Message from the Muse

Who Stole the Tarts

Don't have much time, here, folks. The press and pull of NINE HUNDRED auctions tugs at me, as we finish up the last of the Duirwaigh Moving Sale.  But I did want to write to share a fun, inspiring thing with you. Last year - or was it the year before? - I joined a writing prompt at the Sunday Scribblings blog site on the topic of "Thief!" I turned it into a Wonderland Wanted Poster. Well, now with the help of my partner Silas, we've turned it into a chap book that's now on eBay. Actually, we've been working on a Message From the Muse book now for almost a year. Its been tentatively titled "Sense/Nonsense" and will be filled with thought-provoking and inspiring essays from this site (one half of the book: Sense) and poems and silliness also from this site (the other half of the book: Nonsense). We have a publisher who's keen so hold onto your hats, maybe it'll be on bookshelves sooner than we think.

Until then, though, the chap book has been printed, hand bound, and signed by Silas and myself. There are ten copies and number two of the ten is on eBay right now. I hope you have as much fun looking at it as we've had making it!

Memory of Wings

Sunday Scribblings is a writing group I belong to, each week a new topic is posted for a 'free form' writing experiment. This week the topic is The Photograph. This is what I've come up with. Inspired by a stone girl I met in an overgrown cemetery in the Czech Republic...

I came upon her
late in the day
at the edge of the path,
alone. 
The Armless Maiden
The Wingless Angel
whatever one would call her
there she was
stranded.
Kneeling at the graveside
eyes turned toward heaven
beseeching
or accusing
no way to tell.
Hands and arms
crumbled to dust
and I am reminded
of the fairy-tale girl
betrayed by her father
given away like chattel.
The daughter
sacrifices her hands,
surrenders them to bloody stumps,
rather than be bought
and traded
like so much
lumber.
But this one--
this forgotten girl
at the edge of the path
has lost more than hands.
Rising from her back
rusty bones that once held
wings.
The twisted iron
hovers behind her
as if it remembers
flight.
The crumbling remnants
reach toward heaven
beseeching
or accusing
no way to tell.
And I am reminded
of another fairy-tale girl
not so long ago
now, even
somewhere
going about her days
wingless
grounded by thoughts
of Too Much
and Not Enough
freedom traded
for normalcy
for Fitting In
for Right and Proper
because it's
expected.
All of us
everywhere
driving in traffic
waiting in line
laying in bed
or standing at the
edge of the path
alone in the wood
considering her self in stone.
This woman
that woman
haunted every night
by the aching in
her back
and the one
in her soul
the ache
that contains
the memory of wings.
********************************
Photo and words ©Angi Sullins. Thank you for not reprinting without permission

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I'm gonna let this one speak for itself.

If you enjoy it, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T

(Clicking this link will open my latest recording, so turn your speakers on!)

Moxy

OK, I'm putting my moxy where my mouth is. Last post, I confessed I'm learning how to overcome my fear of being seen/heard, and am actually seeking the stage I have avoided for thirty plus years. So here goes, folks. I'm beginning to record my original work and present it LIVE and IN COLOR. Well, almost. You can listen to the MP3 of my latest essay "Seeing" right here, right now. More will follow. I've also ordered some nifty recording software (and hardware) to allow me to record Duirwaighs and Dreamfields, a True Fairy Tale. My family and friends are trying to convince me to also make videos, so who knows what'll follow. Stay tuned! Meanwhile, enjoy this presentation of Seeing.

Click here to listen to Seeing.

