the cassandra pages

On Not Being a Mother

Every year, Mother's Day comes around, and those of us who are not mothers feel a range of emotions. Likewise, it can be a lonely day for those of us who have lost our mothers. I always think of my own mother, who died on May 23, 2006, and who I miss every day of my life. So there is sadness, gratitude, appreciation, some regret about things I never said or did, but mostly a sense of love -- and awareness that her love for me showed me how to love others. There are many people for whom this day brings just the opposite -- a wish that they had had a sympathetic, loving mother, or perhaps a wish that they had not known their mother at all, or that she had lived longer... I also have friends who have lost their children. What can this day be like for them? There are so many individual stories that deviate from the idealized picture painted by this observance we call "Mothers' Day," and for those people, all the glowing tributes can be extremely painful.

So, I'd like to speak about not being a mother. My mother would have liked me to have children, but I did not. She never said that this was a huge disappointment for her, but I know it was, and it makes me feel a certain amount of regret when I think of her. But it wasn't to be, and it wouldn't have been the best path for me. Looking back now, it's clear to me that not being a mother allowed me to be fully myself, earlier in my life, than many who spent several decades raising children. I was able to develop my talents and abilities from my twenties on, without feeling divided or conflicted, and to understand myself as an individual in ways that have often been reserved for men. I was also able to have a different relationship with my husband than many couples who are parents. Did we miss some of the most fulfilling and joyful aspects of a human life? Of course, but we also had a relationship that was extremely close in other ways. As a woman, did I miss one of the defining experiences of being female? For sure. But because there is a still such a societal taboo against speaking negatively about motherhood, or parenthood, few people talk openly about the positive aspects of being childless, and, in fact, being childless continues to carry a stigma in many societies.

Back in the 1970s and 1980s, I didn't see the point of bringing up girls to have dreams about what they wanted to do in life, and then making them settle for less in order to be mothers who would then bring up a new generation of girls with similar conflicts, facing similar obstacles. Very few of my friends were able to successfully or happily "have it all" at the same time -- marriage, motherhood, and a career on the same level as what men had. That was an illusion we had been fed, and it turned out to create many problems, not just for the women who thought they could do all three equally well, but for their relationships and for their children. If men and women are both going to work, then access to birth control is vitally important, and so is access to affordable daycare, laws to protect women against sexual harassments, and equal pay, equal rights, and equal opportunities for advancement in the workplace. This has not changed nearly enough in the intervening decades, and in some cases we are going backwards, to the detriment of women.

 

And on whom does the burden fall? In the printing industry, back when I was a graphic designer, there was a saying, often represented by a triangular graphic: "Price, Speed, Quality: pick any two." I've always felt this could be applied to women's lives with the triangle of "Career, Relationship, Motherhood."  The further you move toward any side of the triangle representing two points -- "Relationship and Career", for instance -- the harder it is to equally sustain "Motherhood". Prioritize "Relationship" and Motherhood", and it's harder to sustain "Career." Choose "Career" and "Motherhood", and you may jeopardize "Relationship." Mind you, I am mainly talking here about women who have a significant desire for their own, serious career, on the same level as men, and who don't hire other people to raise their children. And, to be fair, certainly in some areas of society today, men are doing much more childcare and home making than they did when I was a young woman.

Parenting is one of the most difficult and challenging tasks that anyone can take on, and it is getting harder, not easier, as our world becomes more complicated, more violent, and more uncertain. I am filled with admiration for those who try so hard to do it well, and for those who make enormous sacrifices on behalf of their children. For my husband and me, the question of whether it was responsible to bring children into the world was also a serious one. Loving him as I did, it was difficult for me not to have children with him: I wanted to give life to those people, to know them, to love them. So I am not here to judge anyone's choices, and I'm glad that there are still couples  -- and single people -- who choose to have children, and go into it with hope and courage. Let's also remember that there are many who did not make a deliberate choice to have children, but do have them, and are trying hard to be good parents, often with great difficulties.

