Heart of the Universe

Oh Heart,

Can you take me there?

To the still; to the quiet.

To the place that speaks the silence.

To the soul that reaches for strength.

Through the wisps and whispers of the leaves.

Oh Heart,

Can you take me there?

To the edge of the forest.

With the valley languidly in view.

Through the tall stalks of bamboo.

To the center of my heart.

Oh Heart,

Return me to you.

Through the softening and the ease

Through the rocks and hills and soil.

To the place that knows me best.

To the Heart of the Universe.

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Prelude Venetia

The mystery of the Masquerade.  Just as music fills the airwaves, mystery surrounds us and holds us in her delicate grasp.  Prelude Venetia is a a celebration of that mystique.  The solidity of the clay, combined with the fluidity of the carving and the ethereal quality brought about with the mesh and wire culminate in the feeling of being hidden and protected and yet gracefully dancing through space and time.  The lure of dancing with a stranger, only to realize once the mask is taken off, you have known them all along.  That is the mystery of life – revealed to us time and time again.  Look into her gold dusted eyes and know that all is Beauty; all is Love; all is Life.

Art for Beauty’s Sake

Since the search began for my authentic voice as an artist, my intuition has played an enormous role as I have unfolded the layers of myself through each coil I place on a pot.

Every carving, every stroke of the burnishing stone, every single firing has brought me closer to who I am. It is development of trust that manifests through the seemingly mundane. The inspiration that shows up while I’m working. In saying that, I have no concept or understanding nor any conscious goal that my work is “supposed” to be something important, relevant or carry any weight whatsoever in the reality of this troubled sometimes soulless world that we live in.

I think it is absolutely imperative for a creator of any kind to get up close and personal with the reasons they create. Is it money? Fame? Social protocol or statements? Political Activism? Believe me when I say that I have no judgment on why other artists create. I simply know, for myself, the clarity of my actions are intimate with the source.

I create for the sake of beauty. Nothing complicated, nothing with a deep seated, complex platform. I just have an undying need to be a small part of making my life and maybe this world just a little more beautiful than yesterday.

Am I a simpleton? Probably. Will I be looked over and rejected, judged and belittled by those that are well heeled or more finely educated? That’s already happened. But here’s the deal……at the end of my days, when I am taking the last sweet breaths from this life, I want to look back and say, no matter what else transpired, I created by my own standards, my own ideals, my own thoughts and visions – not someone else’s.

The power plays, the marginalizing by others about my art, well, that’s never, ever, going to stop. But if I allow their barbs, slights and unkind comments to influence my direction or cause me to STOP creating……well that’s a “me” thing.

All of this can be transferred into the other aspects of life as well. There will ALWAYS be someone better. There will be those that believe the bad “hype”, the jealousy, the threatened and the power control models. But “who” matters most when it comes to your life or my life is looking straight back in the mirror. All the mood lighting in the world can’t soften the truth of self respect.

Know who you are and let that not just be enough. Let is be all you need to know to guide you toward your own beauty ❤️

Ode to Joy

For each person in our lives, there seems to be an emotional “meter”. A certain amount of emotion that we can expend for one another. When we feel tapped out or drained, usually it’s due to over giving, while not holding enough in the container to feed and support ourselves.

I have this vision that each emotion is a tiny little seedling. With the exchange of support between two people, the sprout grows; tended and cultivated it can result into a blessing of a harvest, the basket always full, always multiplying . A solo dance with the life giving force headed in only one direction creates depletion and the meter runs low. At some point, that blessed tank hits empty. Good luck attempting to manufacture anymore. The seedling dries up, curling into itself and gently blowing away like the last puffs of smoke from a busted muffler. Unless balance is restored, the relationship is doomed to end up in the trash bin of misery and discontent. The capacity for love, understanding, acknowledgment, compassion and kindness are seeds of fortune just as stark in contrast to the seeds of discontent, judgment, violence, hatred and greed.

An Native American elder explained to his grandson that we all have a dark wolf and a light wolf living within us. When the grandson asked which will one will win the battle, the Grandfather replied, “the one you feed.” So it is with our emotional and spiritual lives. We will always be challenged by others as well as our dark side; to be less than we are, to fall into judgment, to take more than we give. To be conscious of our ways marks the delineation point between our reactionary dark side and the light of awareness. Whether are thoughts and actions are from being fully awake or sleepwalking, we are making a choice with every touch, every turn, every word, every deed.

Allowing others to find freedom, even if it means we lose them; allowing yourself to find joy in your everyday life is no small feat. Yes, it’s scary…….but the lighter your touch, the more gentle your grip on the steering wheel, the more freedom we give ourselves to just breathe, the more room there will be for Joy ❤️

The Blessed Dirt of Santuario de Chimayo

There are places on the face of this sweet, troubled planet, that I never thought I would visit. Being raised by a fairly pissed off, excommunicated, Italian Catholic Mother, the church and all of its offerings never really appealed to me. I learned as a young teenager the cause for my Mothers hostility and bitterness and, I must admit, I agreed with her.

When my Mother was at her most vulnerable, laid out on the floor by the discovery of her husbands adulterous affair with her best friend and subsequent divorce, the church turned its back on her. She was sent packing – the compassion and inclusivity of that which the church preached was sorely lacking when my Mother reached out to it for comfort. It has taken me many, many years to forgive the church for that. In some ways, I am a more compassionate person due to watching her struggle with the isolation and rejection she endured. Compassion resulting from emotional cruelty – strange bedfellows indeed.

