MAY YOUR HEART ALWAYS BE JOYFUL

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
(from "Forever Young," Bob Dylan, 1974)

(Gouache and watercolor painting by Old Girl Of The North Country, 2002)

WINTER SUNRISE MOMENT ON THE CALIFORNIA COAST

A photographer and a seagull's moment, thanks to this webcam .

DIEU A NOS COTES

(1/2 hour "contour" drawing, 6:00 to 6:30 a.m., from "paused" images from the DVD, "No Direction Home" -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad, while listening to "Chants of India," by Ravi Shankar and George Harrison)

(Blog post written while listening to "Dieu A Nos Cotes (With God On Our Side), sung by Hart-Rouge, a Quebec ensemble who appeared on "A Nod to Bob." Listen to a clip here.

"Let's face it. America's a big country. And if you're French-Canadian, it's easy to see it as a big brewing pot melting minorities like butter. Dylan is one of those songwriters who has forced us to look again, to dig a little deeper and see a side of the States that challenges all the cultural and political bullying. Although 'God On Our Side' comes out of a specific time and place, it dares the listener to take the second look and view the world in a different way. We suspect that Hugues Aufray, who had a hit with the French version of this song (he actually recorded a dozen Dylan translations), probably chose it for the same reason."

-- Hart-Rouge

Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.

(from "With God On Our Side," Bob Dylan, 1963)

WINTER SOLSTICE DAY LOOKING EAST

It's been dark and rainy all day except for this sunbreak.

"I'm Not There" left me with a feeling of darkness and light in the balance:

"I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand."
(from "Every Grain Of Sand," written by Bob Dylan)

Appropriate film for me to see during Winter Solstice time.

THE SUN WILL RESPECT EVERY FACE ON THE DECK

(1-1/2 hour "contour" drawing, 4:20 to 5:50 a.m., using a fairly recent photo of Bob Dylan, drawn using the Appleworks6 "Painting" program on an iBookG4, while listening to the soundtrack for "I'm Not There", downloaded from iTunes at the end of October.)

Yesterday I went downtown, somewhat apprehensively, to see Todd Hayne's film, "I'm Not There" at The Pickford. There was a sign on the ticket window with an apology. The film hadn't arrived in time for the 12:50 showing. I drove downtown again for the 3:40 show, where there were plenty of empty seats.

I was surprised at the level at which I was "moved" by what is certainly a peculiar and challenging movie. As I am writing this and listening to the soundtrack from "I'm Not There," Marcus Carl Franklin starts singing "When The Ship Comes In":

". . . A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck,
The hour that the ship comes in . . . "

The 37-song soundtrack introduces me to the music of a distinctive assortment of younger voices singing Bob Dylan songs, including a teenage actor from the film, Marcus Carl Franklin, as well the older voices of Richie Havens, Willie Nelson and Rambling Jack Elliott.

And I have no trouble at all understanding how a person could find nothing good at all to say about Todd Hayne's film or Bob Dylan and his music.

I'm one of those who never stopped listening to Bob Dylan, for good or for worse, because I felt a kinship with him that has survived since I was 14 years old. I began by idolizing him and grew to appreciate what I see as his qualities of being a vulnerable, unpredictable and creative human being. How could I not love the person who, as a young man wrote:

" . . . I'm just average, common too
I'm just like him, the same as you
I'm everybody's brother and son
I ain't different from anyone
It ain't no use a-talking to me
It's just the same as talking to you . . . "
(from "I Shall Be Free, No. 10")

and as a 65-year-old man wrote:

". . . They say prayer has the power to heal
So pray for me, mother
In the human heart an evil spirit can dwell
I am a-tryin' to love my neighbor and do good unto others
But oh, mother, things ain't going well . . . "

(from "Ain't Talkin")

Particularly moving for me were the parts of "I'm Not There" concerned with Bob Dylan as a husband and father:







(photo copyright by Elliott Landy)

No man can see Bob Dylan through a woman's eyes, just as no woman can see Bob Dylan through a man's eyes.

