SPRING: SANTA FE ICE CREAM AND BOMBS

Last Sunday in Santa Fe PQ and I sat on the plaza eating ice cream cones watching people enjoy the greening grass as birds seemed to float on the air from tree to tree.  The clarity of spring made hope seem as close as the grass on the ground and I felt a bit high from the fresh air. A young man with dread locks drifted on his park bench almost as high as the birds. He was in another dimension but somehow his obviously blissful state fit the light as air afternoon. The whole world seemed transparent. Time moves by quickly holding a measure of eternity like a pond. But on a round world it can only flow in circles.

I feel subtle changes in the experience of time. I’m also more aware of how small our individual piece of it is. Time down here on earth moves too fast to catch so I mentally zoom out to scope a larger span, always hoping for a time-lapse shot.  I know there are horrible things happening with each tick on the cosmic clock.  It seems they occur closer together lately.  There seems to be a crisis generator operating out of the mass mind.  Disasters seldom come one at a time.  But, the transcendent world seems still and remote while we desperate humans thrash about in panic, like ants whose hill was kicked by a giant.  Strewn across the earth are all the horrors of the past. When I watch the evening news, I remember the way my uncle’s cattle bellowed and stomped enthralled and in fear while encircling the area where one of their own was being butchered, although greatly disturbed they couldn’t leave the scene. It appears that 24-hour news spawns the same reaction in the human herd.

Rain on the Mountain

The beautiful and the terrible are parallel channels. Perhaps one couldn’t exist without the other as a defining contrast. Yet, they aren’t honorably equal. The terrible emerges as a shadow behind the beautiful, especially when too much contrast makes the shadow very dark. 

 Astrologically, there were some explosive aspects at the time of the Boston Marathon bombing, and the Texas fertilizer plant explosion.  Pluto square Uranus, the god of the underworld, instigator of deep plunges into dark places, and radical cleansing experiences was in a tense aspect with Uranus the planet of quirky behavior and unexpected changes. In addition, the Sun was conjunct Mars the god of war in the sign of Aries, traditionally ruled by Mars, but so was Venus goddess of love and beauty, in this case perhaps, a bitter twisted love. Two young men who seemed normal on the outside but were apparently building up an explosive inner pressure, do they also reflect a larger unconscious tension. Their use of an exploding pressure cooker has a powerful symbolic facet. Terrorists often act out unconscious contracts and collective tensions. 

Complex times push us beyond ourselves into situations that bring out the best and the worst. Again, the contrast makes the picture pop. I sense we are all inwardly dispersing on the floodwaters, blowing over shores with hurricanes and blanketed in deep snow. This summer in the Southwest, it appears that we will bake like the dry earth, but it is all evidence of primal forces. We have the weather inside as well as outside and we are both victims and co-creators whether we like it or not. 

I don’t believe that our neighboring planets cause anything, but the universe is just that and the changing patterns of the cosmos are replicated on every level. Meaning is ours, as we explain to ourselves why the gods should not eat us. I remember that Gurdjieff used to tell his students that we humans are food for the Moon. I’m beginning to get a glimmer of what he meant.  For one thing, the Moon has always been associated astrologically to soul, moods, emotional connection to family and tribe and sense of belonging. When distorted by unfulfilled emotional needs it does indeed become a predator hiding behind our personal shadow. One of our modern delusions is the belief that we humans are rational creatures. It should be obvious that we are first emotional and that emotion trumps reason every time. Here in America we fear terrorists and feel safer with our guns even though a family member is more likely to shoot us than a terrorist is to blow us up. It is this primal fear of the dangerous outsider, someone from an alien tribe that grips us. Ironically, probably the same emotion inspires the terrorists. 

Potted Cat Through the Window

I’m not suggesting that we should try to be more rational. Part of the problem is that we are trying to be rational and the much stronger emotional component devours reason and takes command.  What I believe is more significant is that we unapologetically honor our emotional nature and develop it rather than leaving it in a primitive undeveloped state. Emotional desires hijack reason and take it for a ride. There are IQ tests to evaluate intellectual potential and ability but emotion develops as best it can or as worst, as the case may be. 

