We Are Rich...

"Everything is here to be happy on earth.
We have snow and every day a new morning. 
We have trees and rain, hope and tears.
We have humus and oxygen, animals and all the colors.
We have distant lands and bicycles.
We have sun and shadow.

                         We are rich. "

                                                                                                                   ~Hundertwasser

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...I discovered this quote in a precious little book of Friedensreich Hundertwasser's artwork and writing. It took my breath away.
It was handed to me by Harriet Segal, the gifted artist who just installed "Taproot", a stained glass piece commissioned for our foyer.
Harriet is 100% artist- she dresses, moves and communicates full-body creative expression.
So much so, she didn't want her photo taken-
                                         I don't think she knows how to pose.

After installing this amazing piece of art in our foyer, she needed a smoke in her van.
When she returned, clutched in her hand was a tiny, well-worn treasure... a collection of paintings and writings by the artist that has influenced her art the most.
Oh, I can understand why.  Flipping through it, I was deeply moved by the way Hundertwasser sees the world.
The book is propped on my desk. She insisted I keep it awhile.

"Art should be something very great, something religious and infinitely beautiful.
Art should be a place where you can pray, where you receive intense spiritual help, a kingdom of peace.
Art should help you to find the way you have lost.
Art must be precious."

sigh...
This vibrant, imaginative masterpiece is precious.
As is all the artwork in our home.
An act of courage and honesty- I stand in awe of these gifts of human self-expression.
            What more could anyone hope for to greet them when opening the front door?

I can feel the energy and creative flow still pouring from the "Taproot" piece... even after the artist has released it to us.
Whatever exchange happens between artist and art... it doesn't stop just because of an arbitrary deadline.
Harriet said she had been up since 2 a.m. finishing the last touches.
I can only imagine how it felt for her to install it and then leave it behind.
Like a birth... the hard work now behind her, sending it into the world to do its work.


Over the last four months Harriet, Tim and I met and then exchanged emails to share thoughts, feelings, and visions about this something that might somehow capture the vitality and magic of this place.
Of course the artist's interpretation is her own, but looking at it, I recognize:
       the water table (the source) at the bottom; and the plant pushing its way upward through it all (it can't help itself :-); the grounded mountains at the bottom and the top; the sun/energy at the center of it all; the breathtaking ribbons of color/sky all through it; four seasons represented in textured clear glass- leaves, blossoms, raindrops...; and the many little treasures embedded in hand-rolled glass- surprises revealed if you slow down long enough to look closely. It is Taproot no doubt.

At the end of this first real warm day of spring, I found myself in the garden.
And as the sunset splattered red stripes above the western mountaintops, I looked toward the house when Tim flipped on the hall light - flooding the stained glass window from the inside out.

I couldn't help but smile and take in the moment ...  green shoots bursting through chocolate brown soil, plump buds opening into apple blossoms and Harriet's work illuminated.
Oh, to be in the presence of full expression!
In the garden, in the art studio... whereever the glory of LIFE pushes itself out from the inside.
There is no stopping it.
One can only pause and celebrate.

"Everything is here on earth to be happy.
                      We are rich"
                                 and "Art is precious"!

Thank you Harriet.
              Thank you Friedensreich.
                       Thank you Taproot Farm.

and thanks Anne Rocca for the leaf in our river photo.

Taking Down The Ropes...

The Perigree moon called me last night.
As her magnificence rose over eastern treetops, I gathered a blanket and some hot tea ...
      hoping to curl up a bit in the spot where Querencia, my earthen artist cottage, will soon be born.

The light was surreal. Like a room filled with burning candles- holding the intensity of darkness and light at the same time.

I don't know how long I sat there.
I watched her move across the sky until she perched over our thinking rock on the hill.

It is amazing what you can see in full moonlight, once your eyes adjust and your mind quiets.

I could make out the restlessness of birds in treetops, peace in the sillouettes of contented lambs, new life at the base of dry, brown fields.
I could feel the grace of a day and night in perfect balance, neither one longer or brighter than the other.

Perhaps it was gratitude. Perhaps the clarity of a night illuminated.
But something made me remember a journal entry I wrote years ago. When I was beginning to realize how much of my spirit had been locked away over time... in the name of "maturity", social convention, and convenience.
I remember that transformative time in mid-life , when I began questioning what parts of my persona no longer served my health and true happiness. Remembering what I had known as a child- that one must kick up some dust and spill some paint in order to express this life within us fully... even if it makes others uncomfortable.
It both breaks and lifts my heart to read it again.
I'd like to share it because I imagine it speaks for many of us....
 

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         I am a castle.

A beautiful, expansive, intricate castle… full of halls and halls of colorful rooms.