Seeing

Lately I've been thinking a lot on the concept of seeing. Since we decided to create Affirmation Monday my thoughts about seeing, and its role in our personal and consensual reality, have doubled. There's a wealth of material out there (much of it centuries-old) claiming that what we see with our mind's eye and what we energetically concentrate on, is what manifests into the circumstances of our reality.There's a story I love about a man who was held hostage for years in a war camp. Enclosed in a small dark room day after day he entertained his mind by playing round after round of golf. He'd never played in real life, but the game had always fascinated him. So in his head, all through the hours of the day, he'd step onto the green, spongy grass, select a golf club from a leather, virtual bag, feel its weight in his hands, and swing it fluidly through the air to make contact with the little white ball. He'd then shield his inner eyes against the light, watching the ball's arc across the sky, its landing on the fresh-cut turf, and its disappearance into the little black hole  hundreds of yards away. Hole in one. He sank hole-in-one after hole-in-one all day long, enjoying the sensation of the club in his hand, the wind at his back, the sun on his face. Years later, when he was finally released and returned to his homeland, the first thing he did after arriving was visit a golf course. Though he'd never physically played in his life, he'd been playing virtually for years and was curious how the experience would compare. To the amazement of friends and family, the "novice" played a perfect game. Each shot was a hole-in-one.

The power of seeing. It's funny isn't it--not ha ha funny, more ironic-funny--that our powers of visualization can be an incredible asset or a disastrous deficit. The same hole-in-one power of seeing can lead us to becoming the hero of our own lives, or the villain. Now that I'm more conscious, moment by moment, of my thoughts and inward vision, I catch myself on a regular basis seeing fearful things. Imagining them. And while I know that it takes more than a fleeting thought here and there to create a sustained reality, I grow concerned with my repetitious fearful, derogatory, self-defeating thinking. I grow even more concerned when I notice how many of these thoughts get "air time"  before I catch myself. I just don't get it. You'd think we'd have learned, after several thousand years, that lack-ish, "not enough" thinking just creates more lack. More not-enoughness.

Like the stage. People have been telling me for years I should perform; I should voice my original work on stage, whether I am acting, singing or reading. The past few years, as I've gained the courage to share my writing with others, the message has become emphatic, insistent. There's no escaping it. I'll often shrug and say "Maybe." But inwardly, when I track down my visions and thoughts, I realize I'm painting a very scary picture. There's a woman on the stage, but she often forgets her lines. She is awkward, unsure. When she's great, she's inwardly shrinking, trying to fit herself into a small space, a space that won't attract criticism, judgment, humiliation, rejection. When she fails or makes a mistake, she's filled with shame. When she's great, she's filled with anxiety, dread, at the thought of becoming a target.

Since I absolutely, positively know that I am meant to perform, that it's in my very nature, I have been actively working with these mental images and inner voices. Untangling a lifetime of unkind voices and unfriendly visions is not easy, but I find the more I do it, the lighter I feel. In fact, the more I do it, the more aligned I feel--aligned with my soul, my power, my innate grace. I, like you, deserve freedom, joy, love. And gentleness. How can we possibly expect to be treated kindly, gently, while our own thoughts are constantly berating?

What was the last gentle thought you had toward yourself? The last time you treated yourself the way you would your two year old child? And while I'm a big fan of p.j.'s with the feet in them and peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off, I'm talking more about the way you are generous, kind and thoughtful toward a small creature you love--how, when they make a mistake, you tend to laugh or chide lightly, not beat them about the head and neck the way you do to your inner self when you take a misstep.

Another story I cherish goes like this. A woman lies on her deathbed, suffering from pneumonia brought on by AIDS, when a priest is summoned to bring comfort. She shoos him away by saying, "I'm lost. I've ruined my life and that of everyone around me. Now I'm going painfully to hell. Don't waste your time--there's no hope for me." The priest is quiet as he considers her words and, looking around the room, he spies a silver-framed photo of a pretty girl on the woman's dresser. "She's a beautiful girl. Looks a lot like you." The woman physically brightens, eyes lit from within, "Yes, that's my daughter. The one beautiful thing in my life." The priest picks up the picture frame and asks the woman, "And if she was in trouble would you help her? If she made a mistake would you forgive? Would you still love her?" The woman's face melts, "Of course I would. I'd do anything for her. Why do you ask such a question?" The priest runs a finger along the silver gilt on the frame and returns it to the dresser. "Because," he says returning his gaze to the woman's, "I want you to know God has a picture of you on His dresser."

