Canoe Path 2011, Plein-air pastel on paper, by Artist Wendy Lane

Sunday, January 22, 2012

This is my first blog of 2012.  We’re already 22 days into the New Year, and only now have I sat down to reflect on the big picture of  what I hope for in the next eleven months.  That is because I’ve been intentionally working on slowing down, trying to live more in the present moment, paying attention to my internal clock rather than responding to external demands.  By focusing on the present-day, hour to hour, or even minute to minute, and listening closely to what emerges as important, priorities for how to spend my valuable time become easily apparent.

It is the slowing down that takes effort.   So, essentially, that emerges as one big priority for 2012-I want to slow down, calm down, listen more, talk less, seek my rhythm.   To help me practice slowing down, I’ve just signed up to attend a class at Common Ground meditation center in Minneapolis, Minnesota on Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction.  I participated in a similar program five years ago through the University of Minnesota’s Center for Spirituality and Healing, when the concepts were all quite new to me.  So it will be interesting to revisit these concepts and deepen my practice.

When I am really feeling overstimulated physically or mentally, reading books also relaxes and recharges me.  I have been exchanging books with a friend and co-worker who is getting her degree in human resources development, and she recently loaned me a book called, Presence, Human Purpose and the Field of the Future by Peter Senge, C. Otto Scharmer, Joseph Jaworski, and Betty Sue Flowers.    The book explores how profound transformational change emerges, on a personal and global level.    It references “primary knowing”, something that starts with surrendering control, and remaining open to a larger awareness that emerges.

This past year I was forced to slow down in a dramatic way when I had knee replacement surgery on my right knee in August.   I had the best doctors, nurses, physical therapists, hospital care, and after-care from my spouse and friends that one could ask for.    It was the longest period in my life of not working, and despite the significant pain, it was a real opportunity to slow down.  My focus was relatively simple: just to heal, manage my pain, and increase the mobility of my  knee.    I was fortunate to discover some wonderful healing resources.

I began using the online web program called, CaringBridge.org as a sort of daily journal of my recovery process.   This wonderful nonprofit organization has created a confidential website where you can journal about recovery and share the information with family and friends near and far.    I listened to CDs of healing music and viewed DVDS of meditative images.  My favorite music was Deuter  Koyasan Reiki Sound Healing, and my favorite DVD images were  Zen Garden.  I also participated in a group meditation program over the phone for several weeks with coach Marla Skibbons.

When I started back to work, I knew that a return to my part-time job in human Resources at the University of Minnesota’s College of Liberal Arts was going to be physically challenging.  My job there is primarily sitting in meetings and working on computer and phone all day.  Movement and exercise are a critical component of joint replacement recovery, and so I began a practice of daily 20 minute walks over my lunch hour, which I am committed to continuing.  In addition to attending water aerobics classes at the gym each week, I also purchased some DVDs to use at home to do guided Qi Gong exercises.   The ones I’m using are called Exercise to Heal with Lee Holden.

My surgery occurred after becoming increasingly limited in my movement, and suffering increasing chronic pain over the last five years as a result of degenerative arthritis in both of my knees.  The difference between my new right “super-knee” after surgery, and my arthritic left knee is profound.  Therefore, I’m committed to having my left knee replaced this summer, and to continue my physical and emotional slowing down and healing throughout this year.

Last summer, knowing that my recovery would take several months, I decided to take a sabbatical from coaching clients weekly, and instead I hired a new coach, Bliss Hansen, who is in the process of completing her certification through the Coaches Training Institute.   Bliss is a great coach, supporting me in focusing on my personal growth, creativity and healing.  Knowing that I will have knee surgery again this summer, I am extending my “sabbatical” through this calendar year.    As time allows, I’ll take on some short-term project-based coaching opportunities, but this year is primarily going to be about my self-discovery.

Just before my surgery last summer I took a week’s vacation in northern Minnesota with my spouse Judy and my dog Abby.  We rented a cabin along Lake Superior, and I was able to do some plein-air painting.  The pastel image attached to this blog entry is an old overturned canoe that was near our cabin.  It seems like such an invitation to consider taking a new journey, one that is filled with adventure, while moving at a slower and more gentle pace.    I share the image, and extend the invitation to you, to join me in slowing down more, and being present for the journey in 2012.