            There was a time when I felt free to skip through the corridors. My laughter echoed off the walls like windchimes. Light streamed in windows that were opened wide to the outside world. Songs of birds in the trees blended with my delighted giggles.

            My castle was open to the public. Anyone was free to explore. And I was proud to show everyone around.

           

            Then I began to listen. I tried to understand some of the things the older visitors were saying. I began to slow my skipping to a walk in order to overhear their critiques- noticing how their voices fluctuated from a pleasant sing-song in front of some rooms to a hushed whisper in front of others.

            Oh, how they threw their heads back and smiled with praise after viewing some rooms… chatting of “progress, and growing up, and cooperation, and manners, and achievement, and exemplary behavior”. These rooms full of good behavior had lines of admirers at the door- leaning in, pointing to all the A’s and plusses and glowing comments from teachers on the report cards pinned to the huge bulletin board. Here, if they stepped in and closed their eyes, visitors could drink up the accolades booming from speakers... an endless audio tape loop of conversations between adults at school, adults at bridge parties, parents of my friends… praising Beth for being such a nice girl, such a sweet girl, quiet and obedient, so easy… such a good, good girl… saying “you must be so proud”.

            But their mood became solemn and the talking between them hard to make out when I enthusiastically threw open the next door where my wild abandon was housed. Furniture knocked over, paint spilled, half eaten melons dripping off the table… drawing startled looks from the crowd as they stepped back further and further, afraid of getting some of it on their shoes.

           I learned to ignore that room on the tour as time went on.

           Spirits would lighten again when I showed off the room of optimism, of good works, of positive dreams. The color returned to their faces while viewing plaques and letters of gratitude and awards for citizenship displayed on shelves. Few of them ever figured out, though, that this was only the front room- that my suite of dreams was actually much bigger, filled to the brim.  But I had learned to separate the “attainable” dreams from the “crazy” ones- arranging the first ones under the lights for visitors, keeping the more mysterious visions in the back room to be explored alone at night while sleeping.

So many rooms… endless halls.

            In time, whole wings of my castle became roped off- I didn’t lead them down those anymore. Rooms of sensuality, anger, aggressiveness and sadness began to get musty… walls of red, gray, black no longer seeing the light of day behind closed doors.

            I was so busy giving tours to the public that even I did not venture down those roped-off halls and stairs anymore. No time. Too busy. Fading curiosity. Growing judgement of my own.

             I became just another one of those selective visitors myself- taking the “feel good” tour, avoiding the uncomfortable floors, or the controversial sidebuildings.

            I eventually redid the brochures…improving the marketing appeal until it promised only sunshine and light if they visited my castle. And, because I am committed to honesty in advertising, I delivered what I promised. 

           But… because it became overwhelming to keep all those doors locked and the ropes up everyday…

            more and more often, it just became easier to shut the whole castle up to the outside. To build a moat of silence. A protective wall of steel. Sometimes that was the only way I could get some rest.     

            Eventually I was able to keep all the visitors away for long periods of time by setting up a dog-and-pony show out front. It kept them entertained and pleased. They convinced themselves that that was all there was to see.

            And then, with the lights out so as not to draw attention, I was free to wander the long, lonely halls of my castle by myself.

            It felt comfortably familiar… but I had forgotten how to skip.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~                             b. reese 3/ 2006

My heart is heavy when I think of how, at some point, I traded in my childhood courage for a pretty costume... repressing my divine "messiness" to earn safe, positive responses from others.

And, yet, my heart is full remembering how I spent yesterday... 
    tromping in swampy fields planting cider apple trees,  propped on the ground against the lamb barn scratching their chins, biting into a dusty carrot straight from the garden... covered in mud, hair in my eyes, smile on my face.

I wonder what stirs in you... 

           have you closed any doors over the years?

What kind of beautiful mess would you make if you thought no one was grading?

Let's take down the ropes.

Let's stop selling tickets.

Let's live in the full light, unafraid.

                                                                                         Happy Equinox dear ones,

                                                                                                               Beth

*to add a comment:  Just click on google and if you don't have an account, you create one.  Takes 60 seconds!  
I think it is lovely to hear people's reflections.

The Gift of Snow and Silence...

Tomorrow I head off for a 4-day, silent, women's retreat in New Windsor, Maryland.
My packing list is short: comfortable stretchy pants and tops, warm sweater, socks, shawl, and meditation cushion. No makeup, no cell phone, no reading, no gadgets.
When we arrive, we'll check in, find our shared room, plop our cushions in the meditation hall and have a delicious vegetarian meal. There will be lots of chatter and energy as 85 women from all over the country come together in this place with a common intention.
I love thinking of the day before a retreat... in different towns, life situations, personal stages... all of us "strangers" are preparing ourselves to arrive.
It is no small thing when so many people travel long distances to gather for a common purpose. For peace.
Something powerful is created by that simple act- something palpable. Because we know it is not at all simple to devote a weekend to "filling your own well". Because the lives we live have become so complicated.

