Category: Opinions

Mother’s Gift

 Ana had to get out. Erupting, Mt. Shasta incarnate, she ran past the staleness of cigarettes and coffee on her mother’s breath and clothes, the sickly sweet Jean Nate she used to cover them up.

Bang! Hurtful words followed through the back door that slammed against the sill as if shot from a slingshot. They didn’t stop her. She jumped down all four steps off the porch, dashed out the back gate, and hit the pavement running. The slap, slap of her tennis shoes echoed like buckshot fired across the river.

Her mother called her name, once, twice, but Ana was too far along her escape route for the sharpness of her mother’s voice to pin her in place. Stares from three blocks of curious neighbors goose bumped the hair on her arms. She ran until she reached the field. There she crumbled, resting shaky and sweaty palms upon the pricks of the barbed wire. Somehow, the pain felt right.

He nickered when he looked up from grazing in the middle of the pasture. Green drooled from his mouth as he lipped a wad of succulent grass past his teeth. He shook flies from his sides, and his earthy scent beckoned.

She pulled open the wire gate and slipped through.

He took three lazy steps toward her and stopped.

She stopped and gazed at him.

He lowered his head, unsure of her intent.

She whispered his name.

He shook his head. His ears flopped from side to side. He licked his lips.

She softened and slowly walked toward him. When she reached him, she slipped her fingers under his thick mane. The soft warmth of his new, coppery, spring coat underneath the long, black, stranded curtain soothed her in ways she had yet to define, wouldn’t define, could not define. His salty scent spoke of dark woody roots, freshly turned fertile Earth, hugs, and safety.

He took another step, offering himself.

She wrapped her fingers around a handful of mane, jumped, and threw her leg over his broad back.

He sighed, lowered his head, and continued to graze. Muscles on his shoulder twitched, releasing tension between them.

She leaned back until his round rump became a welcome pillow.

The blue, Spring sky was all she could see. For a long time he rocked her with his gentle search across the field for the choicest clumps of grass.

Her heartbeat slowed. Flies buzzed. His tail swished, and flies scattered. A flock of tiny, brown birds landed in the arms of the big oak beside them, chittering from branch to branch, appearing in sunlight and then disappearing into shadow. Traffic rolled down the main road. Neighborhood boys played a rollicking game of dodgeball in the church parking lot down the street.

It seemed like just yesterday that she used to play too, not as one of the guys but not separate either. That had all changed with this awful, crushing metamorphosis.

For a moment, anger rose its ugly head like a rattler coiled at the base of a rock, daring her to come closer. But the clouds were so fluffy, so starkly white against the blue. They rolled into passing sailing vessels, which sent her dreaming about faraway places. An ostrich rose up, then melted just as fast. A wave of rolling boulders tumbled toward the Sierra Nevadas. Anger gave her up and slithered back under its rock. Beneath her, her horse shifted his weight as he grazed, swaying her back to sanity.

As the sun slipped behind a bank of heavy clouds, her thoughts turned to “mother.” Mother took bits of Ana’s soul with her words of warning: You have to watch your weight. We have to do something with that stringy hair. Must you sniff like that? Boys won’t like it. Your belly is getting too round. Put on that bra.

Why was her body betraying her? Why did her mother constantly point it out?

Her horse jerked, raising his head to watch a dog snooping around the edges of the field. For a moment, Ana’s mind blanked as she prepared for the possibility that her horse would chase the dog. But, the dog moseyed on, and her horse lowered his head to graze. She settled back onto the pillow of his rump.

Hadn’t “mother” also given her this refuge? Hadn’t she insisted upon it, even after the first mare died of extreme old age, and the second one met her fate in a tragic, heartbreaking, trailering accident? Hadn’t Mother brought the Goddess into herself to fight for this union of girl and horse?

Maybe the bits she stole were nothing more than unneeded facsimiles of self, little girl bits that would no longer serve who Ana was to become. Could that be true?

Her horse snorted. He stamped his back left foot, shaking her off the center of his back.

She scooted back into place.

Maybe this was truth, right here, on this warm, rocking back with cool breezes gentling past her under a clear, blue, Spring sky. Maybe this was all she needed. Nothing more.

