Children of The Big Bang

Earth Bodies - 1 (Copyright Lori Allen 2016)

Fifteen billion years ago, we were there.
You and I. Our sisters, brothers, lovers,
others, all there.

We were wild, hot, and brilliant.
We could not contain ourselves.  For over
ten billion years we allowed our young,
spinning, fluid and fuming bodies to
gyrate and convulse.

We exhausted ourselves.  We allowed
ourselves to slow down, cool down, and dream
about the future.  We chose partners who
supported our dreams, mostly.

My partners and I named our dreams
"Earth."  I have been involved in cycle
after cycle of molding the shared dreams
of Earth, though I can not recall who or
what I was before this cycle.

When I look to the horizon of this dream
named Earth, I recognize you all.
If I stand or sit quietly and match
my heartbeat to the pulse of Earth, I
understand, again, that we are the same.
I can not feel where I end, where you all,
my fellow dreamers, begin.

I marvel when I see all we have created,
are still creating.  I am proud of the
terra firma, the oceans, the rooted
things, the rocks.

I am amused, and annoyed, that in
my current cycle, I only understand
the language of those exactly like me.

Humanness is such a limited way of
being.  Every day we ask, "why am I here?"
"What is the meaning of life?" (When what
we mean is, "what is the meaning of
THIS life?")

In the blink of a humanoid eye,
as the cosmos says, this life will be past
and all question will be answered, again.

I long for my next cycle.
What, who will I be?  Bacteria? Plant?
Element? Artist? Stone Cutter? Healer?
Who will you be?
Surely, we will remember one another.

In whatever form our next cycle finds us,
let's connect. We can get a coffee, or a
bite of sulfur.  No, wait, let's get my favorite
- a shot of stardust with a lightning chaser.

Children of Perseus, Tears of St. Laurence . . . . a Meteorlogical Work of Art

Photo Credit - earthsky.org

Perseus was a minor Greek god who was the son of Danae and Zeus, grandson of King Acrisius of Argo.  He first saw Andromeda when she was chained to a rock as a punishment for her mother, Cassiopia.  Perseus rescued Andromeda, they married, had seven sons and two daughters.  Their children are called Perseids, or coming from Persues.  That is where the Perseid meteors get their name, as they appear to be coming out of the Persues constellation, right next to the Andromeda constellation.

I mentioned that Perseus' maternal grandfather was King Acrisius of Argo because this reminds me of another person from a similar sounding land, Aragon, who also has connections  to the Perseid meteor shower.

In about 225 C.E. a lad named Laurence was born in Spain, in the region of Aragon.  As a young man, he encountered a Greek man, the future Pope Sixtus II. The men became great friends and decided to travel to Rome to further their studies.  Sixtus eventually became pope, ordained Laurence, and appointed him one of the first seven deacons of the Christian church.

Laurence, even though he was very young, was trusted with the church treasury and distributing alms to the poor.  In August 258, Roman Emperor Valerian issued an order that all Christians should be denounced and killed, their possessions and land confiscated and turned over to the imperial treasury. Of course, this meant that all religious officials, pope and deacons, should be executed and the church's treasury delivered to the emperor.

After killing all the others, Laurence was apprehended, and he was ordered to give over the entirety of the treasury.  He convinced the soldiers that he needed three days to gather everything for delivery. During these days, he distributed the entire church wealth to paupers, disabled, widows, children, and anyone who was in need. He appeared before the emperor and his soldiers three days later, an entourage of those he'd helped following him.

"These are the riches of the church," he said and he pointed to the people around him.  "It is all the church has ever held that is of value."  Of course, soon after the meeting, there is violence that includes roasting on a gridiron until dead, martyrdom, and eventual sainthood for St. Laurence. Today, San Lorenzo fuori le Mura, the church that was built over his tomb, still stands outside the Vatican walls.

By the forth century, many Christians knew St. Laurence's story, leading to a strong and widespread devotion to him, especially by the poor and afflicted.  When the Perseids meteor shower would appear on or near his feast day of August 10, the descending sparks became known as "The Tears of St. Laurence."