Perhaps that is the genius of Cate Blanchett playing the role of Jude Quinn / Bob Dylan in a way that is as unforgettable to me as Bob Dylan himself.

WALK AT DAWN AT THE COASTSIDE

(1 hour and 15 minutes, 4:30 to 5:45 a.m., drawn using Appleworks6 "Painting" program, while listening to "Chants of India," which plays for approximately 1 hour and is a work of love by Ravi Shankar and George Harrison, as well as listening for the last fifteen minutes to "Dead To The World, by Patti Smith)

(Click on drawing for better image)

"Of course you will say that I ought to be practical and try to paint the way they want me to paint. Well, I'll tell you a secret. I have tried and I have tried very hard, but I can't do it. I just can't do it! And that is why I'm just a little crazy." (Rembrandt Van Rijn 1606-69)

TO DRAW IS TO LOVE AGAIN

(40-minute drawing, 4:40 to 5:20 a.m. -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad, while listening to "Chants of India," which plays for approximately 1 hour and is a work of love by Ravi Shankar and George Harrison. Contour drawings come from "paused" frames from Martin Scorsese's film on DVD, "No Direction Home.")

"We invent nothing, truly. We borrow and re-create. We uncover and discover. All has been given, as the mystics say. We have only to open our eyes and hearts, to become one with that which is.
(quote by Henry Miller, from Zen Calendar, December 20, 2007)

Henry Miller said, "To paint is to love again."

















(Photo of me taken in Plain, Washington, by V.M., who will remain anonymous, unless I'm instructed otherwise)

See Denise Levertov's, "Celebration" at wood s lot.

A PLACE TO DRAW / A PLACE TO PAINT

(1/2 hour drawing, 5:00 to 5:30 a.m. -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad, while listening to "Chants of India," which plays for approximately 1 hour and is a work of love by Ravi Shankar and George Harrison)

















"A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it
most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it,
loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image." ~ Joan
Didion

(Gouache and watercolor painting titled, "Calendar Series: 42nd Month / Gifts Of Love From Imaginary Brothers," painted by Old Girl Of The North Country in 1989)

I've been enjoying reading Loren Webster's recent posts on the Tao.

THIS LONG VIGIL

The dignity of the artist lies in his duty of keeping awake the sense of wonder in the world. In this long vigil he often has to vary his methods of stimulation; but in this long vigil he is also himself striving against a continual tendency to sleep.

(Marc Chagall)



Although I sat down to draw from an image of Bob Dylan on "pause" from the video of the film, "No Direction Home," I found that I didn't want to draw from a "paused" image. Then Oboe jumped up on the table to curl up on the newspaper, warmed by the table lamp. I took that opportunity to try to draw her. My first two attempts made me wonder why I think I can draw. Fortunately, I remembered "contour drawing," after which I felt much happier with my ability to draw. I spent the entire hour on one piece of paper.

(1 hour drawing, 5:30 to 6:30 a.m. -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad, while listening to "Chants of India," which plays for approximately 1 hour and is a work of love by Ravi Shankar and George Harrison)

AN OLD AND VERY PRIMITIVE KNOWLEDGE

Man knows that he springs from nature and not nature from him. This is an old and very primitive knowledge.

(Loren Eiseley, featured on Zen Calendar, December 17, 2007)

I bought these wonderful sculptures from The Lucia Douglas Gallery, using gift money from my father who was a sculptor in wood and clay but denied being an artist. When I was a little girl, he made a sculpture of a mermaid with green molding clay. I wonder where that clay sculpture is now. Will have to photograph some of his woodcarving and post it.

On the left is "Malin Head," a steel sculpture, 7-3/4" tall, by C.A. Scott.

On the right is "Intuition Free," a small version of a bronze sculpture, 6-1/2" tall, by Ann Morris.

Their sculpture can be visited at Big Rock Garden. Scroll down the link to see the large version of "Intuition Free" and more sculpture by C. A. Scott.