The sweet scent of freshly broken grass under his feet that sent a warm, welcome rush of pleasure through her body was a portent to womanhood. Nothing more.

The awful burden of budding Goddess scared the desperate little girl living inside. Nothing more.

Her steady companion, who swayed beneath her, was a fearless steed who could carry her away from the mischief-maker of puberty for one more day.

Maybe this was all she needed. Her steed was a Mother’s gift. 

Nothing more…nothing less.

Endless Question

As I sit here avoiding the work I have to do on an illustration for a graphic novel I am working on, I try to figure out why I am so afraid of starting it. I have such confidence in other areas of my work and my life, but not this. Drawing terrifies me. As I grapple with “why,” my thoughts turn toward a question that came up in one of my illustration classes and again in a life studio class while I was in college.

What is the difference between a work of art and an illustration? When I was young, I argued that there was no difference. My fellow students disagreed with me. They were of the mind that there were two camps: those that were artists and therefore creators, and the others, those that were mere renderers.  

The argument was that an artist portrays the soul while an illustrator merely depicts what is seen.

I always took offense to this. At the time, I was preparing to become a scientific illustrator, eventually focusing on botanical illustration. When I studied a plant, was I less of an artist because I strove to capture the reality of it instead of its essence? Or did I capture both with my intense scrutiny of its architecture?

What is architecture? Everything in this three-dimensional world is built with arranged atoms, electro-magnetic force, and desire to hold a shape, the tao of becoming, if you will. Eventually, energy dissipates, chaos wins, and the physical form dissolves. However, for that moment in time when all is organized and held together in perfect order, a miracle has transpired – in the case of my study, a plant shimmers in Light. At this point, it does indeed appear that Life is the artist, and I, the mere observer of its architecture.

However, what happens the moment a person captures that plant by pencil, ink, paint, three-dimensional or soft media, or even film? Is this a mere portrait of its architecture? Do we call it illustration or art? What if that plant is captured in the agony of dissolution as chaos overwhelms it? Is this then art because of a possible emotional component, or is it still mere illustration? If not art, what is the additional ingredient that makes it more than “mere.”

In my opinion, anyone who attempts to communicate by form or picture creates art. By the very act of attempting, that extra “something” occurs. The renderer adds Self in the act of observing and recording. No one can negate this factor.

Is every attempt to intentionally render order to be considered art? I found strength for this conviction decades after attending college for the first time, when I re-enrolled to work with clay. In class, the age-old argument was still taking place. What is the difference between a potter and a sculptor? One is utilitarian; the other creates. Really? The professor was lovely, stating that even though one threw a pot that conformed to size, shape, and utility, no two could ever be alike because each potter put his or her hands on the object, thereby changing it and making it uniquely precious.

Her words struck me.

The truth is: There is no difference. The instant a person picks up a lump of clay and squishes it into his or her hand, the mille-second a thought forms as to what that lump of clay will become, creation takes place. The holder of the clay ceases to be merely human and instead becomes creator, transferring essence from Self to object, thereby creating art.

It is the same with everything we do. When clothing is folded with care into a converted shape to accommodate placement into a drawer in such a manner that it won’t lose texture, art has taken place. When dishes are lovingly stacked in a rack to dry in an order specific to the person stacking them, art has taken place. When a shovel is shoved into the ground with the intent of the shoveler’s vision of change upon Earth, art has taken place. When (insert an activity, any activity) is done with intent, art has taken place.

Finally, when an illustrator puts pen to paper and creates an image where there was none – art is created. The question “what is the difference between art and illustration?” is ridiculous, because there is no difference.

I suppose professors will continue to allow the argument to zing around their classrooms, lovingly aware that each artist has to form a conclusion for him or herself.

Right now, it is time for me to stop worrying whether or not these illustrations are “art enough” and just become the artist that I am. 

It’s time to draw.

Freely Express Your Truth

Background: I belong to a writers group, a collection of strong, wise, and creative women who meet on a weekly basis for an hour and a half to meditate together, respond to crazy prompts with a ten-minute quick-write, and then share what we have written. I have been working with these women for four years; the group has been together for seven. Sometimes…actually often… the members write as if their minds coalesce into one mind. This offering is one of those times.  A few members have agreed to share with me, and allowed me to publish their writing on a meditation prompt for the night of December 14, 2020.