Once again, a weekend is approaching.  It is beautiful outside after several days of cold and wind. I’m trying to focus on some projects that have been awaiting my attention for several weeks. What is the emotional component that keeps me sidetracked? I’ve been noticing that such interruptions are also avoidance reactions to ideas that challenge me emotionally. It is time to step up the game and come out of hiding.  The winter nap is over.  Of course, there are seasons on many levels. The heart holds this knowledge. I must relearn its wisdom.

TUMBLING TUMBLEWEEDS MEET THE FENCE

I have not written much lately. PQ and I have been busy preparing for a new art showing at 15.Quince, a wonderful Mexican restaurant in Jerome Arizona. However, spring is a changeable time, and today owner/chef Vladimir Costa informed us that the restaurant is moving to a new building in Cottonwood.  Here we were trying to get everything together for a show the first week in May and now the date of the show is open-ended.   Actually, our life has been moving unpredictably in other ways as well. It is the essence of spring for events to be up-in-the-air like the tumbleweeds blown from who knows where and stopped in their tumble only by our coyote fence.  Maybe we are the same way.  We tumble for a while until some obstacle halts us and that is the beginning of the next focus in life.

My feline friends have been an interesting lesson.  A few mornings ago, I opened the door to see who was coming to breakfast and the yellow cat, white cat and little feral black cat were there but so was a large longhaired yellow cat with the same face as the adolescent yellow.  I’ve never seen this cat before and she hasn’t been back since. However, what followed left me wondering just how the cat people communicate.  The new adult yellow cat acted as if she knew all about this morning ritual. There was nothing shy or surprised in her behavior.  But, the really interesting part was the way her presence influenced the others. The little black cat that never allowed me very near, and ran for cover if I looked at her directly, suddenly was at ease and rubbing against my leg.  I reached down and stroked her back and she arched it rubbing against my leg like a house cat. This was very strange. The other cats were also at ease with each other. The black cat has continued to be far more sociable and friendly. It seemed that the older yellow cat had communicated to the others the belief that we were all family and then went back to wherever she came from. She was wearing a silver collar, so she is somebody’s treasured pet.

The more I watch animals the more I realize that we seriously underestimate them.  The Starlings that live in our bathroom vent have a very complex language that includes wing flapping and shaking as well as an incredible verbal repertoire.  These creatures may not have a language of words but they certainly communicate some complex messages among themselves and even with us if we pay attention.  We humans are very homocentric. Humans may have to face this prejudice soon.

We took the drop cloth out of the dining area and enjoyed a few days of living in the whole house. But, I’ve changed during the past three weeks.  I actually miss the clutter of brushes, paint and drop cloth in the middle of the house, while PQ works intensely with flying colors (literally). In fact, something is definitely shifting in my mind and heart.  Not only am I OK with the dining room studio, I’m letting go of the fear of driving over the edge into the unknown without any foreseeable income.  Much to my surprise, I'm feeling a new calm expectancy about what I might find at the bottom of the drop.

I put together this slide show of some of PQ’s new work with his song, “Among the Stars” in the background.  

Unusually large amounts of allergens in the air are challenging PQ’s lungs, and he finds our Taos’ altitude another obstacle but stays positive. We hope someday to live in Cottonwood again but are rolling with the spring winds right now.  Like the tumbleweeds, we cannot know just which fence will stop us.  Sometimes at night after the lights go out I think we are doomed to run out of resources and luck and all the possible awful outcomes attack me in the dark. PQ is not inclined to these attacks.  He assumes that there is always an opportunity around the corner.  I once read that the sign of Cancer needs to emotionally binge on dreadful possibilities now and then.  After we explore the worst, we have that covered and can move on with life. Cancer isn't my sun sign, Gemini is but, with Cancer rising and Moon conjunct Jupiter in Cancer it starts everything I do. After I go through one of these dark night confrontations with doom, my upbeat Gemini sun rises ready to go out to lunch and window shopping since I don't have to come up with the mortgage until the end of the month.  

