October 27, 2008 · by Christine
Poetry Party #26! I select an image and suggest a title and invite you to respond with your poems, words, reflections, quotes, song lyrics, etc. Leave them in the comments or email me and I’ll add them to the body of the post as they come in along with a link back to your blog if you have one (not required to participate!)
I’ll add your contributions all week and then I will draw a name at random on Friday morning from everyone who participates and will send the winner a copy of my newest zine Crossing the Threshold: New Year, New Beginnings. Feel free to take your poem in any direction and then post the image and invitation on your blog and encourage others to come join the party!
The end of this week brings the feasts of Samhain, Halloween, All Saint’s Day, and All Soul’s Day. It is a time of honoring our ancestors. I love the image in the Christian tradition of the “Communion of Saints” or the “cloud of witnesses” — both speak to me of the depth of connection available to us with those who have gone before. This week I invite you to celebrate your own ancestors, either as a group, or dedicate your poem to a particular person (human or animal in nature). For this week’s party, I also invite you to email me a photo of this person (if you have one) to accompany your poem.
This photo was taken last March in a cemetery in Ipswich, Massachusetts when I traveled back to trace some of my maternal ancestors.
*****
SOMETIMES
Sometimes, when a bird cries out,
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in a far off farm,
I hold still and listen a long time.
My soul turns and goes back to the place Where, a thousand forgotten years ago, The bird and the blowing wind Were like me, and were my brothers.
My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it comes home
And asks me questions. What should I reply?
HERMANN HESSE
translated by Robert Bly
Submitted by Lizabeth at Whisperings of Motherhood
*****
I perch lightly
At the edge of outside
I am lighter now than you could know
I wait for you here
May your path be smooth
May the thorns not trouble you
On your Way
-Mary Beth at Terrapin Station
*****
Old castle tower
spirals to a settler’s view
in Winterset Park . . .
ancestors’ laughter echoing
between picnic tables and trees.
©Bette Norcross Wappner (b’oki)
*****
*****
Perching from above,
thorns no longer pierce your soul,
flight imagines wings….
-kathy flugel colle
****
no bird can fly
without opening its wings,
and no one can love
without exposing their heart.
–mark nepo from “the book of awakening”
(submitted by Kayce at diamonds in the sky with lucy)
*****
Prometheus Father
He did not create
the Frisbee but brought it
to the family as a means
of sport and exercise. He
was the master of the flicked wrist
and cutting air. He made
his children wanting-
but not wanting enough.
Always control
and accuracy of the disc.
When he noticed his tykes
becoming his equal with the disc
Prometheus went out, purchased
a ping pong table and started the cycle
all over again.
-Tom Delmore at Crow’s Perch
*****
Birds, wings, flight–are we all imagining the same experience? Here is a song, a round, source unknown. Found in a Libana songbook called “Fire Within.”
Be like a bird who halting in her flight on a limb too slight,
feels it give way beneath her,
yet sings, sings,
knowing she has wings,
yet sings, sings,
knowing she has wings.
I include photos of my mother and sister who both passed recently. On November 1st we gather to remember them with a Memorial Labyrinth Walk and the dedication of memorial dove tiles on the Spirit Wall of our church. I also include a drawing of the dove tiles which bear names of ancestors.
Mother: Louise // Sister: Kathleen
-Jenifer Hartsfield at South Texas Art League
*****
Sanctum
They are mostly gone now,
Life’s fixed points.
Sanctuary from the
World’s rough hewn edge.
Mother’s embrace
To hush the tearful sob,
Father’s strong hand
To catch the fall.
Temporal things suffice.
A book or a place,
A solitary walk,
or time paused in blue.
-Andy at A Man Breathing
*****
Youngest son of a poor rural family,
what made you take those steps?
One hundred miles to a life in London,
in a time before cars ate distance.
Was it fire in your young belly, or
too many mouths for your mother to feed?
How did you meet that rather severe
young woman who became half of you?
Did you think you would share fifty years?
Did you imagine eight children together?
What did you like to eat? Did you smoke?
Did you enjoy your long life, or not?
I want to put flesh on your bones,
emotion in your heart, thoughts in your mind.
I am greedy for knowledge of you that
facts and a photograph cannot give me.