But I also want to say to younger women: not having children is a valid choice, and you can have a fulfilling, happy, extremely rewarding life without being a mother. So don't let anyone talk you into doing it, or guilt you into it, if you don't want to, and try not to be sad and regretful if it is something you wanted that just didn't work out. Instead, try to see it as an opportunity, and do something positive with the freedom that you have.

I had, and still have, a lot of maternal instincts and desires. And I've found many ways for those to come out -- in relationships, in organizations, in mentoring, in giving. You don't have to be a parent in order to fulfill your natural desires, and in fact, sometimes you can do more, for more people, if you have greater freedom. 

In this era of recognizing gender and sexual diversity, I think we also need to recognize that there is not one, but a multitude of ways in which the fundamental relationship of  "Mother" and "Child" exists, and that while the idealized one may still be in the majority, it is not at all true or descriptive for a great many people -- so, please, be gentle and aware as we celebrate Mother's Day.

Color and Light

We recently returned to Montreal after a week in central New York. In Montreal, there was a terrible ice storm last Wednesday, with power outages that lasted days for many people, and devastating damage to the city's trees, especially in the parks. Friends sent us pictures and their own accounts, and while our building was without power for a long time, and then again last night, we clearly missed the worst of it. I also missed the observations of Holy Week at the cathedral for the first time in years, but we got back in time for Easter. Renewal, warmth, color, and sunlight are exactly what everyone needs -- myself included.

300 miles to the south, spring was already in the process of arriving, and on our last evening there, I got out my watercolors and painted this field that we had seen a few hours earlier in the late afternoon light. The luminous gold only lasted for a few minutes on this cut cornfield and the hill beyond, but it was breathtaking enough that I had cried "Stop the car!" and rushed out into the muddy road with my camera.

It did me a huge amount of good to be out in the countryside for a while after this long urban winter. We saw a nesting bald eagle, a flock of mergansers on the recently-unfrozen lake; rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, deer, and wild turkeys; Canada geese, herons, robins, cardinals, and dark-eyed juncos...and someone -- maybe our weasel -- had generously left its scat on our front porch, full of hair and tiny bones. The stiff, bright green and purple noses of skunk cabbage had already poked through the water in the swamp, and spring peepers sang in full chorus even during daylight hours. No leaves showed on any trees or shrubs yet, just on one honeysuckle that faced the southern light, but there were pussy willows in the swamp, one of my mother's yellow crocuses was in bloom, and the woods felt tremulous, as if you could actually feel the pent-up power of all those tightly-furled leaves inside the millions of buds, ready to burst forth.

At the same time, I've been finishing my series of winter snowscapes in charcoal. There was still a lot of snow in the Adirondacks, and I was able to take reference pictures for a few more drawings, and stay within that much colder frame of mind while I was working on them. I'm also beginning an essay to accompany this series of drawings, about the central New York landscape and why it is under my skin. But I can feel my heart gravitating toward color and light, and coming back home to Easter only reinforced that sense of new beginnings, and new life.

We attended the Great Vigil of Easter at the cathedral on Saturday night. It begins with a fire in the courtyard, which is then carried into the dark church via the lighted Pascal candle, from which everyone's small tapers are lit, and we sit together in that near-darkness while the foundational stories of the Hebrew scriptures are read and music is sung; finally the dry bones of Ezekiel are brought to life, and we move to the resurrection story, the organ peals forth, bells ring, the lights go on and the candles are extinguished, and we find ourselves in a church bedecked with flowers and spring color. Pagan in some ways; ironic in a city ravaged by an ice storm, with so many families still in darkness and cold -- and utterly welcome to my own tired spirit. 

My other cathedral this year was this circle of hemlock trees on a small ridge near the lake. I had gone there on Good Friday morning, climbing up onto the ridge to stand under the trees, listening to the wind, the invisible amphibious chorus, the calls of nesting geese on the pond beyond, and let the peace of that place, along with many memories, permeate my body and heart.