As I watched the scant golden threads of the meteors in the early morning hours today, I thought of these two pieces of lore.  I appreciate that modern astronomy has allowed the myths and metaphors to name this meteorological event - a marriage of art and science.

I long to find my own mix of art, science, and the ordinary experiences of every day that will allow me to move through life with the creativity and grandeur of Greek mythology and the caring and hubris of a champion such as St. Laurence.

Now - I'm off for a nap.  Not sure if I'm catching up on last night's short sleep or planning ahead to get up mid-sleep tonight to try and sew together more stories and memories from the golden Perseid threads, er tears . . . . .

St Laurence and his gridiron.

Who We Really Are

Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with 
the darkness of other people.  ~ C.G.Jung

"The Dark Knight Sigmund Freud" by Evgeny Parfenov

As I was walking down the sidewalk today, two young men burst out of a building and cut in front of me.  I was close enough to hear their conversation clearly until their steps outpaced mine, leaving me to wonder what  in the world the context of their words came from:

    1:  I mean, all this shit is serious.  And I used to act like that.  I mean, not on purpose or anything.  I just did what my friends and crap were doing.

    2:  You've been awakened. (A few steps in silence.)  But hold on to, you know, remember all the shit you did.

    1:  Yeah.  I know.  (Again, a few steps in silence.)  Wait.  What?

    2:  You know.  Remember what it was like to plan shit, do shit.  That's how you'll know what's going on, what people are going to try to do.  That's how I got good at it.

    1: Yeah.  Like a super conscience.  

Awakened.  Super conscience.  Immediately my mind went to Freud and Jung and all the things they tried to explain to the world through the lens of their experiences and understanding.  I am making an assumption when I say I don't think Freud or Jung were on the mind of the speakers I overheard.  I did find it interesting that all these years later, we are all still trying to make sense of how we live in the world, how we should live in the world.  

Today's blog post is more about other people's thoughts and expressions on life than mine.  It's a showcase of sorts for Freud, Jung, and an amazing artist named Andrew Myers, whose work I saw a few years ago.  Love, hate, or indifference for Freud and Jung?  Fine.  I, too, get weary of trying to decode and translate how their wisdom might be processed and understood in my mind, then transformed to feelings and actions that inform my life in today's world.

But, the artists?  They are too important not to pay attention to.  Their messages of awe and wonder are not so difficult for the heart and soul to understand and translate for our minds.

As for the two young men I over heard . . . I do hope they were pondering how to navigate maturing into responsible adults, you know, embracing their "super conscience."  

As for you, my readers, I hope the short film below will allow you to look into, rather than outside, your own self to know who you are, to awaken.  And, I hope you will love, or at least accept, the full recipe of who you really are.  Click on the link Self-Portrait for a serving of awe and wonder.

Self-Portrait  Andrew Myers  www.andrewmyersart.com/ 

The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you really are. ~ C.G. Jung

The Earth is Our Mother . . . .but Who is Your Father?

The Earth and Her Lovers - Air, Fire, and Water

She gazed upon her

children, admiring each

lover’s finest traits.

It is not secret that I love to paint metaphors and hidden meaning into my paintings. I especially love to give humanness to non-human entities.  Who knew that after many days of pondering old and, perhaps, new relationships . . . I would find myself imagining the Earth as a strong feminist spirit whose love and passion and playfulness with ALL the elements is what gave rise to the evolution of humans.  

So, if the Earth is your mother, who do you think (or maybe you know for certain) your father is?  I, personally, have had the DNA testing that proves my paternity, and I know who many of my full brothers and sisters are.

But I love all the rest of my half-siblings equally.  There is room for us all in our mother's house. We must work hard not to wash over, blow away, or burn up one an other's lives.  Mmmmwha! Let's all get together at mom's one day soon!

Taught by My Dreams . . . or, RB is Really Me!

