Laundry Line Divine

Here is Esther Williams with her children on her back.

I am steeped in talking about ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’ and pondering the importance of creativity in my life and the lives of all people. In less that a week, we will premiere our first ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes: An Evening of Mothers Reading to Others’ at The Berkshire Festival of Women Writers. Since I began this work, of talking about the transformation that creativity incited in my own life as a mother and the stories of my days with my children, I have met with a massive longing of other women to tell their stories. My friend Marion Roach, in Albany hosts a memoir project worth looking in to. And another friend Cori Howard of She Writes, hosts a ‘Momoir’ project. Here on the Laundry Line, I am hosting the ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’ blog series.

Today’s ‘Out’ post is by Dara McKinley of Volver Now,in Seattle. Dara’s post is viscerally charged with the passion of a mother witnessing loss. In it’s brief cut, like a neat split of the skin revealing hot red blood, Dara stands in grief witnessing the power of creativity.

The world is not divided into two groups, the creative people and the not creative people. If there’s a distinction, it’s between those who are creatively productive and those with unexpressed potential. We’re all creative by default. We’re genetically predisposed to create. Each of us, to varying degrees, is intrinsically motivated to be original and to solve challenging problems. The question to ask is not, “Am I creative?” but rather, “What inspires me and how can I share that?”
Creativity is not about intelligence or information. It’s about inspiration, from the Latin spiritus, meaning “breath, courage, the soul.” Creativity is about being fully alive, living courageously, or as the painter Joan Miro says, “Expressing with precision all the gold sparks the soul gives off.” We inspire each other when we dare to create. We open others’ hearts. We unlock their doors so their spirits can soar. And this is why it matters: because the path through the dark forest can be lit by our work. Others can find their courage in the creations we conjure. Our stories can help people see these times in a new way, understand that this chaos is only a local view of the cosmos evolving beautifully.

this is from Jan Phillips’ Huffington Post of 12.22.11

‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’ lights the path for us all, particularly women.

I found these words by Jan and this author I long to meet in person, Jay Griffiths. I read this quoted text from her article in the Orion Magazine, which is published here in my small town of Great Barrington, MA.

Griffiths writes:

Essential to our self-expression as individuals and as a species, art suggest something of the divine: humanity’s purpose is to “participate in the world-creator’s play of creation,” said Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore. …Art is a messenger carrying to its audience what Arthur Miller called “News of the inner world,” and he continued, if people “went too long without such news, they would go mad with the chaos of their lives.”

Mary Oliver, one of the greatest poets of our time, who lives on the other side of my state of Massachusetts, has been ill for a time. Thankfully, her health is improving. There was a call though, with news that this inspired woman was possibly fatally ill, to write tributes to Mary.
I beg you to read this poem, this one poem, and to know the comfort, the warmth, and the necessity of art in your life. Creativity is boundless. Allow yourself the indulgence of time to encounter that which is essential to all of us.

at the Provincetown Bookshop

To Begin with, the Sweet Grass

1.

Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat
of the sweet grass?
Will the owl bite off its own wings?
Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air or
forget to sing?
Will the rivers run upstream?

Behold, I say – behold
the reliability and the finery and the teachings
of this gritty earth gift.

2.

Eat bread and understand comfort.
Drink water, and understand delight.
Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets
are opening their bodies for the hummingbirds
who are drinking the sweetness, who are
thrillingly gluttonous.

For one thing leads to another.
Soon you will notice how stones shine underfoot.
Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.

And someone’s face, whom you love, will be as a star
both intimate and ultimate,
and you will be both heart-shaken and respectful.
And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper:
oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two
beautiful bodies of your lungs….

4.

Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
The dancer, the potter,
To make me a begging bowl
Which I believe
My soul needs.

And if I come to you,
To the door of your comfortable house
With unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
Will you put something into it?

I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.

5.

We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we change.
Congratulations, if
You have changed.

6.

Let me ask you this.
Do you also think that beauty exists for some fabulous reason?

And if you have not been enchanted by this adventure-
Your life-
What would do for you?

7.

What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself.
Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to.
That was many years ago.
Since then I have gone out from my confinements,
through with difficulty.
I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart.
I cast them out, I put them on the mush pile.
They will be nourishment somehow (everything is nourishment
somehow or another).
And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.
I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.
I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,
I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?
Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.

May you love your own light.
And give thanks,
S

I am bolstering myself with poetry today and grateful to Michelle Aldredge, Lydia Littlefield, Annabel Lee and Naomi Shihab Nye.
There is also a bonus dance break at the end, which you will get to.

But first, the poetry.