I don't know what your concept of God is. I tend to wince a little when I hear God referred to with pronouns such as "He" or "She," for it seems to put a huge, generous force into too-small a box. For me, God is the universal pulse of love, that energy surrounding you when you feel included, adored, celebrated.  And now I ask you, when you look in the mirror what do you see? When you gaze at the inner looking glass that reflects your thoughts, feelings and attitudes, what appears? How do you think that image differs from the picture on God's dresser?

I've heard enough about our not-enoughness. I'm tired of seeing with the eyes of lack, of judgment. I  wanna know what you see when you look at the picture frame on God's dresser. Then I wanna know how you are bringing your own visions into alignment with that generous, gorgeous picture. And since our thoughts really do shape our reality and what we think on grows, I wanna know what glorious, radically beautiful, sensational, abundant, powerful thought you are thinking on this day. I wanna know what image you're painting of your self, and whether or not it will fit inside the silver frame on God's dresser, for that's the only frame worthy of you.

Artfirmations!

It's official! We've launched the new Affirmation Monday blog site! I hope you'll join us on this new venture, as we journey together to re-member ourselves and our world.

Artists are the leaders (always have been) for soulful revolution. I think it's because we are always using our inner sight as well as our outer sight to capture the essence of experience, aliveness, dreaming. We yearn to manifest the visions we see inwardly. Now there's a place to share those visions and to raise the vibration of our intention to such a level as to manifest them!

Join us for the revolution!
http://messagefromthemuse.typepad.com/affirmationmonday

Affirmation Monday

Mondays get a bad rap, and it's easy to see why. Aside from the work-thing, there's that whole harsh-reality thing. On the weekend, snuggled into the cocoon of your private life, it's easy to believe the film you watch that says you are capable of anything. It's tempting to delve into the book that reminds you of your true, magical nature. The song that plays on the radio or the conversation you had with your friend lifts you to new heights, and from that vantage point you see clearly that anything is possible, that your thoughts do indeed shape your own reality and that underneath your mild-mannered exterior pulses a wealth of power so vast it could shame the blue tights off superman. (Ladies, have your Polaroids ready!)

But then Monday comes and with it, the annoying co-workers, demanding bosses, anal-retentive managers, suffocating traffic jams, incessant noises, crowded parking lots, blinking billboards, irritated clerks, depressing news reports, and of course the barrage of media constantly shouting  "You don't have enough time! You don't have enough health! You don't have enough success! You don't have enough beauty! You don't have enough power!" so you'll go out and buy their product to fix your not-enoughness. Quite frankly it shocks me that, as a society, we don't have more violence, as antagonistic as we are with each other. With ourselves.

To this end, Silas and I have decided to embark on a grand experiment. This is the first "Affirmation Monday", where I have offered an affirmation inspired by last week's post Blessings like Blossoms and Silas has contributed his art to my words. Together, we've created an art-affirmation we'll use this week to remind ourselves who we really are: extraordinary souls on an ordinary Monday. We're building a separate blog to house these free beauties so you can download them, collect and share them, but also, contribute to them! If you like the idea of contributing an affirmation each week to this site, leave me a comment on this post or write me an email. We'll gather the technology needed so all vibrant visualizers can join the party! Til then, bloom like the rose you are and listen for the blessings like blossoms falling all around you. ~angi

Blessings like Blossoms

I have attempted to develop a meditation practice more than a handful of times. I came back from a zen-like writing workshop in February 2006 and asked my family to meditate with me just ten minutes a day. The plan started well enough but disintegrated within two weeks. Over the next year, I would try on my own, but I would first need to find my own space, a place where I could pursue a quest for Spirit. Once ensconced in Taos, meditation came easier but has rarely been the source of joy and awakening I've heard it can be. Then Silas and I started attending the Hanuman Temple on Sunday mornings for the Chalisas, a time of music and chanting. From my first visit two months ago, I felt I'd been dipped in a bliss bath. I left the temple with a huge grin on my face and even bigger one on my heart. But last week the experience was so intense, the sky wouldn't have been wide enough to carry my smile. During the chanting, I began silently humming my own mantra. Ham-sa, Ham-sa, which means I am That.