Back to Drawing

It's been a busy time, and I haven't been able to do much artwork. But, to be honest, I haven't really wanted to either -- I just didn't have the urge or the right spirit, and then, 12 days ago, I managed to sprain my ankle quite badly. Although I was able to put weight on it, I sure couldn't do much, and it was swollen and painful, but has been gradually healing up. I had accounting and other tasks to do on the computer, and there was holiday cooking and baking, cards to write and gifts to wrap and send, all of which felt strange because of my father's absence. When I had free time, it seemed like I was spending way too much of it (true confession) looking at knitting posts on Instagram, searching obsessively for the best BB creme or light foundation for older skin, or getting drawn in by 1) cat videos or 2) holiday paper-folding craft videos, which, of course, started clogging my feed as soon as I watched a few of them. But now that the Christmas preparations are mostly over, and I feel like I'm going to be able to get through it without falling apart, I've picked up the sketchbook again, and it feels like the ice is broken. Last weekend we went to two beautiful musical events at the cathedral: a concert by our choral scholars, and the traditional Lessons & Carols service. And in the past few days I've been able to go out by myself and do some grocery shopping and other errands.

Sometimes drawing is what grounds me, but sometimes I need to feel more grounded in order to be able to draw.

So...the drawing at the top of the page is of Dave Bonta's book Ice Mountain: An Elegy that I illustrated and published a few years ago; an animal vertebra, and a ceramic cup made by my late friend Jenny Lewis.

 

This is the first one I've done that shows any of the interior of our new apartment, with an indication of the rooftops we see out the window. It also shows the first artificial tree we've ever had, but we couldn't see any reasonable way to get a real tree up to the 11th floor and then down again without a big hassle for us, and potential needle-mess in the hall and elevator. To our surprise, we like it!

And here's the back of my studio door, drawn during a long zoom meeting when I was able to turn off my video. There's an old blue chambray workshirt, and a grey plaid wool shirt that was my paternal grandfather's, and has been my painting shirt ever since he died around 1980. I like that they've followed me here.

How are things going where you are? We're bracing for another winter storm tonight and tomorrow, but are happy that there's snow for a white Christmas. Best wishes for your holidays, if you are celebrating, and for the New Year - though I am sure I'll be back here before then. 

 

Present Moments: Our Own, and Others'

Young woman on the metro, watercolor in sketchbook, 6" x 9".

Happy Thanksgiving. We celebrated last weekend with my sister-in-law and her husband, and since we're in Canada, it's an ordinary day today for most people. However I'll probably never feel that way - Thanksgiving was such an important holiday for my family, and a time when I almost always traveled home to be with them. When possible, we've also tried to celebrate it with friends; I love the feasting and gathering aspect of the day but most of all its meaning, as a time to be grateful.

Gratitude isn't so easy these days when it often feels like the whole world is falling apart at the seams. I think we all hoped that as the pandemic became more manageable and understandable, the world would somehow "come round right" but the exact opposite has happened. My coping practice, not just when it all becomes overwhelming, is to try to stay in the present moment, using all my senses to be mindful of what is going on, and all that is good in my life right now. The attention begins with the breath and moves out into the immediate environment, and I often recall the words of a Zen teacher: "When we manage to focus on the present moment, we usually find out that it is all right." Obviously, nobody can stay there for very long, but even a few minutes of mindful attention bring me back to my center and greater peacefulness, and then I'm more able to cope with whatever needs to be done. And, God knows, I have so much to be grateful for.

Robbie, a regular commenter on this blog, suggested that a little less seriousness and a bit more entertainment here might be something to consider. I don't know that this blog will ever fall into the category of "entertainment" but I agree with him that a lighter tone or perhaps more anecdotes might be good for me too. Like my father, Robbie makes a point of engaging the people he encounters and seeing if he can make them smile. What a lot of readers probably don't know about me is that I do this too, and always have; I found the taciturn and private nature of New Englanders a big challenge! Here, speaking a minority language can also create difficulties in making connections, as I found when I lived in a French-speaking area, but there are so many other ways to do it -- as children, pets, music, knitting, and urban sketching make clear! And frankly, it hasn't been a big problem for me. Montreal is a place where bilingualism and tri-lingualism are not only common but part of the city's fabric that we appreciate, and learning to communicate and make friends across those potential divides has been one of the things I've enjoyed most about living here. You have to plunge in, make mistakes, be human and friendly, and not get discouraged if some people don't return your friendliness; others will.

