- snowplow now or in three hours, or happen to be climbing Mt. Washington this morning.

Hopefully as many of us as possible have a shot at living in the place that stirs our hearts and keeps us happily on our toes-or not.

7.17.14 The View From Here...