I present their voices, and my own, as I invite you to think about what it means to express your truth. I would love to hear from you. (To any man that reads this blog, I do not mean to exclude you. I just happen to be a woman who belongs to an all-female writers group. There is no discrimination, here.)

Either reply to this post, or if you feel you don’t want to share publicly you can reach out to me at anna.morningsong.54@gmail.com. Please be sure to include “blog reply” in the message in case your unknown email gets sent to my spam file. I will look for you.

Waiting…waiting…waiting.

Joyce Ann Campbell

In the quantum view of this world, I am a vibrating, radiating field of electrical energy dressed for winter in the Sierra foothills.

Magnetic forces within me attract exactly what I need, but not always what I want.

Activity in the back of my head goes round and round in memories, alternating with my imagination, fishing for the future. In between, my mind rests in the present, witnessing and resounding to life within and surrounding me.

And, beyond that, my energies ripple endlessly into space, and flow back to me, pen in hand.

Shari Anderson               

To freely express my truth…what does that mean?

It means to express in an unhindered way, without restraint, holding guilt or fear.

It means to let out what calls to be released in a space expansive enough to allow it to exist. A space in which it is able: to wind its way along rivers of tears and oceans of heartache, to waft through foggy memories and unexplored fields, to percolate up from the muck and mire and finally find the sun.

Laurayne Mae offers the second prompt of the night, “I Am This Kind of Person – But Not Like That.” Her writing always speaks her truth and her piece, Big Grief, is no exception.

Stuck. Sticky stuck.

Can’t lift my feet to see what kind of person I am – let alone what I am not like.

So many changes in such a sick, short span. 

Terrifying times, globally, nationally, personally. 

Stuck. Sticky stuck. Who am I now?

Who I am in this moment is one who feels. I feel sadness and loss. They weave themselves into grief.

BIG GRIEF

Waiting for 

Relief

Release

Renewal

Amel Tafsout returns to the original meditation prompt, “Freely Express Your Truth” in Don’t Burn the Chicken Wings!

“Don’t burn the chicken wings!” he said.

“You already told me that!” I said.

“Why do you react this way?” he said.

“I just would like you not to repeat it to me so many times!” I said.

“I want to be free to talk to my wife… you are never here!” he said.

“You are picking on me all the time!” I said.

“Here we go, that’s why I am afraid of you!” he said.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, but try to understand me!” I said.

“I just want a peaceful morning!” he said.

“Me too, but you don’t realize that you are picking on me most of the  

time!” I said.

“Here we go again with your pride!” he said.

“I may overreact but there is a reason and I am asking you not to do it!” I  

 said.

“Now my morning is destroyed!” he said.

I kept quiet thinking why can he not see my way when I am trying to make  him understand that I have been blamed so many times in my life and I want to change that to heal myself from it? Am I talking another language? Obviously, I am!

Here is another from Amel Tafsout, called Beheading Me. I choose to leave it as is, with no editing from me. It is a powerful piece about an actual event. Amel is a powerful dancer and one of her online photos was defiled.  

Amel writes:

Hey, You, how dare you delete my face, decapitate me and replace me with a Western white blond blue eyed woman, a sexual object such as Marilyn Monroe!

In my real photo my face is all power, a power that you will never understand – standing my ground in strength, power and beauty like our Amazigh-Berber warrior Queen Kahina, looking at you directly and saying to you I am!

I am that woman from the era of shamans and priestesses, who can make of you dust in one look!

A primal woman connected with ai, water, earth, fire and ether!

A woman who can rip you in pieces while doing nothing.

I am that Amazigh woman, proud of her roots and transcending her ancestry that you are ignoring and disrespecting!

Beheading me will harm you, replacing my powerful womanhood to a sexual object won’t work!

Making money off of me will follow you in hell! And you will get served what you deserve!

I am the power of all energies, gathered in the eye of the tornado that will sweep you away in a second!