-Tess at Pilgrim’s Moon
Photo is of Tess’ great grandparents
*****
Winter sneaks in without warning
Quietly taking hold of what lives
Mighty trees once bursting with life
Are merely skeletons clawing at the heavens
Flowers full of beauty and perfume
Now void of color and reeking of mildew
All from receiving winters cold kiss
Nature’s plush carpet so green and soft
Is a tangled brown mess hard as ice
Just reminders of winter’s unforgiving hug
I still have color
I still have strength
I still have a choice
I will not let this winter break me
I choose to sing
I choose to soar
I choose to live
-Steve Newcomb
*****
Atop a grey grim
reminder of loss
Alites a brilliant blue
reminder of life
-Rebecca at Difference a Year Makes
*****
Little Blue,
little Blue, with
rusty white belly and
black beak and feet
make your way
through the cemetery
to my heart
down my street.
Little Blue,
I will meet you there
and we can gage
death together, oh! And
bring me blue feathers too
that I may fly, fly with you
high above the granite
past the bramble
Little Blue
remind me of those gone by
who have blessed me
without knowing
they are the wind
with which we fly
the hope by which
we are carried
little Blue,
little Blue.
-Martha Louise Harkness
*****
Mary Queen of Scots
It is rumored from whom
I am descended, it says here
Questa famiglia originaria della Scoizia
E nobilissima in molte citta,
Ed e divisa in molti rami
The Barone family, my family
Originated from Scotland
Mary’s son King James VI of Scotland
Became King James I of England
King James great grand daughter married
The King of Itlay
It is noble in many cities and
Is divided into many branches it
Had many fiefs and illustrious men in court
In the magistrature, in the army
And in the church it was
Conferred high chivalrous honors and
Was vested with the holy orders
Of Malta from the 15th Century
It includes, as branches, the Counts
Of Casola and the Marchesi di Liveri
The title was granted in 1710
To the celebrated literary figure Domenico
Director, San Carlo Opera, Naples
Praised even by Giambattista Vico
In an assembly of praise of him
Made by the Academitrician in 1735
The family is listed in the Registry of Neopolitan
Feudal families and numbered among
The patricians of the Republic of Marino
The Republic was represented in Lisbon
By the Court of Casola and Marchese di Liveri
By Napoleon Barone son of Marchese Pasquale
Who had as his grandmother Maria Filomarina
Of the Principality of Bocca
Title to Alfrede Domenico Barone
Held from 1869-1952 also as the Count
Of Casoli in the Registry of Nobility
Melchizadek descendant of Pasquale
And likewise Alfred my father
Or so the story goes there is
A castle and a title
Or at the very least a story
That belongs to me in Italy
I write to know
-Bruce Barone
*****
For my parents, Vail and Gardner Read, and for all my other beloved dead, this poem by Marge Piercy, which I read at my mom’s memorial:
IF THEY COME IN THE NIGHT
Long ago on a night of danger and vigil
a friend said, Why are you happy?
He explained (we lay together
on a hard cold floor) what prison
meant because he had done
time, and I talked of the death
of friends. Why are you happy
then, he asked, close to
angry.
I said, I like my life. If I
have to give it back, if they
take it from me, let me only
not feel I wasted any, let me
not feel I forgot to love anyone
I meant to love, that I forgot
to give what I held in my hands,
that I forgot to do some little
piece of the work that wanted
to come through.
Sun and moonshine, starshine,
the muted grey off the waters
of the bay at night, the white
light of the fog stealing in,
the first spears of the morning
touching a face
I love. We all lose
everything. We lose
ourselves. We are lost.
Only what we manage to do
lasts, what love sculpts from us;
but what I count, my rubies, my
children, are those moments
wide open when I know clearly
who I am, who you are, what we
do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,
with all my senses hungry and filled
at once like a pitcher with light.
-Marge Piercy
(submitted by Cindy Read)
*****
With You
A remembrance for Hazel, my grandmother
With you I watch the juncos
and put out suet on cold winter days.
With you I work the soil and plant the beans
that will snap and steam.
With you I pinch the spent petunias
and my nose tingles
as their sharp scent fills the air.
With you I roll out pie dough
and set aside pieces for younger hands
to roll and pinch and learn.
With you I make these my prayer offerings.
With you those offerings will linger as sweet incense,
swirling and rising in the halls of the King,
for all eternity.