So, when I am sitting there among those sojourners, I feel like our gathering matters. Not just to my own well-being... but to a larger healing. Somehow you can feel the ripples leaving the room...

At 8 pm that first night, we will settle into the meditation hall to hear a wise teaching, a dharma talk- practical and profound guidance about how to "pause", "arrive", "allow", and "stay" with what is HERE, right here, in this body, in this room, in this life we bring with us.
The teachings this weekend will be gentle and forgiving. They will need to be. Because only human beings sign up for these retreats :-) We are women bringing with us busy, noisy minds and baggage full of normal, human life issues. No saints ever show up to these things, as far as I've noticed.
By the time we leave the meditation hall, we will be in silence. It will not be broken until Sunday afternoon when we gather for the closing. (sometimes there are small group gatherings with the teachers to ask questions and share issues coming up for us in practice).
Silence?
Yep. All weekend... and it is divine.
When I first started attending silent retreats, my friends laughed. They just couldn't believe I could last an hour, much less a weekend or week, without talking. I admit I thought the same thing.
But then I experienced it... and was changed.
I was simply shocked at how effortless it was to close my mouth and operate from another voice.
To follow a thought deeper and deeper into wisdom- without interruption.
And, of course, it is much easier and delicious when you share space with other souls moving about, eating, and sitting in silence.

It is a rare gift to be encouraged to hear the birds or taste the soup. To really pay attention to sensations in your body. To awaken the other senses that get drowned out by talking and rushing around all day... like touch, or smell. (have you ever really smelled the layers of jasmine tea as you sip it?)

The weekend is structured around set blocks of sitting and walking meditation, meals and dharma talks. The schedule is posted everywhere and bells let you know the end of one and beginning of another period. No one needs a watch, phone, day planner. No one cares if you keep walking and miss a sit. No one is watching. No one is judging. Our focus is inward and sensory. It is okay not to smile or make eye contact when you pass another- the pressure of social convention and those "shoulds" that control us are left at the door.
It takes time to quiet the mind and wake up in the body. There is so much unlearning to do. There is so much control to relinquish.
Each day, sometimes each hour, you can feel your body soften a bit more. By the third night the meditation hall is enveloped in a sweet, thick quiet... feels natural, not so "practiced". The connection between me and the women beside me has grown... although we have not uttered a word to each other. It is magical. It is profound.

Sitting here anticipating the weekend ahead, I am having a strong body memory of how snow days felt when I was a child or young, busy mother.
They were a gift. Permission to let go. Unannounced. Unplanned.

Snow days always felt like a warm bath.
Unlike a vacation- which can kick a busy mind into overdrive; planning, packing, worrying, anticipating-  snow days take it all "down a notch".

Snowdays force you to let go of control- roads are blocked, schools are closed- can't go shopping, can't carpool, no homework assigned today. You eat what is there, enjoy who you are with, and feel the relief that you can't change things.
Ahhh, yes, it is a relief sometimes to be powerless.

Snowdays whisper, "so, what do you really want to do right now?" The answer from inside might be, "I want to stay in my jammies, eat oatmeal, and start a good book!" or " I just want to sit on the floor and play a board game with my kids... and listen, and laugh."
The voice inside knows, "I just want to be Here, right Now".
And surrounded by a white frozen world outside, you get to do just that.
I loved who I was with my kids on snowdays- playful, spontaneous, relaxed.
On those blustery, family "retreat" days, the carpet felt softer, the hot chocolate tasted chocolat-ier, and the world seemed at peace.
Snow days seem to awaken the senses and make the ordinary feel fresher somehow.

I think my retreat weekends are just like that... except I put these "snow days" on the calendar.
I am so thankful for a meditation practice that teaches me not only to allow "what is" to be what it is, but also to smell it and taste it and sit down on the floor to play with it.
And I am thankful for a community of fellow seekers who courageously stop their busy lives, if even just for a weekend, to create our own snow days. To release the "shoulds", put down the planner, and ask our hearts "what do you really want in this moment.. and this one?"

I am looking forward to letting it all go... into this weekend.
I guess I need to pack my snow boots.

