the cassandra pages

Drawing a Line

Still life with driftwood, skull, pottery and postcards of a Greek amphora and a painting by Ragnheidur Jonsdottir Ream. pen and ink.

This week, I got back to work. I'm still not back at my normal level of productivity, and I'm still feeling distracted by the news. But I'm working hard on a new writing project, doing Phoenicia's tax accounting, promoting the new books -- and I've been drawing.

It's difficult, isn't it? But the fact is that the longer we let ourselves and our work be derailed by politics, and the more we spin and spin on social media, the more the opposition has us right where it wants us. Without national organizations supporting the arts and humanities, keeping culture alive is going to be the responsibility of all of us, working both individually and collectively. That's no different from what the majority of us have been doing anyway -- most of us have not been funded by those organizations. And in some ways, adversity has the capacity to makes the arts, and artists, grow stronger.

Two pieces of driftwood and a Chinese dish. Charcoal.

A suggestion: go read some Russian poetry around the time of Stalin's rise to power. Read some Polish post-WWII poetry. If you want to know what white privilege is, reflect on the fact that you're upset about losing NPR, while many of your colleagues of color have been dealing with and writing about oppression, violence, loss, walls and the lack of a voice for centuries. I don't have much patience with the complaints and outrage of privileged liberals like myself (well, to be fair, I am more of a radical leftie), and frankly most of our whining is of the shared-outrage-and-ridicule variety, which doesn't do any good except to make us feel better in that moment, in a way that smacks of high school cliques. We need to get on with it: doing our work to the best of our ability, figuring out new paths and strategies, and showing up strongly for our colleagues and friends who don't have the privilege, influence, safety or respect that we do, and are in much greater danger.

Maybe we don't know what to write or say or paint yet, in this new climate where we find ourselves. That's OK. Practice. Just get back at it. I see it like Zen calligraphy or archery: when we draw, or write a poem every day, or practice our instrument, we are preparing ourselves and honing our technique, so that when the moment comes to express ourselves, we will be ready with words or images that are true and sharp. But even more than that, we're talking about being the people we're meant to be, in spite of what is going on. Each of us needs to do whatever is necessary to be strong enough inside to get through this without losing ourselves, our vision, or our love of humanity and what is most noble about it. We have to be able to say, with our actual actions and the examples of our lives, that it is impossible to suppress or destroy the best parts of the human spirit.

There's a reason why that Greek vase, painted by the master Exekias in the 5th C BC, about a story written several centuries before that, has been preserved throughout 2500 years (it's now in the Vatican Museum) -- and there's a reason why I have an image of it on my desk right now.

So think about it: what do you feel like you need? What's keeping you from your work? And let's talk about it and help each other.

On non-retirement

Painting in my Vermont backyard, sometime in the early 1990s (photo by Jonathan Sa'adah)

Unlike many people whose working life has been in institutions or businesses, I've always worked for myself, or in partnership with my husband, which is pretty much the same thing. My career has been in graphic design, communications, and publishing, first in print and then on the web, for a long list of corporations, institutions and non-profit organizations. It was challenging, demanding, and well-paid; now, that part of my life is pretty much over. I still have a publishing business, which is also challenging and demanding, and not well paid at all. In addition to the design, editing, illustrating and marketing for the publishing business, I sell some artwork or do a design job from time to time, and I write words and make music, both of which sometimes feel more difficult than the work for which I was paid during the past forty years.

Because of these lifelong interests, I can't imagine "retiring" in the traditional sense, and hope I won't have to. But the transition is significant when moving from paid work to unpaid work; from externally-imposed deadlines to those I impose on myself; and from clearly defined goals to work that may never be "used" or even seen, other than maybe sharing it with a small online audience. I have greater freedom now to decide what to do with my time, how to structure my days, and to what purpose. Although the concept of that much freedom once seemed like paradise, in actuality I haven't found this change particularly easy, though it's getting better. What's helped is trying to become more clear and intentional about what really matters to me, and who I am now.