-Wronda
*****
I am the son
of twelve hundred years
as far as I can know
by these parchments in my hands
saying the immense lenght of Time
teaching me the countless lives
who ran along Time’s paths
wearing my same name
bringing me the myself I am
stone by stone
minute after minute
flight over flight
I am the poor unworthy son
of noblest Beings who knew for true
what Wingness and Nobless are
whose memory teaches me by the day
step after step
dream over dream
as far as the myself inside me can know
how to be a Noble Being
living together with all Beings
no matter waht wings they have
and thinking I am none
when facing their Noblest Beingness
I am the last lonely son
of an endless quest in search of the Being
for being finally taught
what the Perfect Flight is
I myself try with my whole Being
to teach at my best
squeak by squeak
wingstroke by wingstroke
seastorm after seastorm
what the path of flight through Time is
to the new Being wearing the same name
my daughter.
-yorukamome
*****
My great-uncle Thomas remained in Inverness when his parents and 12 siblings emigrated to New Zealand. Within a few years he was killed at Gallipoli. My grandparents named their first son after him, and that little one died in infancy. On a visit to Inverness I was stopped in my tracks and strangely moved when I saw his name on a wall plaque commemorating the men of Inverness, so many of them young men, who died in the first world war. I don’t have a photograph.
I never met you
and I was moved to tears
when I saw your name
Lal remembered
her older brother always
and we heard stories
Thomas Gillanders
You were loved
You are remembered
You have family throughout this world
Rest in Peace
-Mavis at Set the Bird Free
*****
Connected
Just a name on a family tree.
It seems so small
to represent a full life.
No sense of the spirit.
No sense of the struggle
that has been shared.
Yet, what matters most
is this unbroken link
with those who came before.
A carrying on
of invisible threads.
Lives and love connected.
My life, one day, will also
be hidden in a name
on the chart.
But, I will have passed the torch.
Someone, in years to come,
will see my name
and wonder about me,
knowing that my life and spirit
are still entwined with theirs.
-Pamela McCauley
*****
North Shore
Today rather than people or places or pets, I’m stepping back to honor one of my own previous lives, still wondering how I followed got to this current here and where. Not that Ipswich, Massachusetts was quite point of origin, but for those years going up the shore at first from Boston and later from Salem on a summer Sunday afternoon, stopping at the Clam Box for fried clams and simply being stripped clean and purified by salty Atlantic air meant going home renewed and hopeful. During Holy Week before Robert and I were leaving the East Coast for the Left, senior pastor of the congregation I’d been serving took me to lunch at the Clam Box. I almost never regret any of the big choices I’ve made for longer than a split second, yet what could I have done differently that would yielded the life of service I prepared for? I don’t know, yet I do know “these things” don’t happen in 1st or 2nd world countries. So I dedicate this paragraph to Boston’s North Shore and commit myself to making at very least a virtual pilgrimage back, and filled with the bright hope of Atlantic sea air to retrace, refine and reinvent my own journey.
-Leah Sophia at This Far by Faith
*****
ANCESTORS
Grief long past, only memories stir,
enhanced as I sit before a mirror.
My pale blue eyes, a heritage,
along with paler skin. Visions
of dark waves, an immigrant ship,
crossing wide miles carrying
a mother, father and two sons.
Buffeted by waves and fears,
comforted by dreams and hopes,
promises of a new land.
War was over, a chance to start anew.
Searching for familiar faces,
open arms of welcome;
a man’s feet began to dance,
a woman’s cackling laugh erupted.
A joyful warm reunion
on foreign soil that became
an eternal place to slumber,
while a bright blue bird bids
them rest with a lullaby.
-Rich at Pilgrim Path
*****
My Nana Carol, my snooty grandmother
Middle child of the Governor, Mother was a poet
Graduated from college, married my grandpa
Joined Junior League and made crab muffin sandwiches
Walked on Chinese rugs, shipped by her Big Sister
(She a professor, youngest sang opera).
Lived on prestigious Country Club Boulevard
Volunteered weekly with friends at the thrift shop
Dressed like a rich woman, fashionable, tailored
Crocheted button bracelets, gifts for her friends
Journeyed to Mexico every cold winter
Bragged every so often, she was “High Episcopalian.”