(1 hour drawing, 5:30 to 6:30 a.m. -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad, while listening to Chants of India, a work of love by Ravi Shankar and George Harrison, which plays for approximately 1 hour)

UKULELE / MIRACLE

(1 hour drawing, 5:30 to 6:30 a.m. -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad)

For the Christmas before my father died on St. Patrick's Day in 2003, he gave me some money to buy myself a present. Inspired by George Harrison's ukulele playing on his final album, Brainwashed, and learning that George had dozens of ukuleles around his house, I used part of the money to buy myself a ukulele in honor of George Harrison. When I visited my father on his 89th birthday, the last time I saw him, I brought my ukulele and played him a simple 3-chord tune in my goofy not-a-natural-musician style. My last visit with my father was peaceful. It seemed that whatever had been the problem between us was resolved. We had dinner in the assisted-living community dining room. He introduced me to his friends. I felt that he was proud of me, something I didn't usually feel. After dinner we watched an interview on TV with Elvis Presley's ex-wife, Priscilla. As I was leaving, he said, "I'll see you in the spring."

From "Pisces Fish," by George Harrison:

". . . and the river runs through my soul"

See One Word, Miracle.

LOOKING AT WHAT IS IN FRONT OF ME

(1 hour drawing, 5:30 to 6:30 a.m. -- 6B pencil on heavy weight, medium tooth surface, 9 x 12 Canson drawing pad)

"Since everything is but an apparition,
Perfect in being what it is,
Having nothing to do with good or bad,
Acceptance or rejection

You might as well burst out laughing."

-- Longchen (Tibetan Buddhist)



"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time."

-- Thomas Merton (Trappist monk)

DRAWN FROM MEMORY / A WINTER WALK

("Three Low Chairs At Dawn," by Old Girl Of The North Country using Appleworks6 "Painting" program)

I emailed Brother Toby of Starcross Community who gave me permission to print this excerpt from his book, A WINTER WALK:












"Some days, when I get fed up with what I am missing, I preach to myself in the style of an exercise coach. "All right now. Today we are going to take a risk. any risk!" Well, it works. I can't relate many successfully completed missions, but I can list some risks I attempted in a recent year: suggesting to the school a "Family At-Home Friday" when the weekend was taken up with school holiday events; it violated state law. Calling up an old friend from whom I had been estranged; he was put off. Taking a stressed-out teenager up on a hill to watch the stars; it started to rain. Sneaking into the back pew of a large church for a shot of sacred nourishment; the priest was attacking people who cremated their relatives as being insensitive and godless cheapskates. You get the picture. But success doesn't matter. The point is that I dropped my emotional defenses and let myself be vulnerable. and sometimes there actually were special rewards. My teenage son thought the star trip was hilarious, and for months he asked what else I had planned for "quality time." One out of four attempts isn't bad, and someplace along the line I managed to lose Mr. Scrooge."

(c) Tolbert McCarroll 2006

"Practice and enlightenment are not two." (Dogen, from Zen Calender, December 14, 2007)

One more thing -- See "recycling art in South Africa" at Ikastikos

BEFORE, DURING, AND AFTER THE WAR

Now I know, at least a little bit, why I am so resistant to drawing and painting. Once I start, I find it difficult to stop.

This morning, when I woke up at 4 a.m. which has been my chosen waking time recently, it occurred to me that, as with my yoga practice and my blog/writing practice, if I don't make time in the morning to draw, the chances of doing a daily drawing practice diminish as the day progresses. So, a complication arises. I want to do yoga, writing and drawing, but once I start drawing I don't want to stop to do writing and yoga. Actually, it's not that I don't want to do writing and yoga, it's that I need to figure out how to stop drawing in time to do writing and yoga before I enter the responsibilities of the day.

My drawing today is based on a recurring dream that was dreamed once again last night just after I first fell asleep. Ever since sometime in 1970, when my boyfriend was in Vietnam and I was living in my parents' home, I have had a recurring dream that has taken many forms over the years. In the original dream, I was startled awake by a Viet Cong who was lunging towards me, trying to kill me. It took a few seconds for me to realize that I was dreaming because the vision of someone beside my bed was so vivid. My heart was beating in that frightened way that sounds as if everyone in the house can hear it. It took some time before I was able to return to sleep. I was afraid that my boyfriend had died in Vietnam.