Yes, change is in the air and in the earth too.  I can feel it like melting ice beneath my feet.  It doesn’t provide a steady foothold but the thaw is encouraging.

WAITING FOR SPRING

The wind is blowing outside and the sky is grey.  The previous three mornings we enjoyed coffee outside in the sun, I got some tan on my bare feet, listened to dueling ravens and watched the local cats fight over their territorial rights to our back yard. March is such a transitional month.  It is too early to garden, but the trees are getting buds at the tips of their branches. The snow is gone except on the mountains and we would be happy to have some more. The paradoxes of this time of year also fit my state of mind. Raising my anticipation are the undecided temperatures mingled with grey boredom while looking for tangible signs of green. I have always found it incongruous that spring seems to be as much about endings as beginnings. Maybe that is why it is not easy. Yet, change by principle is never comfortable.

I used to get depressed each spring. I also noticed that in the news, obituaries are abundant in spring. According to researchers, this is statistically normal. Maybe spring is about turning things over as much as it is about starting a new cycle. Farmers traditionally turn over the soil each spring in readiness for planting new crops. Birth and death are just the up side and down side of the same material. 

Still too Shy to Get Close, But Hopeful!

I’m staying inside today except for about 20 minutes guarding the little black stray so that one of the local fat cats doesn’t chase him away from a dish of leftover treats. I also bought several books on Amazon this afternoon. During the past three months, I’ve purchased and read more books than in the previous 20 years. Life in Taos, for years has been about immediate experience and survival, now the urge is to cook a new mental stew and adjust the flavoring. The use of this analogy probably comes from renewed interest in cooking.  I’m in the mood to sharpen some old skills and take others out of the closet. 

PQ is painting every day except Saturday and Sunday.  He has about six paintings finished and started working on another one. It’s interesting to observe his working pattern. Because I worked in retail, I painted mostly nights and weekends, he was a welder so takes weekends off. Interesting isn’t it how these patterns stay with us after there is no longer a reason to keep them. I guess people are creatures of habit and pattern like all other animals. 

UPDATE TWO DAYS LATER

We have new snow beginning yesterday. Weather is always changing. Maybe that’s one of the reasons we all like predictability and habit. It helps us feel that when we put one foot in front of the other there will be something under it, but sometimes there isn’t anything under us but our habits. I’m thinking that somehow I’m walking on air in anticipation of the next turnover. It’s that in between space that leaves me blank. Thus, I don’t have much to say.

DENVER AGAIN BUT DIFFERENT

We were in Denver for three days last week. The fact that I haven’t been in contact very much with my Denver family since mom passed began to gnaw on me about a month ago.  I’ve noticed that when something like this comes to mind there is a reason and some event is likely to put it up front.  That something was an email message from my cousin Dan that my aunt Ruth had passed on.  I felt immediately that this was something I must honor even though we are trying to be more frugal lately and avoid traveling unnecessarily.

Although my aunt had been gradually leaving this dimension for several years due to Alzheimer’s, I believe we are all connected in ways that don’t fit within any orthodox religious or scientific model. There is a definite association between her passing and my recent thoughts.  Although we were settled in after the last trip to Arizona and PQ was focused on painting for his upcoming show in Jerome Arizona in May, I’ve learned that if I don’t follow my intuition I will certainly regret it later and it will become an obstacle in the natural flow of life.

Rachel and PQ, Coffee Before Heading Home

 The drive to Denver was surprisingly easy. There was snow on the ground, and threatening clouds swirling in four directions around us, but there wasn’t any snow on the highway as if a shield surrounded us.  Our friend Rachel invited us to stay with her and the offer was gratefully accepted.  We were saved from hunting down a motel and it definitely aided the budget. Besides, being in her home gave us good catch up time, since we’ve been out of touch since our crazy and somewhat magical shared adventure in search of the Denver train station last summer. 