A lot of my sense of self has always been about accomplishing something or learning something, but for many years the primary expression of that was through being responsible to other people and to organizations with which I've been involved, and meeting their expectations. My writing and artwork, reading and music, including taking piano and voice lessons, were "on the side," though it was crucial for me to keep doing them to whatever extent I could; sometime I felt like I was living two lives at once, plus being a wife, daughter, friend. I'm obviously happier if I'm busy; less happy when I feel aimless or scattered, and fortunate to have been pretty self-motivated and self-disciplined since childhood. What I'm revisiting now is the question "Why, and for Whom?" because the answer to that has shifted, both because of the big arc of life-changes, and because of much faster-moving shifts in the way we share creative work online and in real life.

How do we find a balance in later life, when we are no longer "needed" or even "wanted" in the same ways, or when we can't (or don't want to) keep up the same pace? I don't think the answer lies in becoming more self-centered, although we may have to adapt to being more alone, but actually in being more discriminating and focused about our choices. I want to help others, to be a mentor and friend, to teach, share, and give, and, equally, to learn from younger people, to stay engaged and in touch. I don't have children or grandchildren, so having contact with younger people requires an intentional effort.

But part of being a mentor is actually to be more and more ourselves: to keep doing our work, and living our truest lives. From the older people I've admired and learned from in my own life, it's clear to me that one can continually learn and grow, even with limitations that come with age or infirmity. And for that, one needs the freedom to concentrate, to experiment, to explore -- and also to do nothing, because out of that "no-thing" often comes clarity, peace, and genuine contentment in spite of the chaos of the world at large. That means saying "no" more often, both to myself and others, without guilt. It means not wasting time reading books I don't really want to read, or absorbing negative energy from other people, or losing hours on social media. I want to shed everything material that feels burdensome and unnecessary, and to travel these next years as lightly as possible, but still with focus and purpose.

This period of life is about acceptance of reality, and setting new priorities. Work-for-pay is less central. So is the striving to "be somebody" -- and thank God for that. Time opens up a little -- there are more uncommitted hours in each day -- and yet, the total is finite; the hourglass is starting to run out. Is that a tragedy? Only if we give up, abandon the search, step off the path, or decide we've already arrived. I need to remind myself sometimes, because it's impossible not to get discouraged or tired, but I do know the answer, at least for myself.

Who are we meant to be, in the end? So many people never seem to find an answer to that question. The answer for me is that we are meant to discover our true nature, which some might say "lies in God" or, to put it differently, in our interconnection with, and love for, all life. Discovering myself has always been an inner journey, through creativity, thinking, and being in nature, with the companionship of my beloved partner and a few close friends; for others, it is a different path. However, if we don't find our way into that primary relationship with our own true self by later midlife, we may remain mired in superficiality and materialism and what others think of us, as well as worrying about losing what we think we deserve or have hoarded up. Worse, our most constant companions will be fears, regrets, clinging, and bitterness. Take a look at the difference between the current First Family, and Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter at age 92; could anything be more obvious?

Rome VI: St. Valentine

The Tiber Island, looking east: Trastevere would be on the right, and Rome on the left.

We often crossed the Tiber from Trastevere to Rome at the eastern end of its island via the Ponte Fabricio, the oldest surviving Roman bridge across the river, which was constructed in the year 62, when Cicero was consul of Rome. A Latin inscription on the bridge still reads "Lucius Fabricius, Son of Gaius, Superintendent of the roads, took care and likewise approved that it be built." From this bridge I always noticed the umbrella pines crowning the top of the Palatine Hill, in the distance, and closer, a tall medieval bell tower.

There are two Roman temples just beyond the end of the bridge, and beyond them on the corner, an old church beneath that bell tower. Every time we walked past, there was a line of tourists waiting to take a picture of themselves with their hand inside the mouth of a giant, circular, stone face in the church's portico - the Bocca della Verita, or Mouth of Truth - which, according to legend, will snap shut on the hand of a liar. Because of our aversion to the hoards of selfie-stick-toting tourists, we were well into our second week before we entered the church, at a time when the portico was closed.

