Abundance and excess: more is more

February 1st, 2011 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , | 10 Comments »

I live in New England and thus I am currently being snowed upon. Heavily. Relentlessly. Except for the blizzard of 1976, I don’t ever remember ever having this much snow on the ground in Massachusetts. We are up to our ears, and for the shorter ones among us, way over our heads. While I like to complain about the cold, the shoveling, and the inconvenience as much as the next person, I have to admit this snow thrills some part of me.

I suspect the appeal is its lavishness. There is nothing stingy about this winter’s snow. There’s more than enough for everyone, everywhere. How much snow can you use? Yeah? We’ve got it here, and more. And if you are worried we might run out, there’s more falling from the sky tomorrow.

If you grow up around these parts you hear a lot of (restrained) talk about moderation, good taste, all that. Unfashionably enough, I am attracted to the ornate, playful, over-the-top aspects of Rococo art. Abundance, I love ya’. In fact one of my design mantras is “go with it” . . . by which I mean, if the design seems scattered and lacks cohesion, maybe it needs to be more scattered, more random, more, more, more, until it’s about scatteredness, and holds together in that way. Or, if I am thinking oh, the color temperature in this piece seems too hot — often the way to succeed visually is not to moderate it, but rather to push it off the charts with saturated red and orange, add a little black here and there to make it even hotter. GO with it. You can see why I despise the Mies van der Rohe shibboleth, “Less is more.” Because it isn’t.

I was thinking this morning about another aspect of excess — the way people make a fuss over their pets. Yes, I too am guilty of those slobbery greetings and euphoric exclamations, “Sweet puppyman! Favorite furchild! Dogfaced boy!”

I have a friend from Ecuador who married a Yankee and came to raise her family in the inhospitable frozen tundra of New England. She, who anwers her three children’s insistent “Mami! Mami!” with a dulcet “Si mi amor; si mi alma; si mi corazon,” (Yes my love, my soul, my heart) was deeply offended by her bluestocking Yankee mother-in-law who acted reserved and aloof with the grandchildren, but would lavish endearments and kisses on the elderly flatulent poodle. I told my friend, “We don’t call them God’s frozen people for nothing.”

Although I am not in favor of raising indulged and entitled children, I still think
it’s very good for kids to hear, every now and then: “Anything you want.” It can be said within the limits of the ice cream truck’s choices or the selection of sneakers at the discount store, but still it gives a wonderful feeling of abundance, with glee and a flood of affection.

I think of the delighful song from Oliver — “I’d do anything for you dear, anything, for you mean everything to me.”

Readers, what are your experiences with the upsides and the downsides of lavishness? How does it make you feel? I don’t think I’ve discussed this with anyone and I am curious. Abundantly so.

Looking down my front steps. On the other side of the mailboxes is the street, empty of traffic today.

The lovers, the dreamers, and me

January 10th, 2011 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , | 8 Comments »


I have just returned to New England after two and a half weeks on the West Coast with one of my spiritual teachers. Being with her is sometimes exhausting, but always healing. That I have never called her Rinpoche, but sometimes do call her Skeezix, does not diminish her status as my mentor. Nor does the fact that she is just starting back to kindergarten today, after the Christmas holiday.

“Follow the vitality” has for years ruled the trembling needle of my inner compass. It has helped me distinguish the apparently reliable but moribund path from the riskier one — the one aligned with the life force and shining eyes. Vitality has never led me wrong. Because of this Skeezix became one of my teachers: she effervesces, a veritable geyser of enthusiasm and bounce, she is the embodiment of vitality, vivacity, and sparkle.

In addition, she is so tender-hearted that witnessing a threat of harm to Kermit the Frog brings a hot rush of tears and a cry of outrage. “Save him!” I want that immediacy and moral power, too.

A few days ago, as we were walking to her swimming lesson, quite spontaneously she said, “Every time I jump in the deep water I feel a little bit scared and a lot excited. That’s why I love it.” You see why she is a role model for me? A little bit scared and a lot excited is an admirable way to live. It promotes growth and change, and does not deny the fear but takes it in stride, while still acknowledging that some of that frisson is excitement.

Recently, Skeezix has been singing snippets of “The Rainbow Connection,” sometimes belting it out as she hops and jumps like popcorn in a hot skillet, and sometimes softly under her breath, as she paints or builds.

Have you been half asleep and have you heard voices?
I’ve heard them calling my name.

Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.

. . .

Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection—
the lovers, the dreamers and me.