AV Singer – Now I ask you

Is it fair for me to express my truth freely? For me, to myself, it is essential. For others, I find it more prudent to allow them space to express their truths while not imposing upon them mine. Why do I do this? Is it a lack of trust? Maybe. But, do we give others a chance to speak their truths or are we so wrapped in self? Maybe I feel most are not yet steady enough in truths of their own to carry my burdens. So I keep it hidden while remaining softly alert, waiting for their truth to manifest.

This is true for many women in the world. They quietly wait. Subjugated and repressed, not only are they silent, many have not had the chance to explore self, to know they have truths. They need space to learn what it means to be fully feminine. They need teachers. Those of us given time and guidance to do so must afford them the space for this vital expression of what it means to fully own womanhood.

Postscript: Waiting…waiting…waiting. Peace be with you as you travel through your week. AnaValarie

X, Y, and Z…

…are common variables denoting points on a system of mutually perpendicular Cartesian axes (pronounced ax-ees) in three-dimensional space. Why is a writer penning this information?

As a teacher, I often hear from a room full of whining students, “Why do we have to learn algebra?”

I hear from disgruntled parents, “My child will never use this.”

Frustrated, I have asked, “Wouldn’t a life-skill math course be more valuable?”

Algebra is a life-skill math course. It is a problem solving game. It is an exercise in creating more information from a set of parameters that may or may not offer a fixed solution. It is a way of thinking about our increasingly complex world.

Last semester, I sent home an assignment concerning measurement. The activity seemed simple. The student’s hands were a unit of measure to determine width and length of a table. Children are literal. If you tell them to measure a table with their hands, they will eagerly look for a table and start measuring. But what if there is no table to measure? He or she has a vision of ‘table’ implanted in the mind. It seems like an easy task until there is no table, and therefore no way he or she can measure one. Assignment aborted.

Was I so literal in my thinking processes as a child? If I had an assignment to measure a table with my hands and had no table, would I suddenly have no direction in which to proceed? Though I was considered gifted, I was also a child, so my answer is…yes, probably. “No table? No can do. I’m supposed to measure a table.”

Fortunately, my father was well versed in mathematics. I can imagine his glee as he jumped up. “We need a table,” he’d exclaim. “Let’s see if we can create one!”

This ability to create, to conceptualize that which isn’t, comes from an ability to generalize. My father had facts. He knew what a table was. He knew the assignment wasn’t about a table, but about measuring a plane by counting hands from edge to edge. I can imagine him patiently explaining a table was nothing more than a flat surface – a rectangular plane that one can measure from side to side. I may not have understood his words, but I would have followed him around as he took on the task of replicating a table for me so I could complete my assigned schoolwork.

How many of us, now parents, were lost when algebra was offered? How many followed the steps in class when a teacher explained the process, but never grasped the reasons behind them? As parents, many of us may not make the conceptual leap to creation because we did not understand the mechanics of x, y, z.  Algebra was a nightmare with no connection to life or its future.

In this particular case, where were the parents in this endeavor? Were they as stymied by the lack of a table as their child was? Some, like my father, came up with alternatives. Others did not. Sometimes, as teachers, we take for granted that parents have the knowledge they need to help their children with schoolwork. Often, that is not the case.

Adults, like children, have a mental picture dictionary of ‘table’, a fixed iconic image of what it looks like. They can probably draw one. However, having that picture does not guarantee they know what a table is, a flat plane with given points in space connected by line segments that form edges. If they knew this, anything with those attributes could become a table. However, this takes a level of thinking that most of them had to learn, an ability to generalize in order to conceptualize alternatives.

We teach algebra not to become math experts, but to learn this way of thinking. We learn to start with unknown and mysterious variables, and experiment to create solutions. We learn to understand the mechanics of the world, with axes x, y, and z so that we can recreate a replacement structure for our kids when they get a silly homework assignment about measuring a table using their hands as a unit of measure. If one cannot conceptualize this way, when there is no table, one uses the only answer available. “We have no table so we can’t do it. Go ask your teacher.”

A basic knowledge of algebraic concepts is the language of our world. It is how we speak of its structure and its function. It is how one creates a table out of a space on…well…anything that is flat.

Rest in Peace, Sweet Jack.