Warm wishes for a wonderful year!

Kick Start Your Creative Habit

One of my goals for the next year is to read books that explore aspects of creativity and share insights from these resources on my blog.    Currently I’m reading Twyla Tharp’s book, The Creative Habit Learn It and Use It for Life. 

Twyla explores how we can  become acquainted with our creative identity, or as she calls it ”creative DNA”, through a series of exercises.   Twyla suggests a writing exercise called, “Your Creative Autobiography” asking that we respond to 33 questions she’s developed. 

I share them here with you:

1.  What is the first creative moment you remember? 2.  Was anyone there to witness or appreciate it? 3. What is the best idea you’ve ever had? 4. What made it great in your mind? 5. What is the dumbest idea? 6. What made it stupid? 7. Can you connect the dots that led you to this idea? 8. What is your creative ambition? 9. What are the obstacles to this ambition? 10. What are the vital steps to achieving this ambition? 11.  How do you begin your day? 12. What are your habits? What patterns do you repeat? 13. Describe your first successful creative act.  14 Describe your second successful creative act. 15. Compare them.  16. What are your attitudes toward: money, power, praise, rivals, work, play? 17. Which artists do you admire most? 18. Why are they your role models? 19. What do you and your role models have in common?  20. Does anyone in your life regularly inspire you? 21.  Who is your muse? 22. Define muse.  23. When confronted with superior intelligence or talent, how do you respond? 24. When faced with stupidity, hostility, intransigence, laziness, or indifference in others, how do you respond? 25. When faced with impending success or the threat of failure, how do you respond? 26.  When you work, do you love the process or the result? 27. At what moments do you feel your reach exceeds your grasp? 28. What is your ideal creative activity? 29. What is your greatest fear? 30. What is the likelihood of either of the answers to the previous two questions happening? 31. Which of your answers would you most like to change? 32. What is your idea of mastery? 33. What is your greatest dream?

I remember distinctly the first time I saw Twyla Tharp dance, and her choreography rocked my world.  She made moves I had never seen before, and they were so entwined with the music that it defined rythm for me.  In that moment, my understanding of the power of dance and its relationship to music expanded exponentially.

Twyla’s questions get at where we’ve been and what we know right now.  I wondered how the answers might inform our vision of where we want to head.  So I came up with my own writing prompt that I invite you to respond to.

(Consider writing this paragraph in your journal and begin by answering the questions-let it flow, whatever comes, let it take you-no editing. )

You have just stepped onto a yellow brick road, and are starting your creative journey to the land of (insert your name)’s OZ which is fully manifested by your dreams and visions, and limited only by your imagination.  You will bring tools and supplies with you that will come in handy.  What tools are in your possession and what must you acquire?

What does the starting place look and feel like?  What are you wearing? Who is there with you to send you off?  What music is playing?  What is the color of the light?

To support your creative journey you will bring along a journal of ideas, thoughts and stimulating pictures that you will collect and build upon as you travel.   What does your journal look and feel like?  What tools do you need for your  journal?

You will become acquainted along the way with extended family and friends, artistic ancestors, teachers, mentors, peers, leaders, teams, role models, as well as strangers, through the close observation required of portraiture, and the intimate conversation of story, allowing you to develop meaningful relationships.  Who are these folks and what will you discuss?  What is important to convey in their portraits and include in the story?  What do they need to know about you?  You will learn from, and be supported by others as needed. 

Along your travels, notice the  the season, temperature, light, shadows, landscape, water, time of day, weather, animals, plants, fish, birds, insects, and all living creatures.   How do you feel in this environment?  What does it smell like? What are the paths you choose to travel and your modes of travel? Where do you want to put down roots and settle for a while?  How long will you be there?  How will you know it is time to move on?  How does time fly?

You will need nourishment and shelter along the journey.  What is your shelter made of and how does it create a safe zone?  Who is your host?  What is the garden of your delight?  What spices are in the foods?  Are your drinks hot or cold?  What can you carry with you? 