It was only in the first dream that the person was a Viet Cong. In the recurring dreams, the shadowy figure by my bed has taken many forms, usually as a man, but also as an unidentifiable woman, as my mother, as my father, as a quiet curious child I don't know, as a dog, as a wolf, as a fox, as a cat. Usually the figure is threatening my life, but occasionally it has not been threatening. On the occasions when the figure is not threatening, I still wonder what it is doing in my bedroom. Always there is the loud racing heartbeat. Over the years, the fear became mixed with anger at the dream appearance of someone uninvited, no matter now benign they might be.

At one time I had hoped that I would never have this dream again, believing that when I stopped having the dream it would mean that something in my psyche was healed, but gradually I came to see this dream as an unusual gift. I am struck by the fact that it occurred again on the night before I planned to start drawing again and that this time there were two people, a man and a woman.

Although the dream was of the frightening kind, when I tried to draw it a shift occurred, and it became "Before, During And After The War."

Now it's almost 7 a.m. The sun won't rise this morning until nearly 8:30. Time to do my yoga practice. Not sure how I will be able to do yoga, writing and drawing once I start my 8 a.m. classes in January, but anything is possible.

Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to draw something today!

The photo below was taken through my living room window on a cold clear morning before sunrise a few days ago.






















A Lifeline Home

and

wood s lot.

REMINDER TO MYSELF ABOUT DRAWING

When I was in high school in the mid 1960s, I read the following quote by Cennino Cennini and began to draw something every day for a long time after that:

"Do not fail to draw something every day, for no matter how
little it is, it will be well worth while, and it will do you a
world of good." (Cennino Cennini, 1370-1440)

This morning, while stopping by Whiskey River, I discovered Resonant Enigma whose heading reads:

"We talk far too much. We should talk less and draw more. I personally should like to renounce speech altogether and, like organic Nature, communicate everything I have to say in sketches." (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)

I would like to have a daily practice of drawing as well as writing. In the past, I did all my writing by hand. Now I do most of my writing on an electronic keyboard. When I was writing by hand, it occurred to me that making marks on a piece of paper in the form of letters satisfied something of my need to be drawing. I am wondering if typing on an electronic keyboard somehow fulfills part of my need to draw. There is something I enjoy immensely about making meaningful marks on electronic "paper," but it is not the same as holding a pencil and drawing on paper.

Recently I've been stopping by Bird By Bird who regularly posts her wonderful drawings of birds. Looking at her drawings, as well as those of Resonant Enigma, inspires me to want to draw on paper again.

The above image, "Family Traveling At Night," was drawn by Old Girl Of The North Country in 2005, using my index finger as a "pencil" on my iBookG4 track pad and the Appleworks6 "Painting" function.

It's time for me to draw something every day again, either on my computer or on paper. Why do I have so much resistance to doing something I love to do?

THE LIBRARY

(source of above image by Jacob Lawrence)

"By and large books are mankind's best invention." (Ursula K. Le Guin)

"I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of
library." (Jorge Luis Borges)

In Memoriam: Norval Morrisseau. Thanks to wood s lot for the link.

Copper Thunder Bird-Norval Morrisseau

UNTITLED / FROM A DREAM DURING WARTIME (EARLY 1970s)

This morning while reading The Sandbox, I found
this and this on a blog from Afghanistan written by a man with 100 days left before his return to the United States .

May all soldiers return home safely. May I continue to listen to soldiers and their families who speak from all points of view.

In STRENGTH TO LOVE, a collection of sermons by Martin Luther King, Jr., the first sermon is titled "A tough mind and a tender heart." In this sermon he says, "We must combine the toughness of the serpent and the softness of the dove, a tough mind and a tender heart."

A tough mind and a tender heart is what I am looking for in our next president. Whom, I wonder, would Martin Luther King, Jr., who took a clear and courageous stand against the war in Vietnam, vote for in 2008?

I don't presume to have the answer.