A looong time ago, I visited a therapist who felt that our lives could be healed by understanding

After the Storm

ourselves in relation to the people and entities that visit us in our dreams.  Bruce, the therapist, encouraged me to look at my dreams (okay, they were actually nightmares) subjectively rather than objectively.*  Working with Bruce actually gave me the first glimpse of the most important lesson I'd eventually learn.

In the past two weeks, I've had a dream that has included a person from my past, I'll call him RB.  The relationship with RB was professional and appropriate, but personally I admired him for his confidence in assuming that his opinion was as valid as anyone else. (I still struggle with that a bit.)  RB was in a role that called for him to support me in my position, and he did so assiduously.  Unlike all my previous chairpersons, he listened to a situation, asked clarifying questions, then moved the committee away from superfluous conversations once the matter was understood.  He would then communicate to the board what our committee needed or planned to do. He also defined for the board what would happen if those needs or plans were not supported by the larger body we were working with.  He was open to clarification from the board, could change his mind if that change still supported our committee's work, dismissed it if the information and clarification treated our committee's work as less than any other shared goals of the organization.  He was dependable, took responsibility for his actions.

For example . . . when I'd begun my work with this organization where RB would become my committee chair, two classrooms were not provided heat or cooling. The furnaces/air conditioners that serviced this area were not working.  Prior to my arrival, the previous director worked with the committee to communicate to parents that their children needed boots, winter jackets, scarves, gloves, OR light weight summer clothes when attending class.  The boards lack of action was not questioned or re-visited, so the committee accepted sub par treatment for the program.  The unfair and disingenuous solution served to treat some members of the community as less than.  I accepted this situation as policy when I arrived - with occasional changes on the coldest days.

I would combine the children from these classrooms with children in rooms that were appropriately heated and cooled, but this was causing problems for the volunteer teachers.  When RB came to his first meeting as committee chair and heard of this long-time quandary, he was shocked.  "Does the board know the furnaces need repair?"  Yes.  I mention it in every monthly report to the board. "What are the parent's response to the situation."  They accept it.  "What have we tried to remedy this?"  The committee offered to use our budget to fix the furnaces rather than use it for supplies, curriculum, etc., but then the board just lowered our budget because we found extra funds. "Okay.  I'll take next steps."  He wrote a few quick notes on the legal pad in front of him and we moved on to the next agenda item.

The next day RB copied me on a letter he sent to the board president and the minister:  Dear BP & PP,  It has come to my attention as committee chair that classrooms 5 & 6 in the lower level, south hallway are completely void of heating or cooling.  As our committee is not responsible for overall building maintenance, we will be suspending  programming for Grades ** and ** until such time the heating and cooling is restored in their classrooms to the same level of comfort enjoyed in the rest of the spaces. We will instruct families before next Sunday that their children should attend services until further notice.   Please direct all communication of this matter back to me.  Sincerely yours, RB

As I read the letter, I had an aha moment - quit being so nice!  Set some boundaries!  I was a bit embarrassed, but none the less delighted, that RB had swooped in with such a simply stated and implemented solution.  It probably goes without saying that monies were found and the furnaces were repaired before the next scheduled classes occurred.

My Tent Home

Back to last night's (and last week's) dream.  In it, I am camping, which is what I was doing when I first had the dream.  There is a storm, also true last week.  My tent is taking water on through the floor.  Every time I try to put a tarp or tape over the leaks, I get poked by something sharp.  Whatever this is pokes a hole in the tape or tarp as I apply them to the floor.  The sharp pokes make my knees, hands, and fingers bleed and now blood and water are making a small, swirling stream in my tent. I feel that this tortuous exercise is how I will spend the last few moments of my life.

Behind me a hear the zipper of my tent.  In one effortless motion, RB opens the zipper, steps in the tent, then closes the zipper with his arm stretched out behind him.  He bends over to see the swirling water and blood and asks, "Do you know what's causing this?"  I tell him that I know there is something sharp making the holes in the floor and causing the bleeding, but I don't know what the sharp things are. "How long have they been under the tent?"  As I pause to think, it occurs to me that this tent has always had sharp pokes that need to be avoided.  Now, during the storm I am trying to cover them over as water pours through the holes the sharp objects have made.  Usually, I step softly, avoiding being poked.