Learning to Listen

what is real is what I hear when I am
listening and my mind is still and I can
hear you without interrupting you with
my thoughts

speak slowly please I am trying to
listen yet the trying part keeps me
from the listening part

I will stop trying and then I can
relax and just listen to your voice
and the words that you say only I must
be careful not to feel too much about
the sound of your voice because I might
not hear your words but hear your
voice instead and hear the thoughts
the sound of your voice evokes in my mind

and if I am careful I will be busy
with carefulness with concern and with
self-consciousness and how will I hear
you then?

speak slowly please
I am learning to listen
and when you help me hear you
what you say is as real for me as it is real
for you.

by Annabel Lee

Annabel Lee poet, author, teacher, singer, Mom, and artist

This one is by me. It is short.

What do you ask of me?
What do I ask of you?

To continue.
To open.
To give voice in your time
on this earth,
to your story,
the one you know.

To plant the seeds
you have been given.

SBB Jan. 13, 2007 Journey Women Writing with Jan Lawry

I am struck with terror today.
Things at home are going well. Ben is sitting up in a wheelchair doing a math tutorial. Catherine is safely home from skiing. JNB is out collecting groceries.

I am terrified to come out to you all about my work and my thoughts about mothering and creativity.
Surely, I am out on this website, sharing with you every week.
Surely, I am out as I produce an event for the Berkshire Festival of Women Writers on March 2, here in Great Barrington with 5 other authors and an esteemed co-host.
Surely, I am out as an artist, posting about my visual work on Face book, on our FeMail Art, at the Brooklyn Art Library and other exhibit venues.

My Arthouse Sketchbook titled ‘Forks and Spoons’ SBB 2012

But, today, I am posting the first video blog about ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’ as a blog post and truly, I have done 1000 things to distract myself from actually posting it and can put it off no longer.

So, I am bookending myself with poetry written by my gorgeous friend Annabel Lee.
A video of Naomi Shihad Nye via my friend Michelle Aldredge at Gwarlingo.
And with a tiny poem written by me, prescient because I wrote it in January of 2007 when I took the writing workshop with Jan Lawry which began this whole journey of mine with
Laundry Line Divine: A Wild Soul Book for Mothers which itself birthed ‘Out of the Mouths of Babes’. That poem is for me a statement of my core belief in why I am here on this planet.

“To plant the seeds I have been given”
not your seeds.
not the seeds I borrow from others.
no, I must plant the seeds that reside here within me.

Then, I read this in Jan Phillips’ No Ordinary Time, from the Gospel of Thomas yesterday as I comforted myself about coming ‘Out’:

“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.”

You can go see the video here.
And before you leave, dance with Whitney Houston here at the Laundry Line where we celebrate the massive creativity of women, the healing action of creativity on the planet, and every single step of loving self care you offer yourself today when you yourself feel terrified.

For me, dancing helps.

All my love,
Suzi

This snowless winter has not failed to pile drifts of inertia around my legs.
I want to crawl back in to bed on these gray mornings.
Hibernation. I hear my dear friend Anne Davin tell me January is time to hibernate.
I am healthy. I am well. I am not depressed.
I have taken stock of the past year.
I have stored the seeds of my desires for this New Year, this new year of the dragon-though for me it feels like the year of the squirrel. I host visions of a petite gray furred creature encircled in a nest of oak leaves, sleeping out the windy days in a high treetop.

Knowing that I had work to do today, that napping was an option, I took the morning more slowly than usual. I did not jump on to my computer. I let myself stay in my jammies. Thursdays are my art day. My husband and I have arranged ourselves around this day being the one day of the week where phone calls, appointments, music lessons, SAT prep class arrangements, pizza runs for late night paper writers, laundry duties and all the rest are handled by him. We have a life that has room for this. Jonathan’s office is in our attic. He is very disciplined when it comes to time, so, for one day a week, he makes this work.
When I say Jonathan is my hero, you now know just what I mean.

It came to me this quiet morning that I could treat myself as I would treat my best friend. No hurrying. No pressure to produce. Lots of tea.

I sat in my red chair by the window. This is the place where I write early in the morning, where I conduct my long phone calls, where the dome of silence is almost visible, where I can look out over our yard at crow’s eye level. My red chair is my crow’s-nest on my ship of dreams. There I sat and read this by Jan Phillips as the steel ceilinged morning passed me by.

“…I remember that I owe my creative spirit all the time and tenderness I would give my dearest beloved. One is as precious as the other.”

Now, at the later end of this day where rain has begun to fall, lowering the moods of the skiers in my household, I have risen to the occasion of some creating today. My Arthouse Sketchbook project is coming together. Here is one of the pages I have prepared to write in to. The title, which was given to me, is ‘Forks and Spoons’.
I cannot get away from the ordinary things that make our lives extraordinary. I love that.

