Writing Madeline

My grandmother's teacup. An in-progress gel transfer of a poem written by her sister, my great aunt Madeline. A lit candle. A starting point for journaling from my dear friend and storycatcher, Christina and my heart breaks open to the story that is living deep in me, a little crack. A peek in. The story, for now, I am writing for me. The process it feels right to share here, for everyone, or no one to see.

Serendipity. A treasure hunt. For years pieces have been given to me to arrive at this moment of taking up this endeavor. The chance to lead women's conversation circles around legacy. The glory of working for two men who believe that journaling and reflection as a group is a core process for running a good business. An April ice storm. An unlikely job interview that led me to a paper school and a new world of melding photographs to paper and paper to binding, the creation of the very container for story, itself a form of meditation. The discovery of Madeline's poems in the raft of papers passed on to me by the family keeper of these things. And the way I couldn't deny she was somehow speaking to me as I rubbed soft paper pulp from the image of her words until they reappeared under the tips of my fingers. The aching wounds I feel compelled to heal that can't be traced to my own blessed life. A call to weave all of these art forms into one that is uniquely mine. An invitation.

I begin. 

Christina suggests I start with dialogue. A written conversation with Madeline. Have fun, she advises. I quickly create a signature, a set of pages sewn together, to hold all that we have to say. I pull out pictures of Madeline, and the partly rubbed off transfer of one of her poems, "If I Could Choose". I feel drawn to working on the transfer, rub more of the dried paper remnants from the surface with a bit of warm water. Invite Madeline to visit with me. I fill one of my grandmother's teacups with warm water and start to rub the surface. "Try the other hand" I remember from journaling therapist Kathy Adams' advice. As I switch to my left I feel the paper differently. I am required to slow down and work deliberately to find my way. A switch happens inside me too, a lower gear engages. 

After a while I notice that one line of the poem lies smooth as tumbled stone at my touch. A sign in image transfer that it is done. "Where Science Long to Dream,".  I move to sit down with my journal, and capture this line, and a question. "Why Me?". . . . . . . I can see Madeline, a moment in time that I borrow from a photograph. She is in the background, unaware, posing languidly against a tree. She turns toward me and answers me and I write it down. Then I write and she speaks. We both do. An hour later and I am wrung out. Exhausted. Elated. Intrigued.

I tuck our things away and take a long walk in the first hot spring sun, until another day.

Journaling The InBetween Step 2

I was awakened this morning by a rumbling anxiety in 'my tumbly', as Pooh would say. One I know all too well. Thankfully, a quiet voice in my head said, "you know what to do, you can write your way through this". . . to someplace inbetween.

I pay attention to what the fear is about. Making money. The process and pressure of finding 'real' work. Searches, applications, marketing, interviews, proposals, rejection, NETWORKING, bleah. It definitely feels like the masculine voice nagging at me. I start on that side of my journal. Let it unfurl and flap around a bit...

 

"There has to be something other than the 'old way' doesn't there? Of course there is, but I don't know if I am capable of following the 'new way' to any kind of success..." I circle around to shedding the fear relationship with money. No good is coming of that in the world! Next question. "So what might it look like to 'grab the tiger by the tail' and pull toward me the work that will give me all that I need?" I write in an inward spiral and arrive at my feminine voice. It's relationships stupid, and what is right in front of you. Okay, so I talked nicer to myself, but that is the gist of it. My feminine voice is tired of my bouts with self doubt. "So what is right in front of me?"

I switch to the feminine side of my journal. Turns out I have about 18 amazing opportunities and relationships right in front of me. Where they will lead, I am excited to see. I just hope I don't have to fill out an application.

Two Love Doves Stuck in a Tree

In my last post I invited you to tell a story about who put honey in your heart. I'm ready to tell a bit of mine.

The purest, sweetest honey in my heart comes from what I heard called by a woman eulogizing her mother today, the "silent grace passed from mother to daughter". I know now that I am grown up that not every girl is able to get this from her own mother. And now that I'm grown up I understand that this honeypot of the 'sacred feminine' is not only bottomless, but is also without sides. It doesn't have to come from your own mother. This honey just seeps out to fill any available container. Any available container.

I am blessed with a mother so abundantly full of rich, sticky, honey that those who need some seem to find her. They are my 'adopted' sisters and brothers all over the world. Michelle, and Marianne and Hafsat to name just a few. And most remarkably, I can see the honey flowing into and through my own daughter as it shows up in such interesting and awe inspiring ways. I am most struck today by the ways in which she gives back to me the best in myself.

This photograph is of one of the valentines she gave to my husband and me. With her permission I am sharing it with you. I didn't ask her what it meant to her, the poem she wrote. Yet.

Two love doves stuck in a tree,

if one were to fall out all would be lost.

What it brings up in me has a few layers, I think. The first responds to whatever fear she may be expressing. Mama bears protect their cubs, right? "Oh sweetie, nothing to worry about. Daddy and I will always be together." A promise I strive for, and believe to be true (but avoid overtly making nonetheless). And then I am thunderstruck by the powerful beauty and truth-for-me inviting exploration expressed so simply by a child of eleven. My child. My child, the artist. 

Part of  my truth. If one falls out of the tree, out of love, out of life perhaps, all that you know is lost. Everything is changed by it. 

Stuck in a tree. I was reading in the Oct 2008 issue of The Sun, an article by David Grossman about the stuckness of the conflict between the Israelis and Palestinians. He is able to truly empathize with the humanity and love-centeredness of the people, the families, on each side. What I found to be tragic is the difficulty he witnesses in changing the minds of the people, who are used to the stuckness. People who know how to function in war, and know who they are as misunderstood, oppressed, occupied and people who are used to living with the kind of fear every day I will probably never need to face, even for a minute. Two love doves. Two groups of people who know great love. Stuck in a tree.

If one falls out, of being stuck in the tree. Instead of lost, what else might there be?

 

Valentines Day Giveaway - From my Heart to Yours

My heart is so full today, I decided to give something away! Of course it couldn't be just any something. I woke up feeling really blessed for the wisdom of Christina Baldwin, writer, teacher, caller of circles and storycatcher most extraordinary. While I haven't seen her in years, I carry her voice in my head on days when I am present enough to listen. One of the books she has written is a guide for who I try to be in this world. Storycatcher, Making Sense of Our Lives through the Power and Practice of Story.

She weaves into the beginning of the book threads of a story about visiting her grandparents in the summers with her family. Bee keepers. Honey makers. And how these experiences and the words, beliefs and ideas of her people gave her a sense of herself in the world. Marked her belongingness maybe. Christina invites us to tell us our story. 

"Who put honey in your heart?

Let's start there.

Tell me that story."

So leave a comment with a bit of your story. Who put honey in your heart? Late Sunday I will select one of you and send you a signed copy of Christina's book and this StoryKeeper journal from my Red Collection in my Etsy shop. Happy Valentine's Day.