"I see," says RB as I explain everything.  He turns around and unzips the tent, holding the flap open. "You step out and I'll fix this." I think he's crazy to suggest that I go out in the storm . . . until I peek past him and see the sun rising and beautiful day dawning outside the tent.  Without asking how this can be, I step out of the tent, followed by RB. "Go wash up," he instructs me. I walk toward the tenter's shower house, still puzzled by the weather, or lack there of.  As I glance past my shoulder back at RB to see him grabbing my tent by the poles that crisscross the top and lifting it up.

As I walk past a row of tents on my way to the shower house I can hear chaos and see motion in other tents as I pass them. I understand that they, too, are dealing with a storm something like the one that I was just in.  There are weird things that happen, odd interactions as the dream progresses, but the summary of the dream finds me returning to my campsite to find RB in my tent putting things in order - sleep mat, lanterns, books.  I'm reminded of the Bedouin tents that are lavishly decorated with pillows, carpets, and beautifully colored scarves. I step into the tent tentatively, waiting to feel a sharp poke underfoot. Nothing.

Unknown dangers lurk . . . .

There is still a bit of a storm in the tent, evidenced by a gust of wind that turns pages on a book and makes the colorful scarves dance.  I hear a faint clap of thunder rattling in a corner of the tent. I look at RB as if to ask, "how did you do that?" I recognize this as my tent, but there have been some extra amenities added, including a door on the opposite side of the door I just entered.  RB guides me to the new door, unzips it and holds the door with one hand as he gently guides me out with the other.  When I'm standing safely outside, he lets the door drop and goes back to his decorating and tidying anything that gets blown over or askew.

Outside I see the space, vegetation flattened, where my tent had been before RB moved it. I can see little glimmers of the sharp, poky things popping up through and under the flattened plants.  I know exactly why I got injured.  I feel tears welling up as I begin to understand that all the sharp objects are things that represent pain from past encounters -  a shard of of a wedding ring, a pane from a home no longer mine, contracts, letters, fabric from that 1980s matching couch and love seat - things that are both my responsibility and things that I did nothing to earn.  There is an artsy looking stake in the middle of the square that holds this note:  This space is not suitable for tents.  Responsible parties must please remove the sharp and dangerous materials or build a 12 x 10 foot wood platform over them so others can safely use this space.  Thank you.  RB

As my gaze focused past that square, I could see other previously inhabited tent spaces with flattened vegetation and notes staked in the middle of glimmering, probably sharp shards of one sort or another. There were also a smattering of tents on platforms and the ground as far as I could see along the shore and into the woods.

I returned to the tent to watch RB closing the zipper on the other entrance as he stepped out.  By the time I unzipped the door he'd left through to beg him to stay and talk with me, he was at another of the stormy tents that I'd passed down the path.  He unzipped a door part way and as he ducked to enter, he was shot in the arm.  I screamed in horror and he looked over at me.  "This one is for you when you're ready," he called to me through his cupped hands, blood dripping from his upper arm off his elbow.  He re-zipped the tent, marking it with his blood like the the angel of Passover.  Then he turned and walked toward the next tent. In one sweeping motion, he simultaneously brushed the blood from his arm and healed the gunshot wound.  I watched him enter another tent, it's interior storm revealed as he unzipped the door and disappeared inside.  Then I woke up.

Simple lesson learned from this dream?  I think RB is a part of me.  It is the part of myself that knows it is not my responsibility to put up with the sharp, probably dangerous, objects that frighten and harm me.  The tent is a metaphor for me. When I allow the shards to remain in the space I am, internally I become a storm.