So many secrets, my dear Nana Carol
Financed by Father, their well-placed brick housing
Tailored her wardrobe from “Nearly New” rejects
Scavenged their buttons to make her friends’ bracelets
Made a really “mean” soup with one fresh red tomato
Journeyed to Mexico, hopes for shock therapy
All that had worked for my sweetest of grandpas.
Dear Nana Carol, my loving grandmother
Leaving prestige, moved near us when Mom died
Wore tailored clothes to my three brothers’ ball games
Wrote us elegant notes on momentous occasions
Slipped me a twenty when my dad gave nothing
Called Silent Unity for hope in the darkness
Spoke to me always in a voice much more honest.
-Suz Reaney
*****
Grandpa had a quiet manner about him,
a man of few words and many talents,
and he left a thin place for his family to enjoy.
In the middle of an inland lake,
on an island of only 8 acres,
Grandpa and his father built a cottage in the 1920s.
Three generations later, there have been
some additions and upgrades,
but it continues to hold a
special place in each of our hearts.
In his midlife years
he built a wooden boat in his garage,
held together by 5,000 brass screws
and his desire for precision.
For years she skimmed across the waters,
being the fastest boat on the lake in her prime.
But as Grandpa aged so did she.
For 20 years she hasn’t seen or touched water.
Yet rebirth is possible:
this winter she will be restored.
And we all have hopes that
next summer she will once again
be immersed in the water and
we will hear that familiar
hum of the engine that carries us
to a distance place and time,
to a thin place of memory and hope
where a bit of heaven and earth
become one in the body of water
that is like home.
-Thymekeeper
*****
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
Posted in Poetry Party Invitation | 20 Comments »
October 24, 2008 · by Christine
***
Again the wind
Flakes gold-leaf from the trees
And the painting darkens—as if a thousand penitents
Kissed an icon
Till it thinned
Back to bare wood,
Without diminishment.
-Jane Hirshfield
***
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
(all photos except for the last one taken at the Seattle Arboretum, end photo taken at Lakeview Cemetery in Seattle)
** Come back Monday, October 27th for our next Poetry Party **
** Wednesday, October 29th will be our next Sacred Artist Interview with Leah Piken Kolidas **
Posted in Visual Meditation | 4 Comments »
October 21, 2008 · by Christine
I long for You so much
I have even begun to travel
Where I have never been before.
-Hafiz (excerpt)
Last week on Tuesday I piled my things into the car, the essentials like my journal, my yoga mat, my camera, and of course my sweet Petunia. We headed north on I-5 to the Canadian border. Two elements of getting to a retreat that feel important to me are a border crossing and a ferry ride and this time I had the gift of both. When I arrived at the guard booth though, to my disappointment the guard waved me through with half a smile. I wanted to be asked the purpose for my journey. I wanted the guardian of the threshold to invite me to speak about where I was going. I wanted to say, I am longing for God so much, I find myself here at the boundary wanting to enter into new territory.
The next step was boarding the ferry. Last year while I had the gift of my time at the hermitage each week I would travel across the Sound and hold the words from Jane Siberry’s song: “Will you sail ‘cross the water and tell us what you found.” Something about that act of leaving the land mass of home and journeying across the depths of the sea speaks to me of my own interior journey and my desire for discovery.
It was dusk when we departed, that liminal time between day and night, when the world basks in the beauty of endings.
God was wildly waving saffron ribbons across the sky in jubilation for me. I could hear the sacred voice singing “yes! Come closer to me, come to be near me.” Seagulls glide past the boat and I want to spread my wings as wide as theirs and surrender into the current that carries me.
As we near our destination a group of young women gather by their car and sing chants. Simple phrases again and again, creating a spiral of song encircling each one who would listen. “My body is the body of the goddess” I hear them speak with exuberance. For a moment I am connected to my fellow travelers, standing there above the great sea, feeling the connection between my own body and the earth far below. I look up and see that the full moon has risen, veiled and shy, tentative in her self-revelation. I understand her desire to not be fully exposed, but to rest comfortably in the mist.
As night rises over and around us like a swelling river I arrive at my destination, the place that will hold me these next few days like a tabernacle. The moon becomes bolder, shrugging off her shawl to reveal her full-bodied self illuminating the darkness. She has become a presence, a companion to me for this sacred time. I feel her fullness in my belly, round and whole, like the moment after having fully inhaled. The moon and I will begin on this retreat to exhale again.