Inspired by my Valentine's Day resolution to love all aspects of myself, I visualized, one at a time, anyone who had inspired, enchanted, or educated me; all the muses, teachers, wisdom-channelers I could dream up. I pictured them one at a time, and as I did, I bowed before each one, while bowing toward myself. I am That. I then pulled into my inner court every person and scenario that I have envied. Every success, advantage or luxury enjoyed by someone else and not by me, I claimed for my own. I cheered my success, and then applauded the other person's. I am That. I then moved on to those people I have resisted, those who anger and irritate me, those who have hurt, repressed or rejected me. I am That. I am That. By seeing their qualities in myself--whether expressed in the light of consciousness or hiding somewhere in my shadow, unapproved of and rejected from my daily life--I pulled all the ugliness from the realms of rejection and brought them to my inner table with love. I am That. I became all things. All dreams. All beauty. All lovely, enchanting ideas and hideous, murderous intentions. And the all-ness melted into a great field of light, of potential, all mine. Vast and ecstatic, the field only asked that I play in it, dance in it, use it for my own delight.

On the movie screen behind my eyelids, I saw the field as a living thing, inviting. I stepped forward when something bright caught my inner eye. There on the sweeping field were red, fuschia and yellow roses, opening in such a way to drown me in their glory. I gulped at the air, suddenly overwhelmed that an object so ordinary as a rose was so wholly...extraordinary. How could I have relegated such a miracle to backyard decoration and Valentine's Day celebration? I could hear the fourteenth-century Persian poet Hafiz in my ear:

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain
Too
Frightened.

Oh. Oh. My heart broke with the words, with the new meaning they held inside this music, this chanting, this reaching out to include and accept all of me, to welcome it all in.  Tears leaked from my eyes and when I reached up to wipe them, swimming in front of me was, I was sure, a mirage. Human flowers? I blotted the tears with the hem of my skirt to see, standing before me on the temple's beige carpet, a little brown-skinned, brown-eyed doll. She could have been no more than two years old and no wonder I thought she was my rose bouquet come to life, for she was draped in layers of chiffon and tulle in bright red, fuschia and yellow. She looked like a rare flower from some ancient, mystic garden in India. She held a white baby doll in her hands and just stared at me, long, dark lashes unblinking. Transfixed by the spectacle around her, she stood perfectly still, drinking the sounds and movements into her twin deep brown pools. To say I was enchanted would be an understatement. I was certain she was real, and had a mother somewhere within the ashram, but if felt as if those roses...the most heart-stopping roses I'd ever seen... had materialized here, before me, their petals dropping like blossoms all over this little girl's gown.

Hammmm-sa. Hammmm-sa. I am That. I am That. I giggled, then cackled, then belly laughed looking at the manifestation of my own soul's petals, my own inner realms of beauty unfolding before me in the shape of a toddler from India. Beauty! I am That. Radiance! I am That. Wonder! I am That. Delicacy! I am That. Enchantment! I am That. Grandeur in petite form! I am That.

I shut my eyes again and spiraled with the music down down down the inner rabbit hole, letting the chant carry me to the unknown, not controlling, not seeking, just spiraling. And there, waiting in the center, were the red boots. I have a photograph of myself standing on the green-shag carpet of my grandmother's house on Christmas day 1974. I am five years old. I'm dressed in a red polyester short dress with gold piping, a white majorette's cap, red stockings and red boots. I hold a silver baton in my hand. I am thrilled with this present most of all. Standing there in front of the Christmas tree, I am a riot of flamboyant color, armed with a shining baton, which meant I could twirl and sparkle and lead any band to their greatest performance as we marched down Main Street in parade-formation.

This kind of dress was fine for Christmas morning, but when it came time for church later that day, the outfit was to be removed in favor of something more appropriate. A place of worship was not a place for rioting colors. The flamboyant attitude it took to twirl a baton could also be left at home. Petals unfolding to reveal their secret essence had no place in the Baptist church.