Building Querencia- The Hand-Sculpted House

There is now a makeshift bulletin board hanging on the wall across from me.
Huge foam-core boards are dripping with post-it notes, inspiring images and architectural drawings of Querencia- my soon-to-be artist cottage.
It is big and messy and changing shape daily, but the vision remains pure. I will revisit it often as we get pulled into the busy execution of construction plans.

I think each creative project needs a compass, a true North.
This one started with the enticing question stapled at the top of the board-
                                      What If?

Ahhh... I love that inquiry. 

What if? is an invitation to dream big, to remember what matters most, to create something that works.

It does not believe in limits. It begs creative solutions. 
It grabs your hand and pulls you out of your comfort zone.
And it will not accept excuses!

"What if?" led me to Natural Building.... a healthier, more creative, people-friendly way to build.

When I first dreamed of a little artist cottage, I wondered what sort of building might provide the comfort and freedom and inspiration that creativity needs to blossom. 
I imagined it would have lots of natural light and a "fluid" shape-  not the typical right-angle boxes we are used to. 
Inhabiting the building would be inspiring in and of itself.
I realized I was dreaming of a place that didn't feel built at all- more sculpted and alive.
"What if", I wondered, "you could create a little building that feels like it just sprouted from the earth".  It occurred to me that that is exactly what any creative work feels like- a gift of nature, something blossoming naturally from the seed you've planted. 


Then I read about the book, The Hand-Sculpted House, by Ianto Evans, Michael Smith and Linda Smiley- 
"A Cob Cottage might be the ultimate expression of ecological design, a structure so attuned to its surroundings that the authors refer to it as "an ecstatic house". They build a house the way others create a natural garden, using the oldest, most available materials earth, clay, sand, straw, and water and blending them to redefine the future (and past) of building. Cob (the word comes from an Old English root, meaning "lump") is a mixture of non-toxic, recyclable, and often free materials. Building with cob requires no forms, no cement, and no machinery of any kind. Builders sculpt their structures by hand."

When I finished reading that book cover to cover, my perspective about shelter was changed forever.  I'm hooked!
The first chapter- the "why"- is worth reading on its own... beautifully philosophical and clear-headed.
"Natural Building means paying attention to all the details of how the world really works"...and then building in harmony with Natural Laws. Amen to that!
There is no denying that in Nature: 
     -Nothing is ever created or destroyed: it merely changes form.
     -Everything gradually falls apart.
     -Everything is unique.
     -There are no monocultures.
     -Nature uses just as many resources as are necessary and no more.

So why do we insist on designing homes dictated by the straight 2" X 4" board or the 90-degree angle? Before the last nail of any new house is sunk, Nature has already begun warping the board and applying pressure at the weak corners- trying to restore it to its natural form: curved and stable.

Take a walk through the woods... there are no straight lines, there are no squares.

The rest of the book teaches how to cooperate with Nature in building structures that; age gracefully, capitalize on nature's strongest shapes and materials, and look like they belong in their setting.

When you stand inside a natural building it FEELS good. It is true! People visibly relax, even sigh, when they enter a home made of mud or straw... because their body is saying "I'm at home here. It feels familiar. My oldest memories are of earth and green and sunlight".

One of Ianto's examples really stuck with me.
He compares a picture of a bird sitting in her bird-designed nest to a bird in a man-made birdhouse.
The first bird has built a structure that conforms warmly and comfortably to the shape of its body, intelligently slopes upward to contain it's contents (eggs), and uses only the materials it needs for this purpose- no waste, less materials to gather.  The square birdhouse has four empty corners- wasted space that draws heat and bedding away from the inhabitant. Wood, nails, glue and paint for the birdhouse required trips to the store and undoubtedly scraps were thrown in the trashcan.
I think this is a beautiful illustration of what natural building is all about.

We are animals. We like spaces that "fit" us. We are hard-wired to feel energized in clean, natural light. We feel safe leaning against backs that support and protect us while giving us a view "out" into the world (window seats, reading nooks near windows).

The authors provide example after example of shelters designed to feed our instincts, not our ego.
Tall ceilings, long halls, and massive foyers are designed to create a feeling of awe and powerlessness- they make sense in cathedrals and museums.  But would you want to live in one?

What if we asked our bodies what kind of space makes us feel comfortable, safe, connected, creative...
              What if we built it from the land it sits on...
                          What if we invited others to create it with us?

Stay tuned.  I hope to do just that! 

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Natural Building helps us connect again to our local natural environment, to our own intuitive and innate creativity, and to each other. It helps us to shift from an industrial, and often toxic building process to one that is affordable, empowering, community-building and life-affirming. We are co-creating ~ learning to dance in balance with nature.
                Learning to ..."live ingeniously in a low-carbon world !"
                                                         -a quote by the Zero Footprint organization 
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