The neighborhood where I used to live, Plateau Mont-Royal, was predominantly French, rather entitled, and somewhat closed-in on itself. Our new neighborhood, Cote-des-Neiges/Notre-Dame-de-Grace, is the most ethnically- and linguistically-mixed in the city, with some 48 languages spoken regularly in homes. In the elevators of our 12-story modern condo building, we hear neighbors speaking French, English, Chinese, Spanish, Yiddish, Russian, Italian, Arabic, Filipino, various Indo-Iranian languages, and many others. English, rather than French, is the most common language people use to say good morning and wish each other a good day. There is a huge Asian grocery market across the street, a Romanian charcuterie and bakery, and an eastern European/Russian/Ukrainian market around the corner; nearby on Victoria Avenue is a big kosher bakery, and that street is lined with Indian, Vietnamese, and Jewish restaurants and shops -- to name just a few - while in other directions the concentration shifts to African and Caribbean, Iranian and Turkish, Portuguese, Greek and Middle Eastern, Mexican and Latin American. Not only is this mixture invigorating for all the senses, it encourages me to learn some words in more languages and try to connect with the Chinese butcher, the Ukrainian woman behind the prepared-food-counter, the Romanian couple who run the charcuterie, the Israeli pharmacist, the Lebanese dry-cleaner, the Muslim car mechanic, the Filipino cleaning woman whose schedule is the same as mine for the pool locker room, the Greek fishmonger. But even more than that, living this way is a daily reminder that the people of the world actually can co-exist, and help each other to thrive.

We Montrealers do pretty well with that, but the situation is far from perfect. Outside the city itself, Quebec is much less diverse. The conservative provincial government has passed new laws ostensibly to strengthen and protect the French language -- which I agree should be protected -- but they are written in a way that discriminates against minorities. And hate crimes, while rare, do occur. Last night, in fact, there was a hit-and-run incident in a nearby neighborhood, captured on a closed-circuit camera, where a car accelerated toward a Hasidic woman pushing a baby carriage across the street, struck the carriage and dragged it for some distance before speeding away. The baby inside was miraculously unhurt. People are shocked and upset that this happened and a search is on to identify the car and its driver.

Of course, I'm coming to all of this from a position of privilege, both through my whiteness and my economic security. But because of being in a long-term, ethnically-mixed marriage, I'm sensitive to the lack of awareness, micro-aggressions and constant pressure to hold one's tongue that come from living in primarily white, privileged, homogeneous North American communities, and the self-protectiveness, frustration, depression, and anger that can result. It's very hard to change anything when people stay only in their own comfort zone -- which is, itself, a privilege -- and do whatever they can to protect that. I've been in the minority a lot, and it changes everything about your view: my empathy has come to lie with those who are considered "other".

In the end, breaking barriers comes down to familiarity, being human with each other, and finding our common ground. Yesterday I had to go into the center of Cote-des-Neiges for a blood test at the local CLSC. The Centre de prélèvement (testing/sampling) is on the third floor of a nondescript building; in the elevator with me were a staff woman with a cart of plastic containers filled with disposed syringes; an elderly Eastern European woman in a headscarf and heavy coat who could barely walk, supported by her daughter; and two young friends, one of whom stopped and leaned her head, eyes shut, against the wall after she got out, before entering the testing area. Oh dear, I thought, she's so afraid of something, maybe needles. If she hadn't had a companion, I would have spoken to her and tried to help.