(Author’s Note: This is a personal story.)

November 21, 2019 – 6:27 pm PST

“Blog finished, Jackie.” I hit the enter button to send the notice to my newsletter recipients. “Jackie?”

He stretched out and chuffed. I turned to look at him as he chuffed a second time.

“Hey, buddy. Are you alright?”

There was no response. He’d been sleeping a lot lately, but his eyes were open. Were they unfocused?

“Jackie?” I said, suddenly fearing and realizing the worst. “Jack?”

I called my neighbor. “I think my dog just died.”

He told me to cover him with a blanket, since no one was available in the vet community to help.

I did, but I didn’t cover his nose, because I kept imagining that he was still breathing. After a few minutes of feeling for movement, checking for breath sounds or puffs of air, and imagining that damned blanket moving up and down with a breath, I called my son.

“I think Jack died.”

“What? You think?”

“He’s not moving or responding. I even shook him. Nothing. I can’t tell if he’s breathing or not. I don’t think he is.”

There was shuffling and murmuring in the background and then my son was back on the phone. “I’ll be there in thirty-five minutes, forty tops.”

I watched Jack not breathe for a while. I now know what “deathly quiet” means. I opened the front door to wait for my son. Children were laughing and playing around the corner. Across the street, men discussed man things in gruff, mirthful tones. I stepped out. Behind me, the house was a sudden tomb.

 

November 24, 2019 – 10:46 am PST

As I sit here, contemplating memories of a life shared with an extra-large cream-colored standard poodle, I see my two house cats, a brother and a sister, curled up on the bed in a previously forbidden room. My bedroom was Jack’s sanctuary, no cats allowed. But, there’s a hole in the house, a poodle-sized hole that none of us can fill, so I let them stay there. Somehow it fills my heart a little.

God, I need to be writing “U is for…” today. I don’t think I can. I wonder how everyone will feel if I skip another week?

 

November 27, 8:01 am PST

I stare at the binder paper, covered front and back, with a collection of thoughts that I could use for a blog, but my eyes are swimming in tears and I can’t focus. This is a good idea though – to write down all the random thoughts about eleven years and five months with a witty character who was a best friend when I became a single mom empty nester. Even if I never use it for a blog, it’s helping me cope. Yeah, it’s helping.

I need some more coffee. I need to put ice on my foot. A cat wants in. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I feel empty rather than thankful, and I’m worried my daughter will face her grief here when she comes. So much for writing….

 

December 3, 2019 8:14 pm PST

I received a card from Dr. Matt, Jack’s vet. I made the mistake of opening it at work. Inside was a note about how well I had taken care of Jack, and three cards, one for each of us who loved him. On each, someone had taken the time to make a print of a paw. That means they took him out of the shroud my son so lovingly wrapped him in. I shouldn’t have opened this at work.

When I arrived home, there was a message on my phone machine. “ Jack’s ashes came in today. You can pick them up anytime.” I am not driving yet!

My daughter says, “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

I am probably too emotional to write well tonight, but a blog is due tomorrow. This dog lived through so much change in this family. Eleven years, five months is a long time for a dog. Even with all the familial upheavals it was not long enough for the owner.

Five stages of grief do not follow in a specific order. Sometimes all the stages hit me at once, and I dissolve into a puddle of tears until there’s nothing left of me. Like tonight. Again. Surely he’s not gone, yet, here is the card from the vet, and the saved message on the answering machine. Dammit. He didn’t even finish chuffing, before he left. Gone, just gone. Really? Was it something I said? “Jack, do you have to go now?” This house is so empty. Cats are small and so very quiet. Acceptance? Brief glimpses that look more like denial. You were supposed to stay for eighteen years. That was our plan. You didn’t even make it for twelve. Was it something I said? Something I did? Something I didn’t do? There should be six stages. Someone should add guilt to the list.