The next day I head to one of my favorite places where forest edge meets the sea, where wild meets wild and I can dwell between them walking for hours over soft damp earth, stepping over tree roots reaching up out of the ground inviting me to contemplate my own rootedness.
I pause regularly along the way to be present to the sea pressed against the edges of the trail. I dip my fingers in the cold saltwater and wash my face. I want to immerse myself and be baptized again. I want to swim long and hard until I can feel my heart pounding in my ears reminding me that I am alive. I want to float like a fallen leaf, surprised at its own good fortune that instead of landing on hard ground, it was received like a holy offering, and can dwell suspended there for a while. Death does not have to come just yet.
I drive back to my little cottage and stop at farm stands selling their goods, nourishment from this earth, beauty offered from this place.
Upon my return, my spiritual director reminds me that rest is an essential element to a meaningful retreat. Time to restore my body, time to listen to the wisdom of my dreams.
I sleep long and hard, I am surprised at how tired I am. The next morning I discover the world wrapped in a silver covering, a cloth draped around me like vestments I am to wear to move into the liturgy of the day.
Later the rain begins to fall casting reflections onto the ground. I long for a sacred mirror to see myself in God’s eyes, to know of my goodness, to see my own beauty, to discover God within me, closer than I am to myself.
The world becomes a vessel of tears, an act of solidarity with my sorrow. A gesture of hospitality, welcoming me into its extended arms. I am filled with a sense that the earth knows my grief. More than that, my tears originate from the soil and sky, flowing through me in a lament for the suffering of all of creation.
I return later that day to the trail at the wild edges. I feel the presence of my mother so clearly there, as if I were breathing her in and myself out. I am surprised by my desire to feel my father with me too. With him, as in life, it is much more of a struggle. I try to make a welcoming space within myself and I wonder if it can ever be wide enough. I continue to walk and I ask whether they are both there with me there, my mother and my father, reaching out from that dark curtain. From the stillness, I look down on the trail and discover two small feathers as if the sky tumbled its reply to the ground before me. I place them in my palm to examine my treasures, to feel the hard spine and soft extensions pressed into my skin. I look more closely and see a third tiny feather attached to them.
After I return back to Seattle, I feel I am not done, I must be out on the earth again. I have another communication from the sky, offering me solace and the wisdom of both mother and father. My longing for God, as Hafiz says, has brought me to new landscapes, new revelations.
The feathers go on my altar. My heart continues to beat loudly in my ears or are those the wings of the holy?
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
Posted in Photos, Poetry, Spirituality | 10 Comments »
October 21, 2008 · by Christine
Before I left on my retreat last week, I sent my latest Reflective Art Journal off to the printer. As usual, I am so pleased with how it turned out. This issue’s theme is Crossing the Threshold: New Year, New Beginnings and in it I explore rituals and practices for celebrating the new year from Celtic, Christian, secular, Persian, and Jewish traditions. To complement the reflections you will find an abudance of photos from my travels this past summer with a special focus on many of the beautiful doors I discovered there accompanied by quotes inviting further reflection.
They should be arriving on my doorstep by the end of the week so visit my Abbey Shop and place your order now. The Celtic new year begins November 1st, Advent begins December 2nd, and they also make wonderful Christmas gifts to help people celebrate January 1st in a more meaningful way.
You might also consider an annual subscription for yourself, or as a gift, and receive this issue and the next two as soon as they are printed!
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
** Our next Poetry Party will begin on Monday, October 27th in honor of our ancestors for the feasts of Samhain, All Saint’s, and All Soul’s Days at the end of that week. So mark your calendars and be sure to join us! **
Posted in Links & Resources | 2 Comments »
October 19, 2008 · by Christine
‘I learned that her name was Proverb.’
And the secret names
of all we meet who lead us deeper
into our labyrinth
of valleys and mountains, twisting valleys
and steeper mountains–
their hidden names are always,
like Proverb, promises:
Rune, Omen, Fable, Parable,
those we meet for only
one crucial moment, gaze to gaze,
or for years know and don’t recognize
but of whom a later word
sings back to us
as if from high among leaves,
still near but beyond sight
drawing us from tree to tree
towards the time and the unknown place
where we shall know
what it is to arrive.
-Denise Levertov
Today is the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death. My time away on retreat the last few days was a time of ritual and remembering. I will post more about the retreat itself in the next couple of days. Thank you for all of your beautiful blessings in comments and emails.