There are so many churches in Rome, and almost all are so Baroque, that we became used to bracing ourselves for a visual onslaught. So it was impossible not to sigh when we entered the utterly simple interior of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, a Byzantine church built in the 8th century on top of an ancient temple of Hercules and decorated by Greek monks who were escaping the iconoclastic persecutions that were prevalent in the Eastern Church at that time. The church was badly damaged by the Norman invasion in 1084 and the medieval bell tower - the tallest in Rome - was added when restorations were made.

This is a portion of Santa Maria in Cosmedin's Cosmati pavement, a mosaic technique named after the Cosmati family who pioneered this style of work in Rome in the 12th century; it is similar to some kinds of Byzantine mosaic, but instead of using stones all the same size, Cosmati work uses varying sizes framed by white marble. This sort of inlay spread in Europe; the most northern example is the Cosmatesque pavement of the high altar at Westminster Abbey, unusual because the stones are set into a dark surrounding substrate. My quilter's eyes were dazzled by the variety of patterns here, and the colors of the stones, which art historians think were mostly sliced-up bits of broken, ruined Roman monuments scattered around the city, recycled into these floors during the middle ages.

 

Although the church is no longer used by a congregation, it felt holier than many of the others we visited. We returned several times to absorb its quiet atmosphere and sit for a while in the beauty of the plaster walls and astonishing floor.

 

There are few visitors: most of the tourists have followed their guidebook's list of Romans "must-see"s to the Bocca della Verite, and afterwards merely stick their heads in the church door, see nothing of interest, and then leave.

A recording of Orthodox chants plays at all times, contributing to the calm and quiet. The music carries faintly into the stone crypt below the main altar, hollowed out from volcanic blocks that formed the central podium of the much earlier Roman temple. In this crypt are a small marble altar and candle-lit niches that once held the relics of early Christians, removed from the catacombs by Pope Hadrian in the 8th century.

Inlaid wall decorations above the entrance to the crypt.

I was wandering around upstairs when I found myself in front of a chapel where a flower-crowned skull rested on the altar, and was rather shocked to see that it was labeled "St. Valentine."

Reliquary with St. Valentine's skull (Wikipedia)

There are conflicting hagiographies and several different martyrs by the name "Valentine," but the story I like best says that he was a Roman priest in the 3rd century; this Valentine secretly married couples, in defiance of Emperor Claudius, so that the husbands would be able to escape military service and going off to war. The priest was arrested. The Emperor met the prisoner and came to like him, but when Valentine tried to convert him to Christianity -- or, alternately, when Valentine refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods - Claudius changed his mind and had him beaten with clubs and then beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate, and buried in an unmarked grave, from which his followers later removed his body. Churches as widely separated as Dublin, Madrid, and Prague claim to house St. Valentine's burial site or relics, but I think I will just decide to believe that the skull of the patron saint of lovers, whose Feast Day is February 14, is this one.

Re-centering

Here it is, the second week in February already, and because of political events I haven't accomplished half of what I had hoped so far this year. Maybe you're the same. At first I was merely depressed by the prospect of the upcoming inauguration, then very quickly derailed by the new administration's first week, the marches, the mosque shooting here in Quebec, and my own need to focus upon and write about these things, as well as touching in with a wide circle of friends and family. Phoenicia brought out Dave Bonta's new book, and there's been quite a bit of work associated with that. I've been singing, seeing people, reading, making meals...but it has all felt like I'm distracted, not only from what is going on, but from myself. What happened to drawing, printmaking, painting? What happened to my own writing? I've been off-center, and needed to get back home.

This week I've felt like I'm finally regaining some ability to focus. I haven't done any particularly good drawings, but at least I've taken up my pen. And I'm working hard on a writing project that is now going well.