How are you entertained?  How is beauty defined? Where do you find humor and sadness? How do you play?  When do you work?  Where do you rest? What does your spirit need for sustenance? Who and what do you worship, and how do you do it? Do you go by different names on the journey?  What are you called?  Where do people gather?  What languages are spoken there?  What is familiar? 

What else do you notice?

Abby wonders, "What's Next?"

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009 by Wendy Lane

In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

 What Did I Think Was Happening?

I think enterprising people were doing what they love and know best to make a living despite the poor economy.

I think people retiring in the RV park at the edge of Lake Superior were attempting to create a community out of close proximity, a fondness for dogs, and shared love of water.

Abby got a bath, and she raced back and forth across the cabin floor, shaking and shuttering, water flying–I think she was sharing the joy of being clean again–with me in high pursuit, towel in hand laughing and screaming.

We pulled into the trailside tavern parking area for a drink on a hot day, and the car was suddenly pelted with water.  Getting out of the car I was saturated.  Looking up, I saw a sprinkler on the roof of the building scattering water everywhere.  I think the sprinkler was meant to keep the dust down on the gravel drive that day.  Likely it was initially installed to prevent the forest fires that periodically plague the area from burning their building.

I think the rain was cleaning the air, fortifying the plants, and baptizing us to the religion of the woods.  I’m a believer, grateful for existence.

I was painting, observing nature, colors and shapes, not thinking.

Our vacation was coming to an end, and I think we were saying goodbye to the landscape by driving down gravel fire roads, stopping at each lake access point along the way, swimming in one lake, having a picnic by another, photographing the essence of the BWCA to take home with us.

BWCA Brule Lake Entrance Sign

What Would I Like To See Again?

I’d like to see again the small brown and gray bunny nibbling on green grass outside our cabin window in the morning.  Her long tender ears covered in ticks, she was not shy about us watching her.  I hope she survives.

I would like to see the full moon again shedding a beam of light, creating a sparkling pathway across the lake water, inviting us like the yellow brick road, to adventure upon it.

I’d like to see again the landscape paintings in Sivertson’s gallery, each a jewel-like memory of an experience in an amazing place, reflected upon by a talented artist.

I would like to see the horizon line on the water again, day after day.

Cutface Creek, Grand Marais 2009 Artist Wendy Lane

Judy, Wendy and Abby, Grand Marais Trip 2009

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009 by Wendy Lane

In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

What Was Most Tender?

My Westie-dog, Abby LouLee, makes my heart tender.  She lies at my feet, under my chair when I paint.  Her watchful presence, a constant companion, surprises me with her quiet dedication.

Abby was most tender cuddling between Judy and me to get warm in the early morning chill.

My knees were tender, raw and painful from overuse alternating with lack of use.

Fresh bug bites itch and were tender on the sunburned portion of my exposed skin, unprotected by my shorts or apron as I sat on the camp chair, unnoticed until the moment I took a break from painting.

Judy and Abby were sitting on a log on the beach, staring out together at the quiet lake in the morning, waiting for me to finish checking my emails in the coffee shop.  My tender heart jumped when they both turned at once, saw me, and Judy broke into a smile, then Abby barked and came running to me, tail wagging.

Wendy and Abby, Grand Marais Trip 2009

What Was Most Wonderful?

It was most wonderful to be on vacation, in the woods, not at work, with Judy and Abby, not on a schedule, creating something on the blank page, inspired by my surroundings, while appreciating life.

It was most wonderful not to care about what time I wake up, not think about work for almost an entire day, and to take an afternoon nap.

The four otters dipping, diving, and performing antics in the water by the dock were most wonderful.  They even leapt onto the inflatable rafts with people in them to seriously beg for scraps.

Crispy fried Indian bread fish tacos with guacamole and hot sauce, and Judy’s home-made chicken chili with cilantro and fresh corn were most wonderful.

It was most wonderful to finish another Rosamunde Pilcher book, always a satisfying story, and always a disappointment to have the adventure end.  I start another eagerly.

It was most wonderful to sit on a lawn chair on the cabin porch in the evening sun, no agenda in sight, just enjoying being alive.

Our last evening meal in Grand Marais was most wonderful, on the porch deck of Chez Jude, overlooking the bay, exhaustedly eating wood fired pizzas and salad, after a whole day of exploring.