Last night after I returned home we went to a friend’s house for Sukkot. It is a 7-day festival that comes after the Jewish high holy days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and during it, celebrants build sukkahs or tents and live in them as a remembrance of the Israelites time of wandering. As my rabbi friend reflected, it is a time to remember that life is fragile and we are vulnerable, that everything is temporary.
Coming on the eve of such an anniversary for me, the meaning was amplified in my heart. The invitation to be present to life’s brief and precious nature feels especially profound. The memories of being present to my mother in those final days of her life and in the transition to her death continue to be the most visceral and profound memories I have.
With my father’s death twelve years ago and the loss of my beloved companion Duke just over two years ago, I am familiar with the landscape of loss. I know life’s fragility in an intimate way. I know the terrible ache of grief when I have wondered how I can even manage to keep my lungs filled with air.
None of us is spared this experience. We may have to face it in a variety of ways — the loss of a job, a home, a dream, a beloved one or many. Each can tear our hearts wide open if we let it. And each of us can shut out the pain in the hopes that it will make life easier to bear. I have chosen to welcome in the sadness again and again.
Yet life is filled with paradox. In a world filled with losses and ending, there is also unspeakable beauty. For the many hours I have spent with my heart rended, I have spent as many hours in awe of a landscape, of a small kindness, of love. To the degree I welcome in grief is also the degree to which I am capable of welcoming in joy. Life is unbelievably fragile and fleeting and it is made of a substance solid like steel or stone, enduring in ways we had not imagined.
My mother was a radiant woman. She discovered her power in the last few years of her life and it continues to fill me with sorrow that I did not have more time to witness this gift, to bask in her ability to speak truth without apology. She is one of those persons whom Denise Levertov writes about, except that I was blessed to know it at the time and to be grateful each day for what she would teach me. If I become truly her daughter, then I will have lived well.
This morning I awoke to discover fog laying close to the earth and so on this anniversary, I headed to the cemetery. It is not where my mother is buried, that is three thousand miles away, but that does not matter. I love fog because it speaks to me of the mystery of God, of how we have only a limited vision of that expansive love and goodness. I adore graveyards because in being surrounded by those stones lovingly erected by families in grief, I feel connected to a community that has loved deeply and I am linked to that other world in tangible ways. I experience the “thin place” of which the Celts speak and who say this time of year we are approaching is when the veil becomes especially thin between heaven and earth.
I hear my mother “sing back to (me) / as if from high among leaves, / still near but beyond sight.” She is as close as my own breath, she beats in my blood. I see my ancestors dancing with abandon in circles around me, calling me to remember what does endure across the tapestry of time — stories of exile and stories of arriving home again.
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
(top photo is of my mother at 2 years old, other photos taken at the Lakeview Cemetery in Seattle this morning)
Posted in Photos, Grief, Family Systems | 16 Comments »
October 14, 2008 · by Christine
How necessary it is for monks to work in the fields, in the rain, in the sun, in the mud, in the clay, in the wind: these are our spiritual directors and our novice-masters. They form our contemplation. They instill us with virtue. They make us as stable as the land we live in. -Thomas Merton
On this night of the full moon, I am off for a few days of retreat with my spiritual director Abbess Petunia. I will be listening to the wind, rain, and sunlight for their sacred whispers. I will root myself among trees and allow the call of my night dreams to spill forth again into my life.
I am much in need of silence right now. See you back here on Monday. I’ll share some of what I discover.
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
(in the meantime, make sure to scroll down and read this week’s Sacred Artist Interview!)
Posted in Nature, Contemplative Living | 11 Comments »
October 13, 2008 · by Christine
I am delighted to be returning to these interviews again after a long hiatus. I was introduced to Anne Ierardi’s art through my work as art editor with Presence: An International Journal of Spiritual Direction. I am grateful to Anne for saying yes to my invitation to share her insights into the connections between art and spirituality with all of you, my wonderful readers.
______________________________________
Are you rooted in a particular faith tradition?
I’ve had a marvelous faith journey. The tree of life is still growing. My early roots are in Catholicism influenced by Thomas Merton’s ideas on faith as social action and contemplation. I also studied and practiced Buddhist meditation.