As long as I can remember when something comes to mind as “I wonder why I’m thinking about this”, it will soon be up front in the space/time world. Aunt Ruth and uncle Bob may be the reason I ended up living in New Mexico and traveling to Arizona whenever possible. My parents traveled primarily for family emergencies and weddings. Dad never had a paid vacation and anyway he leaned toward the utilitarian. Whenever we went more than fifty miles from home, there was a specific reason and we drove straight through without stopping for “points of interest.” 

When I was twelve, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Ruth took me on a road trip through the Southwest.  It truly was the land of enchantment for me.  I remember climbing the hill to see Camel Rock near Santa Fe, eating fiery hot enchiladas for breakfast in Albuquerque, then off to Arizona for the Petrified Forest and Painted Desert. We camped at the Grand Canyon, and on the way to Monument Valley, we picked up three Navajo men and took them to their horses about fifteen miles down the road.  Only one of them spoke a little English. 

I remember back then, there were still many hogans (traditional Navajo dwellings) made in the old style.  Each hogan sat alone almost blending into the desert except for the inevitable late model Buick parked nearby that appeared larger than the house. It was my first awareness that comparative proportions were a cultural value. I found it fascinating.  This was on the way to Mesa Verde.  I loved everything about the Southwest.  Cedar, Pinon, cactus, red dirt and the unlimited sky unchained me from dreadful things like school, church and unhappy parents. In the Petrified Forest, I felt that I was walking on jewels, in Monument Valley, earth and sky were in love with each other as Mother Earth and Father Sky should be. Inspirited magical items such as Hopi Katsinas, Navajo Sand Paintings, rugs and Pueblo Pottery, inhabited each trading post and curio shop.

Although I traveled the next year with Uncle Bob and Aunt Ruth to the Northwest and into Canada and enjoyed it enormously, the Southwest distinctly changed my soul. Mesa Verde reset my life direction in several ways. I still recall sitting on the stone and adobe wall surrounding Spruce Tree House while imagining life there 600 hundred years earlier. It held something primal and essential missing in the present.  Perhaps it was the clarity of the sky, the powdery red dirt, strangely familiar Juniper and Pinon and the idea of actually belonging to a people whose way of life directly connected them to a place and its creatures.  Perhaps this is the reason for a lifelong fascination with history, archaeology and tribal peoples including my own Celtic ancestors. There is this deep desire to go back to the essence and source, hopefully for a vision of that stage in time before things began to fall into disconnected pieces as if this discovery would reveal the place where the fabric of human life was torn.

Approaching Blanca from the East

My Uncle Bob is the last family member of his generation as close as a days drive.  This brings to my awareness how quickly time passes. PQ and I have discovered ourselves with surprise in the shift that accompanies membership in the oldest generation of our immediate families. What is being an elder all about? It seems that our homogeneous contemporary culture has no place for this stage of life beyond decrepitude and the nursing home. Sometimes I wonder if that is the real reason that so many people succumb to Alzheimer’s and other degenerative diseases. The medical priesthood suggests that the cause is that people are living longer now.  But, this isn’t necessarily true.  One of my husband’s ancestors lived to age 120, and his close friend lived even longer. There is a well-known picture of him and another of a Taos Pueblo woman who was also well over a hundred when photographed. They had deep wrinkles and history in their eyes but they were not senile.

Blanca west of San Luis

Our trip back to Taos was awesome.  For the first time in years, I could feel and see the landscape as I first saw it.  Well, not exactly the first impression, but as I experienced it in those first years after moving to Taos with clear eyes. It is comparable to seeing through the window of a long neglected house after years of scum are removed. The way to the future seems to come by mending broken roads from the past.

The Sangre de Christos were strikingly accoutred in white robes as we headed west from Walsenburg. I had to take a few shots from my iPhone as we approached and passed Mount Blanca. The trip home was surprisingly short but rich in sites and memories. As I write, PQ is painting with Kiowa Gourd Dance music playing in the background. This reminds me of several trips to Denver with his parents, Joe J. and Frances Suazo. Joe J. would bring his hand drum and the two of them would sing to me all the way home.  I suppose I’m feeling nostalgic.