Picking wild blueberries on Gunflint Trail

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009

by Wendy Lane

 In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

What Did I Smell?

I smelled ripe red strawberries, soggy towels and fruity dish soap.

I smelled wild blueberries releasing their sweet scent mixed with pancake batter, when heated in a fry pan with butter.

I smelled suntan lotion, bug spray, my sweat, a campfire, peanut butter melting, and hot coffee brewing.

I smelled wood smoke, pine needles, damp Lake Superior, wet dog, butterscotch and hot fudge.

I smelled smoked fish, sugar baked donuts, grilled meat, and the biting fragrance of cooked green chili peppers.

I smelled grilled portabella mushroom, melted butter on toast, and the grease of French fries accompanying my lunch in the café, after a leisurely morning of painting along the gunflint trail.

I smelled cigarette smoke and beer in the bar; old grease and mold permeated the adjacent restaurant.   We left immediately.

Mile Marker 21, Hwy 61, Grand Marais, MN 2009

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009

by Wendy Lane

In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

What Did I Notice?

I noticed black flies biting my ankles while I painted on the beach.  A sudden stinging attack in several locations announced their arrival.  Equally sudden, they departed, doused with bug spray.

I noticed the small island just beyond the rock point I was painting, emerging from the fog, and quickly fading from sight again.  Was it really there?

I noticed the forecaster said, “It is 57 degrees near the lake, 64 and clear on the hill, and Saturday is the 40^th anniversary of Woodstock.  Migrating birds are starting to flock for the coming change of season”.

I noticed the burnt brown rocks wet with lichen water tumbling down Cascade Falls.   Three consecutive green and brown pools of shade between ripples of yellow and white foam.  My fingers remember drawing this before–that summer day years ago–when Judy and I painted the same location collaboratively.

I noticed the glassy brown water, the color of dried blood, reflecting blue sky on surface, periodically interrupted by rocks of various sizes and shapes causing small ripples in its otherwise unbroken journey toward the next bend of the Brule River.

I noticed my dog Abby drinking rain water from the rock pool (as if) placed there just to quench her immediate thirst.

I noticed the bump behind my ear, still swollen and itchy where the mosquito bit me yesterday.

I noticed the seagull’s yellow eye ringed with gray.

I noticed thick smoke pouring across the road from the fish house, and steam rising when water was poured on hot stones in the smoker.

I noticed the cabin living room floor filled with the debris of our trip: a bicycle tire, five acrylic paintings in assorted sizes and colors, blue flip flops, an off-white towel drying, a book, suitcases, piles of clothing, an empty bottle of wine, a laptop case, a Coleman lantern, a water bottle.

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009 by Wendy Lane

In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

What Did I Hear?

I heard the fog horn sounding in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep.

I heard the roaring of truck traffic on the highway, and the rumbling growl of Abby in response to the chipmunks clucking outside our cabin window.

I heard on radio 90.7 an artist was donating a tile mural for the station’s building, and the community was invited to provide recycled tiles, glass, and rock for the piece.

I heard the drone of the float plane landing on the water in the bay of Grand Marais.  Then I heard it take off a few minutes later.  It turned around and landed again, to finally take off a second time, a short while later.  Was the pilot practicing?

I heard children laughing and teasing each other playing king of the hill while swimming, then singing, clapping and guitar playing, and finally the bell chime calling them to lunch, church camp sounds floating across the lake where I was fishing.

I heard the thunderous roar of Cascade Falls blocking out all other sounds around me.  I was momentarily surprised by the tourist peering over my shoulder, his dog startled my dog Abby too.

At Artist’s Point I heard the wind under my cap, the gulls screaming and squawking, the dogs barking, and the voice of a woman behind me saying, “Your painting is beautiful”.

I heard the drone of cars on the highway, gulls chattering, and snippets of tourist-talk, self-important nonsense.

I heard children whooping from a nearby ball field, a dog baying, car doors slamming, country western music piped into the street, and blues music playing in the taco café.  I overheard  someone talking about his wife’s abusive alcoholic father, and wanting to dance at the upcoming powwow

Sailing From Grand Marais Bay, 2009 Artist Wendy Lane

.