(Untitled drawing in India ink by Old Girl Of The North Country)

DOUBLE PORTRAIT WITH LIGHT

Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. (lyrics from "Anthem," by Leonard Cohen from the album called "Future," 1992)

("Double Portrait With Light," painted by Old Girl Of The North Country in the early days of 2000)

BODHI DAY / FIRST ANNIVERSARY

Thirty years ago, during the years my organized-religion-averse mother was volunteering at Starcross, a small lay community in the monastic tradition in Sonoma County in California, she sent me a book for Christmas. The book was titled NOTES FROM THE SONG OF LIFE: SPIRITUAL REFLECTIONS and was written by Tolbert McCarroll, a monk living at Starcross. The book contained a month's worth of writings, to be read as daily meditations. Although having a clear aversion to anything remotely related to "God," I read the book even though I felt somewhat annoyed with my mother for sending it to me. I found a few things about it I liked (grudgingly), and put it away on my bookshelf, somewhat embarrassed to have it in my possession. What stuck with me, though, were the words from the chapter called "God".

"If you are fortunate, you will run across some truly spiritual people. If you believe that they have no desire to determine your path or control your behavior you will feel free to listen to their experiences."

About twenty years ago, I did run across a diverse group of people who shared their experiences with me without any expectation that I would choose their way of life. At that point, I looked for and found the book my mother had given to me. It became a daily guide for me during what would be many difficult years. I didn't become a member of any religion but I did find a way of living where I gradually became more at peace with myself and with other people.

Last year, when Tolbert McCarroll published a book called A WINTER WALK, I ordered a copy. A WINTER WALK has 32 short chapters, one of which can be read each day of December and on New Year's Day. Tolbert McCarroll was the founder of the Humanist Institute in the 1960s, drawing from both Eastern and Western spiritual traditions and seeking links between contemporary psychology and religious experience. Among his influences are the ancient Taoist masters, the 14th Century Western Mystics, Chinese Zen masters and, in a A WINTER WALK, Chanukah stories by Isaac Bashevis Singer. I greatly appreciate his non-dogmatic approach to spiritual storytelling.

Today's chapter in A WINTER WALK is called "Bodhi Day." It seems that December 8th is the day that many Buddhists celebrate the Buddha's enlightenment and decorate dwarf fig trees --Bodhi trees. Siddhartha confronted his inner demons for eight days and at the end of the eighth day he found enlightenment and became the Buddha, the Enlightened One.

It was last year on this day that I decided to create a blog in which I could show, one day at a time, a 40-year retrospective of my art work. December 8th has been a difficult anniversary for me since 1970 when my beloved boyfriend returned from Vietnam -- the day that, sadly, marked the beginning of the end of the relationship in which we had placed so much hope.

Last year, on December 8, an understanding person suggested that I do something different to mark the anniversary so that in 2007 when the day came again, I would have a new way of seeing that day.

I did and I do.

My first blog post, a drawing I did in high school and which looks somewhat like my surfer and artist boyfriend who went to Vietnam in 1970, was titled "IMAGINARY BROTHER AS WITNESS 1966":






















Today I went on an early morning walk with a old friend. We walked on the trail next to Bellingham Bay where we saw the lovely flowering tree which heads this post.

John Lennon and Yoko Ono Dick Cavett Show Excerpt 1

Remembering John Lennon today. When I went to YouTube today, the site was in Italian and there was no American flag among the choices and my password no longer worked. I wonder what happened? John Lennon, Yoko Ono and Dick Cavett made me laugh. Laughter is the universal language!

FINDING BALANCE / NORVAL MORRISSEAU

While practicing asanas (yoga poses) this morning, I noticed the moon in the clear sky before sunrise. The poses I find most difficult are those that involve balance on one foot. After all these years of practicing asanas, I still lose my balance on a regular basis. Fortunately, I find humor in that. Only recently have I been able to hold something resembling the pose called natarajasana (king of the dancers pose) for more than a few seconds.






















"I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea. Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me. I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man, like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand."

As I do every morning, I visited wood s lot. I learned of the recent death of Norval Morrisseau and was deeply moved by his art.