The testing center is staffed by people who are just as diverse as what I've been describing, and they switch seamlessly between French and English; the receptionist and I spoke both languages during our exchange and I don't think either of us really thought about which one we were using. I had the same nurse as the last time I was there, and she gestured to me to sit in the comfortable chair near her work area. We spoke about the weather and how soon it was getting dark in the afternoons, as she noted the instructions and got out the proper vials. "Are you OK with blood tests?" she asked, as she prepared to tie the rubber band above my elbow. "I love them," I said, smiling. She said, "You're my first!!" and we both started laughing. "I won't faint, if that's what you mean," I added. "OK," she said, "One-two-three..." It didn't hurt much, and was over very soon. "You're good," I said, "that was pretty easy." "Thanks," she replied, fastening the gauze with some adhesive tape and smiling at me as she held it for a few moments. I got up, put on my coat, and wished her a good day, hoping that the woman from the elevator had survived her own ordeal and that someone had been kind to her, too.

On the way home, on the metro, I couldn't help noticing the young woman across from me, lost in her music. We are all living our own present moments, I thought, but in this urban environment, there are so many times when those moments intersect: opportunities to be interested in each other, and grow in sensitivity to the multiplicity of ways in which we are human.

Stars

January 6th is Epiphany, when Christians celebrate the coming of the Three Kings from the East to the cradle in Bethlehem, led by a star blazing in the heavens that "stopped over the place where Jesus lay." It's always been my favorite Christmas story, in spite of the fact that I hardly believe a word of it. Like all the Biblical narratives, it probably has seeds of truth. The Greek word magos (of which magoi is the plural, later shortened to magi) gives us "magic" and "magician": the magi were generally thought to be priest-astronomers who were well-versed in astronomy and astrology, alchemy, and other types of esoteric practices. A cult of such "wise men" did exist in Persia, and were almost certainly known to the early Christians of Judea; perhaps some emissaries like these did visit Herod, bearing gifts.

Fr Dwight Longenecker, a Catholic priest and writer who is also interested in archaeology, has attempted to trace the origins of the Magi in his book The Mystery of the Magi-The Quest to Identify the Three Wise Men. He looked toward Arabia, rather than Persia, because for the Judeans of Matthew's time, Arabia was actually "East". Longenecker believes that the Magi could well have been astronomers from Nabatea, whose wealthy capital was Petra, in Western Arabia. He writes:

Just two details will illustrate the wealth of evidence that combines to strengthen this theory. The finest gold in the ancient world was mined in Western Arabia, and the shrubs from which incense and myrrh are sourced only grow in Eastern Arabia and Northeast Africa, which is all territory controlled by the Nabateans. The gold, frankincense and myrrh were clearly diplomatic gifts (representative of the Nabtean kingdom) from King Aretas IV of Nabatea to honor a grandson or great grandson of his neighbor King Herod.

Secondly, new discoveries by archaeo-astronomers from Spain have shown that the Nabatean temples were aligned to the solstices and constellations, and the archaeological dig at the temple of Khirbet et Tannur, uncovered a stone carved zodiac proving that the Nabatean Magi were star gazers.

Most of the details of the story that we've internalized don't come from Matthew's account at all - for instance, he never mentions that there were three wise men, or that they were kings. Later writers, some of whom may have been fascinated with astronomy and astrology, elaborated and embroidered the Gospel infancy narratives:

Around the same time one of the earliest Christian writers, Ignatius of Antioch (d.108) in his epistle to the Ephesians, waxes eloquently about the star, “a star shone in the night brighter than all other stars. Its light was indescribable, and its strangeness produced wonder. And all the rest of the stars with the sun and the moon made a choir around that star which outshone them all.”

Contemporary scholars mostly agree that the story is likely a fabrication; but still, it caught and continues to capture our imagination and love for the mysterious and miraculous, the contrast between great wealth and extreme poverty, and the table-turning concept of kings bowing down to an infant in a manger.

I thought about the Magi again this past weekend as we watched a documentary about the James Webb telescope, launched on Christmas Day and now well into its journey to deep space, where -- if everything goes as hoped and planned -- it will send pictures and data of unprecedented clarity and detail back to earth, furthering our knowledge of both the near and far reaches of our universe and its origins. The telescope will be able to "see" infrared light from over 13.5 billion years ago, when the first stars and galaxies were forming, and it will also give much clearer data and measurements of planets in other galaxies which might harbor conditions conducive to life.