When I am a storm, I am distracted.  I focus on where the immediate pain and damage that I think I don't control.  Instead of calming myself, stepping out of the tent for a moment, so I can see what is causing the pain, I stay in that pain and fear trying to fix each little poke.  I am going to try to post more notes when I begin to feel those shard minefields, when the storms begin growing within.  I will be clear and concise in notifying people who have left shards in my life that I am moving to a safer place.

Now my dilemma is discerning if I am brave enough to go back to sleep and face what is in the tent that RB assigned to me after he was shot . . . .

Full Moon after the Storm

*Objective dream interpretation = mom is mom, old man is old man, dog is dog, tree is tree, monster is monster, etc. It is what it is.  
 *Subjective dream interpretation = all beings, maybe even objects, are a representation of some part of the dreamer. Universal symbols are gifts/messages from the collective consciousness to be used to see dream expediences in cultural and geographical perspectives.

Airbnb - When you can't travel, travel comes to you.

My guests come from all over the world - and, the next state over.  Checking my guest requests is a bit like finding a message is a bottle - you can never predict who is asking to book and what the reason might be they have chosen Ames, Iowa as their destination.  I eagerly open the message, then open my Airbnb account to ]get a better look at who this individual is that wants to come and stay with me in my 1960's Luxury Condo.

Tonight as I was trying to determine if I could host one more traveler this summer, I had an ephiphany. Some of you may have read my post on this blog from December 2014, "Prairie Anchor." In that post I speak of the reality of my life as the guardian of a disabled daughter.  I lament that the travel I so long for is unlikely in my life.  As well as being anchored to wherever Molly is, I am also anchored here because of the vast resources I've had to use to support her to accomplish the most healthy and holistic life she can have.

About the same time I opened the metaphorical door of acceptance to the realities of a rather stationary life, I also opened my literal door to Airbnb.  After sixteen months of being a host, I've entertained over 25 people.   I've had visitors from 12 countries, or about 5% of the countries in the world, and from 11 states, roughly 20% of the US states.  

Travelers from near and far remind me that Iowa is an interesting and glorious place, even through their lens of living in the exotic locale they come from.  I can not argue with the wonder they feel for our rolling hills, our crops, our snow, our sweltering heat, our parks, our flora, our neighbors, our architechture.  

If the opportunity presents itself, I ask my guest what a typical day is like for them back home.  Some tell me about their day as if I was their assistant in charge of scheduling,  Others give me glimpes of the beauty and joy they find in the nature around them, the people they love, and the work they feel passionate about.  The later allow mw to travel vicariouly to their part of the world.  Sometimes language is a bit of challenge . . . which makes the exprience all the more rich.

Almost all of them bring at least one concern with them.  It may be the presentation they have to give at a conference; they wonder if Ames will be a good fit for them for their studies; they worry about if they'll know when their elderly parents can no longer live independently here in this community; they hope to say something caring and reasonable to help their daughter break up with her abusive (in their opinion) boyfriend; they want the children they've been alientaed from for years to know their side of the story.

Some have left early - the hope that this time their family would acknowledge their partner (and their sexuality) didn't happen; an attempt to reconnect with a high school girlfriend didn't work out; they met their true love and moved into their hotel for the rest of the conference.  Some stayed longer - the loved one they came to partner through hospice hung on longer than my 14 night maximum, and I made an exception; the specimens they were studying didn't grow out as fast as expected.

With every departure there are equal parts disappointment and relief.  I wonder if I'll ever get to see them again, to hear the next chapters in their stories.  But, ah!  I get my place back to myself.

I've put a small world map up in my guest room with pins in every country and state the guests come from.  I also have a guest book where more of the guests share a paragraph or two.

Now, instead of bringing out travel journals and pictures of my travels, I walk into my guest room and page through the guest book or put a new pin in the map.  For now - this is my travel experience. I still have not given up on Paris with the family, or a month in India . . . .

 

Sustained by a Small Group - Lunch Ladies

"If your tummy's talking . . . you better start walking.  To Stomping Grounds, that is.  It's Wednesday, after all." 
                            ~ D.K.