The cover art for the Bruce Cockburn album, Dancing in the Dragon's Jaws, is a painting by Norval Morrisseau.

I KNEW THE NIGHT HAD GONE

"Struck by the sounds before the sun, I knew the night had gone.The morning breeze like a bugle blew, against the drums of dawn."

(from "Lay Down Your Weary Tune," written by Bob Dylan in 1964)

After the sunrise today, a thick fog rolled in. When the fog burns off, I imagine there will be some December sunshine.

The ocean wild like an organ played, the seaweed wove its strands. The crashin' waves like cymbals clashed, against the rocks and sands..

See New Dharma Bums views of December storm surf on the coast of Central California.

ON BEING AN ARTIST AND ON HAVING PARENTS WHO ARE ARTISTS

During the first week of November, I visited my middle sister who lives in the town of Ocean Springs on the Gulf Coast in Mississippi. While I was there, we participated in a yoga class at River Rock Yoga. On the wall of the entryway of the yoga studio were engaging drawings by Lief Anderson, a daughter of Walter Inglis Anderson whose art and life have been meaningful to me recently. It turns out that the yoga studio is owned by Moira Anderson Miller, daughter of Lief Anderson and granddaughter of Walter Inglis Anderson. Before the yoga class, as my sister and I filled out the forms required in order to take the yoga class, I had a brief conversation with Moira, in which we affirmed that yoga had brought healing into our lives and in which I felt I had met a kindred spirit.

Since then, I have enjoyed reading DANCING WITH MY FATHER, by Lief Anderson, described on the book jacket as "a daughter's remembrance of life with the eccentric genius and artist Walter Anderson." It makes me think of the documentary, "The Ballad of Ramblin' Jack" made by Rambling Jack Elliott's daughter, Aiyana Elliott, another daughter with an absent artist father. Both women's memories of their fathers remind me of my father and mother, who didn't called themselves artists but were artist nonetheless.

Although the painting I have posted today is titled "Imaginary Brother With Fish With Open Heart," I also think of it as a portrait of my father, a man who loved gardening, music and God. During my childhood, my father was frequently away on business trips and was present and distant in the same way my mother was. I am beginning to see how much I am like them, except that I don't have children. There is something about me that is present and distant, too. I am most at ease with people who have that quality of being both present and distant (bloggers, for example!) I spend much of my time in a joyful and creative and fulfilling solitude. The painting also reminds me of my first boyfriend, an artist who spent a year in Vietnam in 1970. I would like to post some of the artwork he did during his first days in Vietnam but it is not my place to post his work without his permission.

PACIFIC NORTHWEST STORM / OBOE LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW AT THE WIND AND RAIN

While wind and rain continue, I'm still thinking about my mother with gratitude and love, remembering that she instilled in me her love of books and art.

Here's Kurt Vonnegut talking about novels:

"I’ve said that to open a novel is to arrive in a music hall and be handed a viola. You have to perform. [Laughs.]
To stare at horizontal lines of phonetic symbols and Arabic numbers and to be able to put a show on in your head, it requires the reader to perform. If you can do it, you can go whaling in the South Pacific with Herman Melville, or you can watch Madame Bovary make a mess of her life in Paris..."

I found the quote here.

AN EARLY MORNING MEDITATION ON ANGER AND GRIEF AND FEAR AND GRATITUDE AND LEARNING THAT I DID LOVE MY MOTHER ALL ALONG AND ALWAYS WILL

Thirteen years ago, around 11 o'clock on the morning of December 3, 1994, during Hanukkah and Advent, on the day before my parents' 45th wedding anniversary, my mother died unexpectedly at age 78 of a massive heart attack.

Beginning in 1987, at age 36, when I began my recovery from many years of bulimia and anorexia, I had felt an increasing resentment toward my mother. On the day that my mother died, I woke up feeling an unexpectedly deep and painful anger toward her, which I wrote about at length in my journal that morning. Later in the morning while I was at work, I received a phone call from my youngest sister who told me that our mother had died that morning. I had not experienced before, and have not experienced since, the profound shock I felt in that moment. In my shock, I "saw" a dark heavy cloud, located at the level of my eyes, lifting up and disappearing and revealing clear sky, and I said to my sister, "I don't believe you." Then I said, "She can't hurt me anymore." Then I began to cry. In the following 24 hours, I began to experience the anger and grief that had been building up since I was a tiny child. What was missing was the fear I had always lived with.