When I was presented with the opportunity to visit Santuario de Chimayo, I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to go. Would my self righteous indignation for the way my Mother was treated flare up? Could I see my way through the enormous contrasts and contradictions within my own heart? I will tell you now that I couldn’t visit the entire site. However, I did visit the vestibule of the church which housed the blessed dirt room where people with all sorts of maladies, whether physical, emotional or spiritual embark on a pilgrimage to touch the sandy earth; holding, rubbing, praying, crying, hoping and finding peace within the walls of that sacred space.

While I was waiting on a bench just outside for my turn to touch the place that had brought so many healings, I witnessed a man and a woman – she was standing barefoot in the dirt and he had bent down on all fours, laying his hands on the earth so that she could lean on him. They stayed that way for quite some time. The intimate nature of the scene was incredibly poignant and I closed my eyes to give them privacy while turning my thoughts inward. I reflected on the support I have received from so many beautiful souls, just as she was receiving that sweetness from her husband.

Walking out, they sat back on the benches and closed their eyes to rest and reflect. A calling to touch this woman was undeniable. I resisted, thinking that I would be intruding into the sacredness of her experience; I resisted, not wanting to feel foolish; I resisted not knowing if it was my place. Through all of those doubts, I walked across the narrow room and kneeled before her. As she opened her eyes and saw me there, I gently placed both of her feet in my hands and began to gently massage them. To be of service, to stand in the light, that was all that was needed.

When I finished, she reached out to me and we embraced – both crying, both holding each other tightly for quite some time. In this moment, this very tender moment, I was able to let go of any lasting bitterness or resentment that I once carried for this way of loving God.

We all have a path to walk. Every single one of them is inordinately opulent, dark, troubled, joyful and as individual as we are. Only we can know which path will bring us into the light. The road to Mecca begins with a single step.

The Beauty of “Ish”

Perfection is a harsh task master. It is a never ending gravel road of sharp wits, unforgiving, withering self criticism and a ink filled hole full of isolation from oneself. It is a the combination of self doubt fueled by exorbitantly crushing expectations placed squarely on our shoulders by the operator themselves.

Perfection is where dreams go to die. It is where we take all that we are and decide, day in and day out, that we are not enough. It feels as heavy in the body as a 7 day donut binge. It’s a drug; a fuel for consuming our desires; a lover who will never return our affection. And then at some point, since we can never attain perfection……..we ask ourselves, Why go on? Why pursue our dreams when it just ends up in disappointment?

The beauty of this Life is not in the attainment of perfection. The Japanese call it Wabi Sabi – that things are more beautiful because of their imperfections. The beauty of this Life is doing what we love to do, since the time is going to pass no matter how we spend it and let the liberation of our best efforts combined with our connection to the creative be enough. I’ll be there around 7ish; it’s finished for the most part; it’s a work in progress; I’m a work in progress; we are ALL a work in progress – and tomorrow, I’m gonna be alright. “Ish” is not an excuse – it is a softening of the cold hard edges of self sabotage. A willingness to give ourselves a pass to the next day, the next creation, the next adventure.

The beauty of knowing we are doing, being and having our best selves within all that we know while honoring our authenticity AND honoring the best within our loved ones – for me, that is of greater service to the higher good of all then following a infinite dark hallway toward the whipping post of fractured intentions and excuses.

Create…………and let that be enough ❤️

Sanctuary

One of the wonderful things about being back at Ghost Ranch this time around is with being an instructor instead of a student, I can visit other class rooms and gain insight and inspiration into other mediums.

This afternoon I was graciously given access to the creative writing group led by Pam Uschuk. I spent time writing a small piece about a pivotal point in my life where everything changed from one moment to the next. When she prompted the class to write I could instantly spot where that took place.

………..And he said, “Lucy, there is one thing you must remember…….the clay chooses you.”

I had agreed, to my initial chagrin, to attend a three, 2 hour workshop series on hand building ceramics. After almost 20 years as a massage therapist, I thought that I would have an affinity for clay. With wheel throwing, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I left class feeling frustrated, disappointed and dejected. How could I have been so wrong??? Returning home from these initial classes in North Carolina, I vowed that I wasn’t cut out for clay. I had been mistaken in thinking that I had the touch.

What I didn’t know at the time was that my life long love affair with mud and earth had another as of yet unearthed avenue for me to travel. When I agreed to take the hand building class from my dear friend, Worley, I thought I was helping him out with his studio and gallery. Again, I was wrong.

The simple truth of the matter is that I was waiting to be re-born into an ancient family of potters. With the first coil of my very first pot, I was transported. I was touched. I was chosen. And when he said those fateful words, I knew I was the one. I knew, sitting there in this beautiful, centuries old building, filled with so much past that it wrapped around me like a soft blanket, my clay ancestors had come for me. I, their apprentice, was willing to go.

And so, this evening, for the first time since arriving at the ranch, I returned to the studio; to the clay; to my sanctuary. No matter where I travel or what I choose to do with my time, I always come back to clay. I bring all that I have learned back to this earthy mother and lay the blessings at her feet. Because as much as the clay has chosen me, I have chosen clay.