The quote above is the kind of email invitation a group of women in Ames, Iowa have come to expect each Wednesday morning.  For the past several years - 5?  7?  10? - Deb Kline has kept her commitment to be at Stomping Grounds cafe at 11:30 AM on Wednesdays.  She has eaten by herself and with as many as twelve other women and any number of people in between in living out this commitment.

It's easy to see why this group of diverse women - diverse in age, economics, education, interests - keeps coming back together each week.  When we arrive, we are greeted with the embracing gazes and sincere smiles from the group that has already assembled.  Along with these non-verbal greetings, the day's soup selection is transmitted amidst the stacatto "you're here!" or "you made it!" or a resounding cheer if you've been away for a really long time.

This group is not like the intentional small groups we think of around learning, or service, or exercise, or therapy, or religion.  It is impossible for you to come into the Lunch Lady group as a consumer expecting a provider or broker to guide your experience in the group.  Those looking for something concrete - like a solution to global warming or income inequality, terrorism, or the true author of the complete Shakespearean works - only attend a time or two.

Some people show up to the Lunch Lady group every year or so to see if we've changed.  Sometimes they are mistaken and think we have changed and become relevant to what they seek. But truly, it is they who have changed .  We do not hold their earlier confusion against them.

We have nothing to offer anyone other than an opportunity to reveal a part of themselves to the rest of the group; people who have no more authority or expertise than their own mirror.

Our conversations may seem cliche` or superficial - our parents, our children, our partners, politics, self-deprecating stories about run-ins with authority or incredulity.  If you listen closely you will hear the codes and innuendos in the stories we share.  You will learn that these stories are invitations and affirmations.  We invite each other to deeper conversastions outside the group where we can meet one on one to mentor and guide others if we choose.

Though a certain bawdiness is present most weeks, we know when to be quiet and listen to someone who needs to talk.  We know how to hold a heaviness. What is shared in our group does not leave our group, unless we specifically ask that our stories go out.

This group has lasted so long because it's easy to belong to. There is no preparation, no homework, no follow-up with other groups. No annual reports, no budgets, and no critique from the parent organization. In my time, no one has made a grand exit from the group, cascading complaints or criticisms of the leaders, the mission or the vision. To do so, would be to complain of and criticize oneself.

There are other small groups that are more formally structured.  They are usually extensions of churches, institutions, organiztions, or causes.  Those groups require much time, structure, support and resources from their parent organizations to be successful.  They have to have clearly communicated guidelines to make them open, welcoming, and purpose driven.  These groups have little in common with the Lunch Ladies, save a regular time and day for meeting. Do not confuse one group with the other - you will end up hating them both if you are not clear about what they are and are not.  

If you are comfortable with entropy, anarchy, and fits of laughter - I would encourage you to start a group that will foster authentic and diverse connections like those of the Lunch Ladies.  We are not a franchise, and only some of us call our group the Lunch Ladies, so, copy our model and name at will. Just follow these ten easy steps:

1. Announce a time and place where you will always be present and invite others to join you if and when they can.  Do not apologize that you have chosen a time when "everyone" can not meet, as no such time exists.
2. Show up.
3. When someone suggests a theme, or lesson, or mission for your group - take a deep breath, look them in the eye and say, "that sounds like a great idea . . . . for your new group."  Then look around the table and ask, "am I right?"  Distract the the person who brought up the topic by telling them about a dream you had recently . . . or what outrageous demand your mother made on your time last week . . . or about your run in with the parking enforcement officer. . .
4. When someone suggests a change in time or place for the group - see #3.
5. Listen more than you talk.
6. Always assume best intentions, don't take the conversation personally.
7. Don't judge.
8. Be kind whenever possible (it is always possible).
9. Expect people to want to spend time with you outside the group to get to know you better.  It is okay to decline any requests from any group member.  It is also okay to accept requests for further connections.
10. Repeat #2 as often as possible.

Deb - Founder of the Lunch Ladies