 

One of my notes says, “I don’t want to remember just the “good things.” I want to remember all the things…good, bad, silly, ridiculous, infuriating, beautiful, ugly…all of it. Jack was arrogant, bossy, and intuitive. He was born to police, a mix of hunters and gatherers. Poodles are a working breed. One side of his pedigree was a line of herding dogs, the other hunting dogs. He was intelligent and curious. he nipped people’s heels when he first met them, trying to teach them where to go. He beat up the male partner of the brother and sister house cat team. He was an alpha dog, which required me to be a boss dog. I am not good at being a boss dog, so our relationship had to be well balanced. My children got the fun dog, the dog that liked to play…and prance…and hike and dance, the dog that jumped in puddles and piles of leaves.

He was a dog that was afraid of things with wheels, a dog that walked ahead, though he learned to match the walker’s speed. He changed directions as if reading the mind of the person handling him. I often thought he’d make a good cart pony. He was big enough. I wonder if he would have found that demeaning?

He wore a red collar. The red warned people with other dogs, “Hey, this dog is an alpha, approach with caution or better yet, don’t approach.” That was true for strangers as well. Poodles are the fiercest of protectors. Even law officers don’t want to enter a house with a standard poodle inside. He wasn’t a mean dog, but he was tall and this intimidated everyone. Taking him places was an ordeal because of it. I hated leaving him at home.

He was sensitive. He didn’t respond to harsh voices or loud noises. He learned hand signals. He was controlling, but when it was imperative that we work as a team, he was quiet, attentive and immediately responsive. He was amazing.

I miss him. I will miss his exuberant, tail high and wagging prance into the house after a jaunt outdoors. I will not miss the muddy trail of paw prints on my blonde floor.

There are a few other things I won’t miss. I won’t miss having to place a brick and a flower pot in front of the gate because we taught him how to do obstacles, which included knowing how to crawl under things. I won’t miss cleaning the yard daily, although he and I worked it into our empty nester routine after the kids moved out. We cleaned every morning before I went off to work. He liked to be clean, though with a white coat he was clean only a few days after his grooming sessions. He hated his nails being touched, and had to be restrained for that chore.

I won’t miss the guilt I felt over leaving him home alone all day in the house, because if I left him outside he barked at other dogs, or people, or leaves, or birds or strange cats, or whatever, and we received a noise ticket. Well, only a warning…it was enough. I don’t have to keep my couch covered with a blanket because he jumped onto it after I left for work. I knew he did it, though he was always off by the time I opened the door. The blanket allowed us to keep our little secret. It kept the peace between us.

I started to worry about him dying in March sometime and asked the vet what I would do. I’m older, he’s a big dog. What are the steps? Where can I get help? I think I was noticing changes even then. He slept more, he didn’t want to play with his toys. He struggled with health after contracting Leptospirosis, but this was different. He was restless at night, his routines became irregular, he ignored commands, and refused to eat. Oh my god, that bothered me the most. How could he expect to stay alive and healthy if he refused to eat? Dr. Matt said I was a pushover. I should just wait him out. It worked for about two weeks, but then he really just wasn’t hungry. It pushed all my buttons. We fought about it daily. “I can’t take this anymore,” I exclaimed, as he walked from the food I had lovingly prepared. He could tell I was at my wit’s end. He turned and ate a few bites, maybe a half cup. An hour later, he was gone. Was it easier for both of us to end the fight this way?

 

Christmas is coming. Jack loved Christmas and always looked for his gift under the tree as soon as we put it up. If it wasn’t there, he hunted for it. We would hurry to wrap up gifts. Once he saw his under the tree, he relaxed. Once he opened his gifts, he’d help the rest of us open ours. He loved his pretties. He needed a new collar. He would have found it under the tree this year with a new yellow rain jacket.

I know I will find his collar adorned with jingle bells and I will fall apart again. It’s probably with the Christmas decorations. I also know I will save it. It will go with the string of bells my childhood friend wore when he was alive, a prancing, arrogant, dancing horse, who also thought he was boss of everything.

This house is too quiet. There is a poodle-sized hole in my heart.

Rest in peace, sweet Jack.

Baker’s Frosted Jack Roddy

b.3/13/2008 d.11/21/2019

Some news: My novel, Blood On His Hands, is live on Amazon. Here is the link: https://www.amazon.com/Blood-His-Hands-AV-Singer-ebook/dp/B081ZK1DGK/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=AV+Singer+BLood+On+His+Hands&qid=1575471844&sr=8-1