A Song at the End of a Life

"The death of a beloved is an event that rings and rings through life:

bearing it is not a problem to be solved, but a long, slow piece of music to listen
 to. And mourning, like music, is best listened to with others."    Sarah Miles 

I'm not one to avoid the hard things...and coming here tonight feels hard. Mom died 

in mid-October, the day before my birthday. She loved reading this blog and was one 

of my most enthusiastic supporters. My sister and I got to Florida in time to spend 

two good days with her before she began the active dying process. On Saturday when 

we arrived, she was alert, talkative, sitting up and and so relieved that we made it in time. Hospice came a day and a half later, and by Tuesday afternoon, she had flown 

away with the birds. There were profound gifts of beauty and love along with the pain and deepening grief. It was a gift to be able to offer her healing work during her last days, and to sing to her as she died. My sister and father sang with me as she slipped more and more into dreaming. In her final moments, we sang Swing Low Sweet Chariot and marveled at the chorus of birds outside her window as she took her last breaths. 

Being with the land is a great solace, as always, and soon some of Mom's ashes will 

be spread in the moss garden here, a decision that she made after I first moved here, 

long, long before her illness. I think a stone bench and a birdbath are in order, to 

tuck amongst the mosses and ferns, so we - the birds and I - can continue our singing. 

I don't have a lot to say tonight, so I offer you images. I needed to come here and 
write this to mark this moment, to say that I am OK, up and down as the grief process 
is - not making much art. I'm walking and looking and taking photographs, and marveling at the astonishing beauty of water drops on shriveled weeds and the November forest surrendering to the coming winter. 

Imaginal Soup

"This is an absolute necessity for anybody today. You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be, This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen."

Joseph Campbell, in 1985 interview with Bill Moyers

I found this quote one morning as I was preparing an assignment for school. It was 

tucked away in the "Inspirational Tidbit' file that I keep for my Myth & Symbol

class. An enormous YES poured forth from me upon reading it. As I stand on the 

threshold of my new space, I walk through the physical threshold into the studio, 

and know also the symbolic threshold that this moment is for me. The enormity 

of the grant process, and all that entailed, and before that years of mystery and

challenge as I worked to clarify my intent, and then the dreaming of this dream - 

it has all pointed to this moment. So now, as I walk through the door, I find 

I almost collapse from exhaustion.    

But, alas, the urge to have my sacred, creative space and all the things that 
Campbell speaks of cause me to move through the tiredness and make my space. 
Friends have shown up to help paint walls, to build shelves, carry boxes from the 
old studio to the new, and even to rent the studio for an evening to do spiritual 
work. Having income from the studio is one of the most important things for me 
now. One might think that being a university professor means I have a reasonable 
income, but the truth is that I am a 17 year adjunct professor. I have no benefits 
and make about a quarter of the income of the full-time faculty though I teach only 
one class less a year. Partly its my choice, because few full-time positions open up 
locally. I would need to move far away, and this isn;t something I'm willing to do.  

So at the moment I feel a tension between the need to sink into a creative flow, 
and the urgency to gather myself and begin the outreach to bring in students. I will
need to find a way to do both. Early in the morning while sitting with the fire, deep 
soul stories flowed from me into my journal and I saw things more clearly. I was 
dropped into my soul-well by the beautiful work of Barbara Beeckmans and her post,
"Reclaiming". At the end of my journey, which of course we all know is also the 
beginning, I understand that I am working with moth medicine. 

I understand that the studio is a cocoon, and my desire to wrap myself up in silken 
threads and dissolve into imaginal soup is indeed much like Campbell's  "...place 
of creative incubation". (go here for a bit about imaginal cells and metamorphosis)
I have a much greater understanding of why I need a place separate from my house
for creative work, and how very necessary the creative process is for me. Rooting 
deeply into the space will take time. I am not quite ready to "make' in there yet, 
but the process has begun as I arrange pods on shelves and decide which mugs 
will live in the studio. 

I need to get cushion foam cut for the window seat that my dear friend, David, 
made for me, and I wonder if I should attempt to sew a few covers for the old, 
worn out pillows. I must admit to all you amazing cloth and fiber followers 
that I DON"T really sew (at least on a machine) - so this might take me a while! 

The stones and snake have found their places in the new space, pods and skeletal 

leaves and husks create shadow-laces with the light. 

 Books that were tucked away in the old space are visible here. 

 A set of cabinets that came from my parents' kitchen many years 

ago found a new look with branches for handles. 

Pasha is still not sure he wants to come inside, but today 

he had a short visit, but only for a minute,

and only through the back door. 

And soon, very soon, I might know what work needs to hang on the walls. 

For now, the emptiness holds the space of possibility, and I am 

dreaming some new work as I disintegrate inside my cocoon.