Later as a seminary student I was strongly moved by faith as liberation and relational. I attended a progressive American Baptist church and was ordained in 1989. Since living on Cape Cod, I am active in the United Church of Christ. My desire to integrate art and spirituality has been part of my faith quest. At Emmanuel College, Sr. Vincent de Paul was influential. She lived her faith through her art from painting to designing a beautiful chapel to art education. I was fascinated by the course “Human Bodies in Visual Arts and Christian Thought” given by Margaret Miles at Harvard Divinity School.
What is your primary art medium?
My primary art medium is oils. I began painting in oils in the early 1970’s when I was an art major in college. I also enjoy life drawing and painting. Five years ago I studied traditional Russian icon painting in New York. A few years ago I collaborated with Rev. Nanette Geertz, to illustrating her moving poem on the loss of her 19 year old daughter. After Nan died of breast cancer in 2005, Walking with Grief: A Healing Journey, became a book and a mission to reach out to those in grief. My latest series is Ladies of Jazz, paintings I created listening to the music of my favorite jazz greats including Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, and Dinah Washington.
How do you experience the connection between spirituality and creativity?
Art-making expresses one’s spiritual nature. For me practicing art is a triune process: co-creating with God to make the world beautiful, following Christ to heal and be healed, and finding inspiration through the Holy Spirit to renew the eye and the mind.
All the arts are a truly wholistic process: mind, body, and soul. They give my life joy and meaning. Our society and our religious bodies are broken and we desperately need the healing and transforming power of art. As an artist/minister, I am called to be both visionary and healer. I ponder the words of Jesus: where your heart is, there your treasure will be as I struggle with making a living as an artist.
What role does spiritual practice have in your art-making?
‘All my life I have struggled to make one authentic gesture’ -Isadora Duncan.
Intentionality and authenticity are keys to right living. Spiritual practices prepare me to enter into a space where I can become an instrument of God. God is one but I am many. I am easily distracted by my own many interests and the complications of life today. Some of my current practices include Chi Kung, praying the Celtic Psalter morning and evening, and writing. I also have creative and spiritual guides who keep me on the right track and a small faith group I attend.
What sparked your spiritual journey?
My early images as a child was the art in Catholic churches especially the stained glass and a ceiling Byzantine fresco of Christ surrounded by lambs. In junior high school, I pasted a picture in art appreciation class of the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, a place I someday hoped to visit.
One day I heard a woman preach at my church, The Paulist Center in Boston. I realized trembling that I, too, could have a call. The fulfillment of that call came through the guidance of women priests at my Episcopal seminary and an open lesbian pastor at an ecumenical American Baptist congregation. The faith that grew out of my long coming out process shaped me to live a prophetic witness to a transformative spirituality that cannot be divorced from our bodies, our sexualities, and what Baptists call “soul freedom” – the freedom of the individual person to follow the promptings of their soul. The mystery of Christ’s incarnation into human form, the art of the Renaissance, and the prophetic witness of modern liberation movements are important symbols for me in this journey. My work as spiritual counselor and preacher are places where I put my faith into action.
What sparked your artistic journey?
Art is a road to self-expression for me similar to my guitar playing. I was unable to be myself at a young age but I was determined to find my true nature and went on a quest to learn from teachers, friends, and masters. As a freshman at a Lutheran college, my art professor, John Solem, showed me paintings of the German Expressionist and I was amazed how my painting had the same intense color and emotion. My art history training and the ability to “see” blossomed during the three months I studied in Tuscany. Unfortunately, it also ended my desire to paint until I moved to Cape Cod where I had wonderful mentors from the abstract expressionist and Hoffman schools. That proved to be a revelation since my senior thesis in college was on “Energy vs. Repression,” contrasting Wilhelm Reich’s psychological theory with Hans Hoffman push and pull theory of painting. My approach, though I was naïve at the time at its not being well-received, was a radical departure from the expectations of the art department. But now in the 1990’s I was actually learning from Hoffman’s students and free to develop from my own path.
Do you have a particular process you use when entering into your creative work?
Well, I sometimes have to clean my studio or push myself up the stairs to my studio. But, seriously, I would say music and movement are most essential to my artistic process. Once, in a life drawing class as I was hearing the Blue Danube waltz in my head, the instructor exclaimed: “I can feel dancing in your work.” Painting in my studio, I put on a CD. I move and become absorbed in the flow of the music from brush to canvas. This year I exhibited my “Jazz Series” of 12 portraits of jazz singers and abstracts. Rhythm and color are central elements in my work and music helps me access my emotions and open to the workings of the Holy Spirit. In the Icon painting workshops, we listen to Russian Orthodox chanting. We begin our time with prayer and the burning of incense.