But thirty four years later, here she was in my place of worship, prancing and twirling to the music, asking for my attention. I grabbed her, internally sweeping her rioting colors into my arms. Freedom! I am That! Twirling! I am That! Flamboyancy! I am That! I held her to me, the heart of both five-year-old and thirty-nine-year-old, thrilling and trilling to the beat of the tabla. I grabbed her baton and held it aloft as we tapped a rhythm worthy of a march down Main Street. Laughing and twirling, dancing and swirling, we dripped our petals all over the floor of my inner temple, stirring up the fragrance of healing, of love and acceptance, and a beat so fierce it could lead any Rose Bowl Parade.

WE ARE THAT! WE ARE THAT! I looked down and smiled. She in her red boots, me in my turquoise socks, both of us with our crooked eye, our thick hips, our frizzy hair. I melted at the beauty of us, roses opening in the light of Being. Unafraid and unfolding.

Behold. Behold.
I am this.

A Valentine for the Soul

Late last night, as the minute hand on the kitchen clock ticked its way toward the number twelve to open up the first moments of Valentine's Day like a red envelope, I sat reading the last lines of Ellen Burstyn's autobiography Lessons in Becoming Myself. I was struck by a sentence that spoke straight to my soul:

You can achieve what's in your heart if you make room there for the love that is necessary to write from. When you feel that love, you can use your blood for ink and it will be a valentine to God. And it will be truth.

Blood for ink. A valentine to God. Truth. I sat shaking with the power of that statement, tears leaking from my eyes, as if an angel, the muse herself, or my own soul spoke the words straight into my being. I have always longed to write, to create, from the deepest, most eternal part of my Self, to move beyond talent and ego and truly tap the vein that speaks of infinity with the intimacy of this one, precious moment. I ache to fill the longing with belonging, to extend from my core a line grace to others, connecting my heart to theirs, breath to breath, miracle to miracle, God to God.

Yet I've been plagued with fear. Self doubt. For years I wouldn't pick up the pen or even peck at the keyboard unless it was business. I'd wandered so far from home I couldn't hear my own soul call me for dinner, beckon me to the table where I could be nourished. And how can you nourish others--create from your authentic self--when you're starving? Empty? Malnourished?

Ellen's really got something when she addresses the urge to create by directing us to "make room for love." It begins with self love, with a desire to accept and include every bit of you, every piece of your life fabric. All the darkness, all the pain, loneliness, rejection, condemnation, shame and sadness...find them. Make room for them at the table where they can be nourished, loved. And those ugly parts? And those vulnerabilities? And fears? They need love too. Call them in time for supper and make a space for them by the hearth. And those talents and gifts--those wild abandons, those surges of genius--make room for those too. Let them be loved and encouraged. Let them take up their space, fully. Rather than hiding them for fear of rejection and jealousy, or demeaning them with modesty, let them shine. Let them have their due. Make room for all. Make room for love. Include, include.

One of my favorite film lines is from Chocolat. The people of the town of Lansquenet-sous-Tannes, under the rule of an old-order, dictator-like mayor, are suffering a colorless life, segregated from pleasure and freedom. Individuality is outlawed. Conformity is praised.  Creativity and tolerance are eschewed in favor of discipline and judgment. After the mayor suffers a personal and professional loss of his own and realizes the pitfalls of a see-saw life of abstinence and penitence, he sits in church on Easter Sunday reconsidering the dogma that has defined his life and the lives of his people. He listens as a young, boyish priest addresses the congregation with simple wisdom:

I think we can't go around measuring our goodness by what we don't do, what we deny ourselves, what we resist and who we exclude. I think we've got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create and who we include.

And this is how I think of us. As humans. Being. And in our being, the need to include, to embrace and allow is paramount.  Wholeness is akin to holiness. And for that sacred union, we need all of us. All the parts of us that have been segregated, outlawed, rejected. All the parts of us that have been decimated by judgment, that have been told they're too big, too bright or too much. Or not enough. Not nearly enough. When we make room for all aspects of ourselves to sit and sup at the table of love, in the center of our heart, our very lives become a valentine to God and a lullaby for humanity. Whatever we create from that place of inclusion--be it a smile or a song, a film or a neighborhood carpool--pulses with a love that breathes life. The word inspire literally means to breath in. And this is the act of inspiring: to breathe in the love that fully embraces the multi-dimensional magnificence of your being so that in your exhale, you pass along permission for others to breathe in theirs. Breath to breath. Miracle to miracle. God to God.