What sustains me on days like today, where the momentum of all my projects stills and the energy that is my normal operating speed has slowed by winter grabbing my ankles and thickening blood, is this comfort. Being tender with myself today has made it possible to show up here with you and ask:

What sustains you?
What is it you would do for your best friend today?
Could you possibly do that very thing for yourself?

I listened to a recorded call while I worked at my art table. Sage Levine of Women on Purpose interviewed
Reverend Deborah Johnson about intentional living.
Rev. Johnson said this:

God has given you custody of you.

I have taken custody of myself today. I am my very own best friend.
And, I am taking me to bed.

Tell me more.
What sustains you in the bleak mid-winter?

Thank you for being here,
All my love,
S

PS There are some wonderful things happening on Out of the Mouths of Babes.
Tomorrow, Sherry Collier’s post goes up. Monday, Linda Jackson’s post arrives.
Next week, more amazing women will appear. You are encouraged to visit the blog and comment. Let these long gray days be filled with inspiration from other women.

PPS. If you want to read an absolutely beautiful piece on the power of women’s friendships, read this. Thank you Emily Rapp.

Have you looked at yourself today?
Did you smile?

At 6 a.m. this morning, I passed my 14-year-old daughter in the bathroom. I noticed the austere look on her face as she spread mascara on her already thick long eyelashes. I wanted to chide her to smile a little, ease up on her self for crying out loud, it is only six a.m. and can’t you be shining a little light on yourself today?
But, it was six a.m. and I was not yet up to being parental.

Then, later, I read Berry Liberman’s post on Dumbo Feather, a really fine online magazine from Australia. Berry interviewed Brene’ Brown for that publication. Readers of the Laundry Line may recall Brene’s TEDx talk on shame that I posted a few months ago.

Berry wrote in her post titled “The Scars We Live With and Gratitude” about her own self-image and the scepter of age making marks on her body, breast, eyes, and her waist. About plastic surgery Berry wrote:

There’s something we forget when we try and erase the years and the scars. We forget they are the markers of a life lived, of things learned, of love given and received, of loss, of laughter. How can I say to Willow that she’s enough if I don’t believe that I am? She’ll know I’m a fraud and most likely will feel that putting herself under general anaesthetic and letting someone put a knife to her face and body is quite normal. Necessary in fact.

I keep thinking about what I model for my daughter every day. Do I scowl at myself even before the sun rises? Do my upper arms or eyelids have the first say in whether what I see is beautiful or not?

Tomorrow morning, I will fly to Chicago to meet my sister Becky. We look in to each other’s eyes and see familiar lines, familiar traces of time around our smiles. Our voices lift and fall the same way. We both color our hair, but otherwise, our bodies are the reflection of time as it has made its mark on us. I will look at her and see family traits that I cherish in her, but on any given day I’d critique in myself. Here we are with our bright shiny youngest sister Elsa between us.

I was moved to tears when I saw this movie by Julia Warr of Brooklyn, NY this week. It has stayed with me and penetrates this discussion beyond any words I have about aging. This ode to her friend Maia holds a standard of self-cherishing and grace that I aspire to.

You will hear from women of every age here this winter on the Out of the Mouths of Babes blog series. Today, Kelly DiNorcia’s post about her life as a writer with her son and daughter sheds light on her perception of her value and creativity as it has changed since becoming a mother.

Life is like that. It makes its mark on you. Passion shapes us; time carves experience in to us. My body is as full of stories as my imagination. I desire to celebrate those stories, share the ones that cause my heart to race and step in to loving my body, every mark.

Chicago holds the funeral of my dear Uncle Jim. Close readers will remember him as a commenter here on Laundry Line Divine. When I sat with Uncle Jim during the days after my Mom, his sister-in-law, died, I saw my eyes in his. I saw the way our upper eyelids are shaped around our eyes. I saw his eyebrows lift in gestures I myself make. I am sure Uncle Jim was capable of Catherine’s scowl, but of the time I have seen him in my life, he was smiling or pondering a question with a knit of his eyebrows that drew the together in the center and up on the ends. His voice held all the timbre and lilt of the Banks side of sound for me. I will miss it every day. Here is what he said in response to one of my posts about my Mom’s passing:

‘How many heartbeats in a minute, in a day, in a month, in a year? Each one is a goodbye.’

This is me listening to Uncle Jim with my step-Dad.

Please enjoy Kelly’s post.
Please wink at yourself in the mirror.
Consider gratitude, as Berry does, for your one fine body.
And, as Maia does in Julia’s beautiful film, move in your own beautiful grace.

All my love,
S