Feast of losses

December 12th, 2010 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | 13 Comments »

What an extraordinary year this has been. In the main it has been extraordinarily bad — the most painful year in my adult life. Most of what I have learned this year fills me with despair, broken intermittently by waves of revulsion. The strange thing is, what has happened changes my concept of my past, in particular my childhood, more than it does my future. The future trajectory of my life is, though, also changed forever by what has unfolded. I am reminded of Stanley Kunitz’s question, “How shall we be reconciled / to our feast of losses?”

More recently there has been a positive turn of events, an opportunity — balm in Gilead for me. It feels like a great blessing, one which promises me right livelihood, a chance to do my best work, and an adventure, too.

And here’s what so difficult: Almost all of this — good and bad — is stuff that I cannot write about here. At least not yet. So wouldn’t you think I could simply address less portentous matters, and let these taboo subjects sort themselves out? Apparently not. Hence the long silences.

So for now, as I try to gather myself yet again, I’d like to leave you with this little miracle of a poem by Jane Kenyon.

HAPPINESS

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

Hating it

October 18th, 2010 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | 11 Comments »

Hatred and love from Darwin's book The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals.

I’m tongue-tied once again. When I feel this way it’s not usually because of having nothing to say, but rather having too much to say, and struggling to find a way to say it coherently. And when a difficult topic is percolating, that makes it even harder.

So, somewhat reluctantly entering unpopular territory, but following the rule, “If you hear cannon fire, go towards it,” today I take as my subject, hatred. There is at least one person in my life who hates me. So far I haven’t been able to muster the juice to hate her back — not with any gusto — and I think that’s a problem for me. I mean, what about the law of reciprocity? To be clear, I have plenty of uncharitable thoughts toward this person, but I can’t say I hate her. In Darwin’s photo above however, I can claim personal familiarity with both facial expressions.

So what is hatred exactly? I think it starts with anger — anger mixed with frustration. But it becomes petrefied anger, old anger that has sunk, settled, solidified, and become a thing. Anger fresh from the source is in motion, it is a force. Anger is about wanting change. That’s what’s so good about it, it can give us energy for change, sometimes a great burst of it. (The civil rights movement would have been nowhere without anger for fuel). But hatred, inert and stolid, cannot even hope for change. When the weight of hatred is laid upon you, you feel it. It’s heavy. Sometimes so heavy it is almost unbearable. It sucks your energy unless you are eternally vigilant about protecting yourself.

Why does hatred last for so long? How can it live on and on? In the case of the person I reference, almost a lifetime. I believe it’s habit forming — an addiction. And probably to stop hating suddenly would be traumatic. Hating offers temporary satisfaction, but not a truly enduring one, because it leaves the underlying need unmet.

And here’s what I’m wondering now: just what are those needs that hatred appears, on the surface, to satisfy or appease? Is hatred like heroin, offering a temporary high and an apparent cure for the pains and terrors of human existence?

Some friends I have discussed this with don’t know what I’m talking about. I suspect they have not experienced real hatred, neither as the hater nor the hated. I think, or I like to think, that many lives are free of it.

Most of us have witnessed hatred as a pair-bonding and a group bonding activity. If we all hate the same person, group, or belief, them we feel closer to each other, united against a common enemy.

I came just came across this quote by George Bernard Shaw: “Hatred is the coward’s revenge for being intimidated.” Can that be right? I think it’s part of the hatred dynamic, at least when it occurs on a one-to-one basis.

As Leonardo wrote repeatedly in his notebooks: dimmi — tell me. Tell me your experiences and thoughts on hatred.

Backward, turn backward…

September 28th, 2010 in Uncategorized | 8 Comments »

About 25 years ago I had the great good fortune to study with poet Denise Levertov. After a year of regular meetings, readings, and critiques, she surprised the seven of us in the group by asking us to take on an assignment. We should imagine ourselves to be our own ancestors, and write in another voice, one from the past. Although I don’t usually write to prompts, the imagining came easily — the poem less so. Voices spoke to me, and I got it down on paper. But it wanted to be prose. So I kept pushing back in time until I found someone with a poem for me. It was a child — a little girl.

IN THE CAVE

Under my small brown foot
the earth is worn
smooth as my mother’s back.
I crouch on one knee, sucking
marrow from the grooved white bone.

The fire’s blood-light makes a ruddy mask
of my father’s face.
He is dreaming the great bear;
he tumbles yellow teeth in his hand.