And this is my prayer:
May we be an inspiration to each other. And may the ink of my words flow from the vein of my heart, a valentine to you. To me. To Truth. And to God.

Meet Plurk

Meet Plurk.

You've heard of Monster.com? I dunno how they came up with their shtick, but I think the site is appropriately named, for most of us are aware that work is a monster. Posting your resume on Monster.com is kinda like a swap meet, where individuals gather under a big striped tent to swap one Work Monster for another. Though Work Monsters often are invisible, their presence is keenly felt. Some of us actually prefer to see our monsters rather than have them lurk in the supply closet or hide behind the water cooler. Plurk is my monster and until recently he was a normal Work Monster sitting on my desk. Grumpy, overwhelmed and entirely brown, he dictated my daily schedule, tick-marking my to-do lists after each accomplishment. He'd occasionally smile at me, but was mostly too busy reminding me of The Grind, encouraging The Grind, grinding me into the work-grind ghetto.

But then.
Then.
He was kissed
with a lick
of the Play brush.

And voila! Work monster changed to Plurk monster. Play + Work = Plurk.

Now plurking isn't for everyone. Here's a check-list to see if it might be right for you:

If it's January 3rd and you find you already need a vacation
If elective oral surgery is an appealing alternative to Monday mornings
If your mate feels like he/she could do your job in their sleep because you ARE doing your job in your sleep. (And talking about it!)
If your professional mental challenges induce comas. (Or, alternatively, heart conditions)
If your boss's photograph inspires games of chance with sharp-tipped objects
If your board meeting is a double entendre. (Can you spell b-o-r-e-d meetings?)
If you'd rather swallow liquid nitrate then answer your office phone
If episodes of The Office make you cry because they hit too close to home
If you feel as though you cannot be fired, because slaves must be sold
If your co-workers lips are moving in multi-syllabic fashion but all you hear is "blah" "blah" and "blah"
If you've posted your resume on monster.com under the heading "Crash Test Dummy"
If you have to schedule things like blinking and yawning

If you think work is a four letter word, it might be time to upgrade to plurk. I'm not the inventor of the concept, nor am I a guru, but I know someone who is. A year and a half ago, while I was trying to decide how to unravel the stress-knot my work-life had become, I bought a book on CD entitled The Anti Career Guide by Rick Jarow. The author, a professor at Vassar, weaves a thoughtful and insightful variety of techniques for users, drawing upon a rich tradition of resources, including modern psychology and business models, meditation and guided imagery techniques, and East Indian and Native American spiritual practices. When I saw on the back of the CD case that part of the teaching would include the chakra system and its roll in choosing aligned life work, I rolled my eyes. It would either be a unique take on vocation, or a piece of airy fairy fluff. I am happy to report it is the former, and incredibly so.

But Rick's dynamo presentation is nothing if you don't feel ready for a change. His CD came into my life when I had grown sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. And there was really only one question that needed to be asked before I was ready to receive the insight and direction needed for change. "Do I deserve to be happy--and play--in my work?" There were a myriad of things for me to learn and practice before my work-life topsy-turvied into the scrumptious plurking playground it is now, but the most important thing I did for myself was answer that question with a meek, then hopeful, then resounding YES. (It took a long time to get through my thick head that joy is a birthright, and that each of us is worthy of fun, happiness and abundance).

Something delicious and entirely alchemical occurs when vacation meets vocation. You have a lot more fun and a great deal more color. You find you actually enjoy breathing, and Monday mornings are just another excuse to create something that pleases you. When play meets work, life is a delectable smorgasbord, and each dawn carries with it a promise that anything can happen. And will. One morning you walk into your office, and where there used to sit a dingy brown Work Monster, you only find a grinning orange-and-turquoise goofball moonwalking across your desk to the tune of Xanadu.

A girl could get used to that. A girl has.

I hope you do, too.