Unfortunately, these times reminds me of what it feels like when we, or someone close to us, gets an unwelcome diagnosis. For a while, you can't think about much else. But eventually, you see that life goes on, even though you have to deal with the new situation, and it remains in the back of your mind. A life that, for a while, felt simpler just got more complicated. But the clarity of passing time shows us that we not only need to multi-task, we can do it. I'm glad to see that most people who have decided to resist have not lost their determination, but we've also settled down into the mindset where we realize this is going to be a long haul. So I'm taking action, staying informed, and trying to take good care of myself and those around me -- but I'm also doing my own things, because they're also important. I hope you are too.

So, I'm curious -- how are you coping with the reality of the moment in which we find ourselves? Have you been able to find a balance? And what role does social media play in your day -- have you been using it more, or less? Do you think it's helpful, or not?

Cold Hands, Warm Heart (or: "Swim Nerds Meet for Coffee and Then Freeze Their Tails Off")

This morning I met a friend for breakfast at one of Montreal's little neighborhood cafes: the sort of place where you can have excellent coffee - we both had bowls of latte - and a fresh croissant or chocolatine or muffin, and sit at a pleasant table in the sunlight for a long chat. She and I met through singing, but now we're both swimmers too, and we spent a good part of our time together today being swimming nerds, talking about goggles and suits and stroke mechanics, and alternate-side-breathing vs one side, and how our necks aren't symmetrical. You would have loved it. No? Well, that's why we needed to get together.

We caught up on family stuff and singing and talked a little about politics, but agreed not to dwell on it. It turns out that we're both thinking about studying another language, or taking up a new instrument. It was a great way to start a day, and reminded me of the importance of seeing the people you love, and continuing to do the things that you're passionate about, regardless of what's going on in the world, as much as you can, for as long as you can.

Then we bundled up, and she walked back to her place, and I walked back to the studio, and, I swear by the leaping polar bears, was it ever cold! There's a storm system approaching from the south and it's damp as well as cold; I was OK in my body and head underneath layers of down and fleece, but my legs felt the way they used to when I was a kid walking home from school - first cold, then almost numb. I had on leather gloves and woolen mitts over the gloves, and even so I kept having to stick my hands in my pockets. For long walks on days like this, I told myself, I need to wear tights under my jeans, or an even longer coat.

I ducked into the sheltered entryway of this flowershop, to warm up.

I stopped at the market and bought a couple of cans of tunafish, to warm up.

I stopped at the artisanal bakery and bought a loaf of bread, to warm up.

You've really got to be crazy to live up here, I thought, as the wind howled down the alley. But there's something so exhilarating about it, too: the extremes, the survival, the memories you accumulate of adventures in winters past, and the delight of going into the warmth of an interior after being out in it, as you thaw out and the feeling returns to your skin and something warm to drink spirals down your throat.

On the street, I watched a young mother and her child as they approached me and went past. The mother, bubbling with enthusiasm, carried a bright orange plastic sled, and had a small dog on a leash; they must have been going off to the park. The little boy, only 2 or 3, trudged behind her, all bundled in his puffy snowsuit and boots, and wearing a red hat with an animal face on the brim and little floppy ears. He looked up at me and grinned, his cheeks so red from the cold, but without a hint of complaint, and I thought, yep, he's already Canadian.

Pool

The competition pool at Montreal's Stade Olympique

A couple of weeks ago, I started swimming laps again after a hiatus of nearly twenty years. There's a neighborhood indoor pool in easy walking distance of our studio, run by the borough of the city in which we live, and it's free, so I started out there. I was surprised to discover that, after six or seven sessions, I'm approaching the same distance I used to swim, which probably has more to do with general conditioning than anything else -- I've been in much better shape in the past ten years, since moving to the city and having to walk or cycle to get places.

Last week I discovered that the Centre Sportif at Montreal's Stade Olympique was running a special offer - a free week for those who'd like to try the facilities, and a significant discount on a yearly pass. The Olympic Park is not too far from us - a twenty minute bike ride in good weather, about the same distance as downtown, in the other direction. So I decided to try it out: how often does anyone have a chance to swim in an olympic pool? I felt a little intimidated, but toted my red gym bag of gear, including new prescription goggles (who knew you could buy these now, inexpensively, in off-the-shelf diopter measurements?) over to the iconic stadium, got my temporary pass, changed in the very nice locker rooms, and plunged in.