The bone is deliciously
greasy. I wipe my hands
in my hair,
reach into a cold crevice
and bring forth to the hot glow
my stone doll.

Finding my voice again

September 18th, 2010 in Uncategorized | 7 Comments »

Albino shaman from Uganda


I did what I promised myself I would not do. I fell off the metaphorical horse, and I stayed down. For over a month. It has been a difficult time filled with losses and attendant learning — the harrowing kind. Now that the worst is over, I find it hard to reappear on the blog. As few as the readers of Butter and Lightning may be, it still feels public, and somewhat embarassing to have “failed” already.

Another promise I made — one which I have kept — is that I would bring my whole self to the blog, trust my instincts, and not be unnecessarily censorious. So against reasonable counsel, I’ve decided to use some poems to make the transition back to blogging. I started this one many years ago, and finished it quite recently.

THE WITCHDOCTOR SPEAKS

Your illness is an old one—
restless, febrile, you bloom
with bruises.
It has been seven years.

Spit out the poison,
Lay down the bitter cards,
the red cards and the black cards,
the hearts for old lovers,
the diamonds for money.

Lay down the brittle cards
and take up my yielding arms.
Your lips are sores pressed
burning on my mouth.
I am the healer;
I am the cure.

Confident or arrogant?

August 1st, 2010 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 9 Comments »

Have you ever been accused of arrogance? Or admired for your confidence? What is the difference between confidence and arrogance? My first thought was that arrogance seems like a brownie à la mode — a loathsome one — confidence, with a big scoop of obnoxious on top. And then I started wondering how much obnoxiousness it takes to push confidence over into arrogance.

But further reflection yielded a bit more complexity. It’s probably not a question of one ingredient layered on another, but rather two different dishes entirely.

Arrogant people are often solemn, self-righteous, and seem to be self-involved to the exclusion of others. They are haughty, demanding respect from others, and yet offering it to only a very few. There’s a “closed system” feel about them. When they condescend and when they pontificate, they have no idea how repellent they are, because they are not attuned to the effect they have on others.

When I think about the aura that surrounds confident people — the ones who seem free of arrogance — it’s always fairly good humored, and there’s a lively curiousity about the world, an authentic interest in others. The confident person is good at something, knows it, and is able to rely on those skills and abilities in a relaxed manner. The confident attitude is an attractive one, easy to be around; the confident person seems dependable and admirable.

Some arrogant people can be very good at what they do. No question. So, when we accuse someone of arrogance, I think we mean: “You may be an expert but your tone is offensive. You don’t see me; you don’t acknowledge me; you don’t value me.” And when we admire someone’s confidence, I think we are saying, “I appreciate your abilities because you can be a virtuoso without making me feel insignificant.”

Or something like that.

Let’s talk about it.

Choosing your own adventure

July 21st, 2010 in Uncategorized | 7 Comments »

For me, one of the worst mental prisons is feeling “done to” and living with the thought: I have no choice in this matter. I have recently been wrestling with just such a situation, one that feels locked in, one that apparently offers no recourse. I have been trying to write a post about it, but somehow, since nothing is resolved, and I feel powerless to change the situation, the few paragraphs I have attempted have felt overheated emotionally and ultimately hollow.

Today, for some reason, I finally realized that in fact I do have a choice, a choice in my attitude, and in how I live the rest of my life. We all, always have choices, and being able to see that is fundamental to mental clarity.

But why is it that this is so hard to see when we are in the thick of emotional matters? And why is it that I forget I know this, and why, why, why must I learn this lesson over and over and over?

I’d like to share some wisdom in the form of quotations. I’m posting them here for me, too. This is offered in a very humble spirit today, believe me.

* * * * * *

It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.
—J.K. Rowling

It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure on the world.
—John Steinbeck

One’s philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes … and the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility.
—Eleanor Roosevelt

The word that allows yes, the word that makes no possible.
The word that puts free in freedom and takes the obligation out of love.
The word that throws open a window after the final door is closed.
The word upon which all adventure, all exhilaration, all meaning, all honor depends.
The word that fires evolution’s motor of mud.
The word that the cocoon whispers to the caterpillar.
The word that molecules recite before bonding.
The word that separates that which is dead from that which is living.
The word no mirror can turn around.
In the beginning was the word and the word was CHOICE.
—Tom Robbins

Concentration and enchantment

July 12th, 2010 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , | 3 Comments »

photo courtesy of The Growing Place, a Reggio Emilia school in Santa Monica, CA

Recently I have had trouble concentrating. There’s no mystery about why; I have been grieving, and in addition I am just getting over the kind of summer cold that renders one blunted and vague.