One of my earliest memories, at somewhere around 2 years old, is that my mother was angry. I didn't know why she was angry, but I didn't sense that she was angry at me. She was vacuuming the living room in the apartment where we lived. My father was at work. I don't know where my baby sister was. I listened to my mother's angry words and thought, "Anger is stupid. I will NEVER be angry." How a 2 year old could come up with that vow is still a mystery to me, but that was my vow -- a vow I tried to keep, consciously and unconsciously, to the detriment of my physical and mental health, until after my mother died. Now I know that anger is not stupid. It is a challenging and revealing part of being human. I understand now that my mother may well have been experiencing unexpressed grief in the form of expressed anger and rage that blocked her ability to live in peace and love fully.

My mother's first memory was that she was a very young child in a room full of people, that she looked out a window and saw a human body fall from above and said, "Body," and that no one understood what she was trying to say. Soon it was discovered that someone had committed suicide by jumping out a window. After my mother died, my father told me that when my mother was a young woman in her 20s, a young man killed himself after she expressed that she was not interested in a relationship with him.

The last time I saw my mother, in February of the year that she died, she told me that she was tired of being angry. Until she died, I had always had a hard time understanding other people's anger because I had not been able to consciously experience my own anger. After she died, I was shocked to discover the extent of that anger. As a child and until after she died, I don't remember feeling love for my mother. What I often felt in connection her was fear and something else I couldn't identify but now understand was anger and grief.

My mother's mother wasted away and died at home of gallbladder cancer when my mother was 20 years old. My mother told me that she had felt anger toward her mother long before her mother became ill and that she had felt anger towards her mother throughout her mother's illness. When I look at the above photo of my mother and her mother in the year prior to her mother's death, I see the physical and emotional "distance" between them. I suspect that my mother, too, was not able to love her mother until after her mother died. I believe that there was considerable emotional distance between my grandmother and her mother. When I was in my early 30s, always deeply ambivalent about motherhood and never having been pregnant, I made a clear decision not to be a mother and at age 36 underwent a tubal ligation, creating an irrevocable distance between me and the possibility of giving birth to a child.

When my mother was in her late 60s, in the years when she was considering converting to Judaism, she began to study Tai Chi. My favorite photos of my mother are those of her as a child, as a young woman on a horse, and as a 70-year-old woman practicing Tai Chi. On the first photo of her in the series of photos above, her mother had written, "Miss Independence." Maybe "independence" is what I first began to love in my mother after she died, something that made her somewhat distant and confusing as a mother but which now endears her to me, as well as this sonnet she wrote thirty years before she died and in which she expresses both grief and gratitude. It has taken me a long time to learn to begin to understand and love my mother who at age 50, as she began to turn away from organized religion, wrote:

The answers rise and fall like waves. I wait

Then blindly stumble on towards heaven's gate.






















Sometime in the months after my mother died, I was startled to experience a vision of my mother inside heaven's gate, being greeted by her mother whose name was Irene and whose name means "Peace."

THE MUSICIANS

Garth Hudson, from an interview by Martin Scorsese in the film, "The Last Waltz":

"There is a view that jazz is 'evil' because it comes from evil people, but actually the greatest priests on 52nd Street and on the streets of New York City were the musicians.

("Imaginary Brothers Listening," painted in gouache and watercolor by Old Girl Of The North Country in 1990)

REMEMBERING DECEMBER 1, 1955

I will no longer act on the outside in a way that contradicts the truth that I hold deeply on the inside. I will no longer act as if I were less than the whole person I know myself to be.
(Rosa Parks)

On December 1, 1955, Parks became famous for refusing to obey bus driver James Blake's order that she give up her seat to make room for a white passenger.

("Woman Listening" (chalk pastel on paper from the early 1980s), by Old Girl Of The North Country)