How does your art-making shape your image of God?
I am fascinated with the human/divine paradox. Contrast Byzantine art with Renaissance art. See the image of the Archangel Michael and the Centurion detail of the fresco from the Sistine Chapel. Icons are “windows to the soul.” When I beheld “Our Lady of Vladimir” at the San Diego Museum of Art, I felt its transcendent power knock me over. In the Centurion, the man, his humaneness, is the entry into the divine. We are created according to the book of Genesis in the imago Dei, the image of God. Yet, we do not often see ourselves or others in this way. That is tragic.
People want to hang a landscape or still life in their home not a human figure. Frida Kahlo’s unique self-portraits show both a window into her soul, with the terrible suffering of her body from the accident in her youth, and the earthy but mythical joy of life in the flesh, in animals, in fruits and flowers. Our modern society has desacralized the human body and desecrated our environment. As an artist, I search for the primal and transcendent connection that is endangered, the soul wound, human and divine.
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A warm thank you to Anne for sharing herself so freely here. As usual, there was much that resonated with me. I am especially moved by her connections between the art-making process and the Trinity — as co-creation, healing, and inspiration, the image of “soul freedom,” and her reflections on the human body.
You can see more of her work at her website and you can find out more about the book she mentions, Walking with Grief: A Healing Journey and order copies here.
Images from top to bottom:
Candlelight, Ella, Season’s End, Canciones, Provincetown Monument, Fog, Sarah, Archangel Gabriel, Centurion.
Posted in Sacred Artist Interview | 6 Comments »
October 10, 2008 · by Christine
25 beautiful contributions for the 25th Poetry Party! Seems like a fitting tribute in itself to the magic of words and language. Make sure to spend some time with the wonderful gifts of poetry there. Thank you once again to my most wonderful readers who truly make this a delight.
A couple of folks asked me this week if I respond to each and every submission to the Poetry Party and I do! You offer such a gift in sharing your creative expression and I delight in supporting your work with a few words of encouragement.
The winner of this week’s random drawing for a signed copy of my book Lectio Divina: Contemplative Awakening and Awareness is Andy at a man breathing. Congratulations Andy, send me your snail mail and I will send that off to you! Also let me know if you’d like the book personalized to you.
Our next Poetry Party will begin on Monday, October 27th in honor of our ancestors for the feasts of Samhain, All Saint’s, and All Soul’s Days at the end of that week. So mark your calendars and be sure to join us!
If you love the written word as much as I do, and you enjoy my writing on this blog, I invite you to consider buying a copy of Lectio Divina: Contemplative Awakening and Awareness. Or go browse around the Abbey Shop for some reflective art journals. Thanks to everyone who is able to support my work in this way, it means a great deal to me. This blog is a labor of love, but also requires a great commitment of my time and energy.
Come back Monday when we return to another Sacred Artist Interview!
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
(photo taken in Riga, Latvia)
Posted in Fun | 1 Comment »
October 8, 2008 · by Christine
I had my great webguy change the images on my home page and on each of my sub-pages along the top (those four nifty images above that change for each page). Go browse around and let me know how you like them!
(and if you can’t remember what the old ones looked like, you can still see them here — I have yet to update that page as well.)
Also, if you live in Seattle and are curious about Ignatian spirituality, consider joining me for the Ignatian Prayer Experience which begins on Monday, October 13th from 6:30-9:00 p.m. at St. Joseph Parish Center and runs for seven weeks. Click on the link to find out more and download a registration form. A couple of spots left! (Adam did the great new website for the Ignatian Spirituality Center as well)
After you’re done browsing through my new images and signing up for the prayer experience, make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Party!
Posted in Fun | 5 Comments »
October 8, 2008 · by Christine
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone–
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance–
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love–
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed–
or have you too
turned from this world–
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
-Mary Oliver
-Christine Valters Paintner @ Abbey of the Arts
(photos taken at Golden Gardens in Seattle)
** Make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Party **
Posted in Visual Meditation | 6 Comments »