The Centre Sportif is a complete fitness facility offering many classes - the weight room is under the walkway in this picture, to the left of the pool.

It's a beautiful pool. To my surprise, the lanes were less crowded than at the neighborhood pool: one day I had a lane entirely to myself. Competitive divers were practicing on the 10m platform, and swimmers honed their strokes in a closed-off section of the competition pool, accompanied by their coaches. After my laps, I sat on a bench and just watched for a while, fascinated. Then I went back to the locker room and took a shower and sauna before going home.

The famous tower, like most of the rest of our fair city, is currently under repair, and the worksite means access is closed off - after parking on a nearby street, I ended up walking twenty minutes and finally sliding down a snowbank just to get to an entrance!

The problem for me is that this new activity takes a big chunk of time out of my working week. On the other hand, it has made me feel ten times better. I love swimming, always have, and the moment of slipping into the water and pushing off, weightless, always feels like a return to a natural element. But there's more to it.

When I'm in a worried or agitated state of mind, as has been the case since the U.S. election, and even before, I gravitate toward repetitive, meditative activities, often without really even thinking about it: quilting, knitting, drawing, practicing the piano. I've been knitting a good deal lately, and I walk a lot, but it's been hard to draw or do art, and hard to write. I hadn't thought of swimming seriously again, though my recent swims in Iceland and in the cold Cascade Lake in the Adirondacks filled me with longing. This Christmas, though, J. gave me a new swimsuit - a sleek black fitness suit with wide criss-cross straps in the back - and, as he had suspected, that was all it took. I researched the goggles online, bought two new silicone caps - one blue and one orange - and a couple of days after the order showed up, I was in the water.

Of course, my body hurts! I'm getting older. I have some slight lower back issues, and my shoulder and neck are protesting a bit, but the discomfort is manageable and not getting worse, so I think I can keep at it. I certainly hope so, because besides the cardio benefit, the mental and emotional benefits are huge.

The time in the water is time apart. My breathing and strokes settle into a pattern that slows my mind and suspends time into a series of present moments; for me, it is definitely a form of meditation -- and walking or moving meditation has often worked better for me than sitting still on a cushion. Swimming has allowed me to regain some equilibrium, and with it my focus for work; my mood is better, and it's easier both to accept certain aspects of the world as they are, and find the emotional space to tackle what I can try to change, without the two being constantly all mixed up.

Fr. Richard Rohr, whose reflections from his Center for Action and Contemplation I usually read each morning, always stresses the distinction between the dualistic mind -- which categorizes everything as good/bad, right/wrong, black/white -- and the nondualistic mind, in which, as he says,

"mind, heart, soul, and senses are open and receptive to the moment just as it is, which allows you to love things in themselves and as themselves. The broad rediscovery of nondual, contemplative consciousness gives me hope for the maturing of religion and is probably the only way we can move beyond partisan politics."

It is impossible for most of us to exist in our daily lives without dualistic thinking. But it is equally impossible for us to abandon that dualistic mindset without some actual, lived experience of nondualistic consciousness, which is why meditation/contemplation is so important and so helpful for seeing past the polarization that entraps present-day society. You can't "will" it to happen, however; you just have to do the practice(s) and open yourself, as this quote from James Finlay expresses so perfectly:

“I cannot make moments of nondual consciousness happen. I can only assume the inner stance that offers the least resistance to being overtaken by grace.”

Water: less resistance. We come into this world from a watery place, and I have often wondered if my attraction to water is partly a deep memory. My most significant dreams usually involve water, and in those dreams water is never a source of fear, but a place that represents hidden, deep knowledge, whether as a symbol of the subconscious itself, or a source of wisdom beyond this earthly world.