So, last night, for the first time in many weeks I found myself able to focus my attention, to dive deep into a drawing, to drop the self consciousness and attend with my whole being in a relaxed and fluid manner. Ah, it felt like cool water after a march in the desert.

Simone Weil said, “Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” Yes. But her epigraph can also sound like a brittle discipline; something has been omitted. In order for attention and concentration to flow in its most natural way, one needs acceptance and gentleness toward the self and the world, and freedom from fear and anxiety. I think you can see both caritas and claritas in the face of the child in the photo above, calmly concentrating on her drawing. It’s wonderful to me that this photo was taken at school — clearly The Growing Place develops and encourages that steady unswerving concentration — an attention that penetrates to the core, and yet remains spacious and permeable.

When thinking of an image from the history of art to illustrate this state, my first and strongest association is to Vermeer. Concentration and attentiveness radiate from his interiors and portraits. I think it’s the key to his appeal. One feels transported, not just into a warmly domestic seventeenth century Delft interior, but also into his calm and concentrated mental state. One feels included. It’s intimate. For me, this is the heart of his genius. I was not at all surprised to learn that Vermeer worked very slowly.

Interestingly, Vermeer’s contemporary, Pieter de Hooch, painted similar affecting genre scenes, also in a highly accomplished manner. De Hooch’s paintings lead the eye around and through the marvelous interior, past it, and out the door (or window) again. We don’t rest inside, we don’t feel at home. We are interested, yes. Enlivened and intrigued, for sure. But not welcome or at ease in quite the same way.

Even from across the room, a Vermeer invites us, beguiles us, draws us in, enchants and holds us in ways the de Hooch does not. Whether it’s a portrait or a domestic scene, we are spellbound. That pure benevolent attention feels close to bliss.

Please, Mr. (e)Postman . . .

July 3rd, 2010 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | 5 Comments »

photo courtesy of Aftab

The difference between e-mail and regular mail is that computers handle e-mail, and computers never decide to come to work one day and shoot all the other computers.
— Jamais Cascio

The convenience and speed of email is seductive. It is almost as immediate as speech. While it is devoid of tone of voice or other emotional cues, it is read like a letter, and can be archived for posterity, for purposes of gloating, or for future lawsuits.

Email is a kind of hybrid. It combines an immediate and apparently ephemeral nature, with the opposite — ease of dissemination, and its weird electronic permanence. On the one hand, a zinger of an email can be sent in the heat of the moment, within seconds of an event. Snarky, sanctimonious, explosive or coy — boom, it has its immediate impact. And unlike a letter, the email can be forwarded immediately to all the wrong people. But just like a letter, and unlike a phone call, it can also be read and reread obsessively — fanning whatever flames it may have ignited.

Later, once the damage has been done and the heat of the moment has cooled, the message can lurk in the recipient’s email files, to be rediscovered one day, like leftovers in the back of the fridge. And sometimes those leftovers are foul. “What fresh hell is this?” we ask, upon rediscovering the stinky ones.

When I am stirred up by an email, I try to recall and exploit the asynchronous nature of the medium. A zone of reflection is available, and cooler heads will take advantage of it! Ze Frank’s little video on punctuation substitution is a an old chestnut by now, but for those who have not yet seen it, here it is.

These days it would probably be damaging both personally and professionally, to go on an extended email fast, but it is intriguing to contemplate. I think my mental process would change. My thinking would be deeper, more searching and thorough. Probably after a few days I would desire more face-to-face contact, and go further out of my way to meet up with friends. That would be a good thing.

Much has been made of the “lost art” of letter writing. But let’s not overstate the case. Please, join me in recognizing that true artists of the form were few and far between. Most of those old handwritten letters, just like most of today’s emails, were mundane messages, not well-written, and certainly not poetic. I’m sure that most of my letters of days gone by are self-conscious, banal and cringeworthy.

I know that in some cases, e-mail has facilitated relationships and communications that never could have flourished by post or telephone. One friend tells me that her 80 year old father was voluble, chatty, and affectionate in his emails in ways that he was never able to be in any other medium, including face-to-face.

Electronic communications of one form or another are here to stay. Well, at least until the apocalypse in 2012. (See Mayan Long Count calendar for details.) I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts and experiences with e-communications, o ragged band of readers.

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