I heard seagulls screaming, another fog horn, paddles banging on metal canoes, chipmunks clicking, and the splash of fish jumping, crows squawking, bluegrass music, wind blowing, and pure quiet.

Grilled fish with salad at Angry Trout

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009 by Wendy Lane

In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

What Did I Admire?

I admired the lightly seasoned, perfectly grilled whitefish, with abundant salad greens and just ripe strawberries—on our first night out at the Angry Trout.

I admired the big puffy clouds, spreading like foam exploding across the sky. 

I admired the billowing powder blue sail on the boat floating outside our window at Devil’s Track Lake Landing restaurant.

I admired the warm buttery pancakes made with apple cider and hand picked blueberries, drenched in maple syrup.

I admired the variety of patterns in the quilt shop, endless possibilities of combinations and colors.

I admired the pounded tin petroglyphs used as the logo for the Gunflint Tavern, displayed on the wall near the bar.

I admired the sun, shining on the row of Adirondack chairs on the dock, four freshly caught fish hanging on the hooks under the lodge sign, ducks diving, a kayaker paddling, and the wedding party at Gunflint Lodge.

I admired the paddler pulling in his canoe at Brule Lake, having completed his trip in historic voyageur clothing and equipment, looking self-sufficient and happy.

I admired the vista of the shore, the horizon of Lake Superior, and the outline of the Sawtooth Mountains.

Wendy painting in Grand Marais

 So here begins the first poem from my poetry and painting journal during ten days in Grand Marais in 2009 . . .

Gratitude in Grand Marais: A Poetry Journal, © August 4-14, 2009 by Wendy Lane

In Homage to Mary Oliver’s Gratitude Poem

What Astonished Me?

I was astonished by only one restroom for the customers at the always-crowded Angry Trout Café.

I was astonished by the older woman holding her pet goose as she walked past the cabin in the morning, and by the ending of the books on tape story we were listening to in the afternoon.

I was astonished by the cost of clothing in the Trading Post store near the water front.

I was astonished by Judy’s continual ability to beat me at Scrabble, not because of her astounding vocabulary choices, but rather by her strategic placement of tiles on double word and triple letter combinations.

I was astonished by the ten degree change in temperature driving from Grand Marais to Eagle Mountain in a half-hour.

I was astonished by the thunder clouds’ size and puffy density—a wall of watercolor gray washing over the lake—out there where it was still raining, despite the storm having already passed through Grand Marais.

I was astonished when the rain shower pelted us without warning and grateful my painting was not totally ruined by the water’s attack.

I was astonished by the number of paintings I’m able to produce when I’m on vacation as opposed to the rest of the year.

I was astonished by the number of emails piling up in my in-box at work and home, when I checked them from the internet café in town.  I selected “all” and hit the “delete” button, thrilled by the rush of freedom flowing through my veins.

I was astonished by nothing, so familiar is this place visited over the years, this action of painting, the company of Judy and Abby LouLee, that I am comforted by my lack of astonishment.

Gratitude by Mary Oliver

What did you notice?

The dew snail;

the low-flying sparrow;

the bat, on the wind, in the dark;

big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;

the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;

the sweet-hungry ants;

the uproar of mice in the empty house;

the tin music of the cricket’s body;

the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;

the little bluebirds in their hot box;

the salty talk of the wren,

then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

What did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;

the carrot, rising it its elongated waist;

the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the

pale green wand;

at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid

beauty of the flowers;

then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallow making their dip and turn over water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog; her energy and exuberance, her willingness,

her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue, her

recklessness, her loyalty her sweetness, her

sturdy legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Ann’s lace, with its parsnip root;

the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;

the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;

the tall, blank banks of sand;

the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;

the sea and its triangles;

the sea lying on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green breast of the hummingbird;

the eye of the pond;

the wet fact of the lily;

the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;

the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;

the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve

of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

 (from, What Do We Know)

 When I was in Grand Marais last year to plein air paint, each day I wrote a  journal poem about my experiences, in response to the questions from Mary Oliver’s poem.  I added one question of my own, “What did I smell?”

During the time frame of the exhibition I”ll post some of these poems, and invite you to respond.