In some ways, it's easier for me to believe in wise men from the East, following a star to Bethlehem to search for the infant King of the Jews, than to wrap my head around stars coming into being from a Big Bang 13.8 billion years ago -- what does that number even mean? Let alone the concept of some sort of ultra-compacted super-heated Density suddenly expanding into the Somethingness that eventually gave rise to Everything. But I do trust science, and mathematics, and the observations of astrophysics, and I am prepared to be amazed many more times in my life by the explorations and discoveries of space science. I hope I live long enough to see some proof of what I have always believed: that we are not alone in the universe, and that Life probably exists in many other places and forms.

These ancient and modern quests come together in expressions that are quintessentially human: the upward, wondering gaze toward the night sky; the search for that which is greater than us, and for unifying principles and meanings; the quest for Life in its infancy; a way to make sense of who we are, where we come from, and where we are going. I like to think that the ancient astronomers would be proud of us for continuing their search for knowledge, and that we might look back and realize how remarkable some of their observations and calculations actually were. In the cosmic sense, of course, the 2000 years that separate us is barely a blink of an eye, or the trace of a shooting star.

 

A New Year's Walk

Happy New Year! I hope I've learned and grown in 2021, even if what stands out more clearly right now are the struggles and worries. May 2022 be a gentler year for all of us, and may we remember to be grateful for what we have -- including each other.

So, in this picture, I'm waving to you from the banks of the St. Lawrence river, with the Biosphere in back of me. Yesterday we went for a long walk at Parc Jean-Drapeau, site of Montreal's Expo 67: this geodesic dome, designed by Buckminster Fuller, was the United States pavilion for Expo, and is now a museum dedicated to the environment. But yesterday we were pretty much the only people on the two islands in the middle of the river, and even though it was a grey day, it was just what I needed. Lots of wildlife tracks in the snow, many birds including a huge flock of robins (what are they thinking?), the St Lawrence roiling along in its winter mood, red rose hips against the snow, junipers loaded with blue berries, overgrown plantings, a greenhouse where large tropical plants were being overwintered, and many odd graphic images from the desolation of winter and the decay or remnants of structures built for Expo that have fallen into disuse. I hope you'll enjoy taking this walk with me, and I wish you all the best for the year to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Love and Light to All

This angel comes to you bearing my best wishes for these last days of 2021, however you observe or celebrate them - may there be love, and music, and some joy and peace in your life, and recognition that you have friends who care about you even if we are all far away from one another.

The sun is shining brightly on the snow outside my window today, as the large flock of little sparrows chirps in the hedge, and the cat does her morning toilette, all of them oblivious to the troubles and worries that beset their human companions. Inhabiting their world for a few moments reminds me I'm a sentient being too with some control over my thoughts -- and all is neither dark nor lost on this Christmas Eve Day, there is a lot of love and hope in my heart, and a lot of love and hope out in the world.

I'm not singing this season, or tonight, but here is a link to the beautiful service of Lessons and Carols that our choir sang last Sunday - I hope it brings an hour of peace and reflection for some of you too. Happy Christmas! And please write a note here and tell me how and what you're doing. All the best to you, with love,

 

All the Beloveds

Yesterday was All Saints' Day, and, in Mexico, the Day of the Dead. A few days before, we made our annual ofrenda in our home, and each evening, we've lit the candles, eaten our dinner, and sat with our dear departed ones. I'm surprised how comforting and welcome this ritual has become, connecting us both to our friends and family, and to Mexico, which we miss very much too. The tradition is to put little offerings of favorite foods or drinks or pastimes in front of the photos of each person to encourage them to return to be with the living for the evening, so the whole thing ends up becoming poignant, quirky, and personal. I didn't have marigolds, which are a traditional part of everyone's altar in Mexico: the color and pungent scent are supposed to help guide the dead on their journey. But we did have orange zinnias, sunflowers, dahlias, cacti and herbs,copal incense, Mexican pottery and textiles, and small reminders of each person.

And because my sketchbooks are becoming a visual diary of my life that feel more and more significant to me, I decided to do a drawing of the central section of the ofrenda too. What a complicated and busy sketch it turned out to be! I liked the black-and-white drawing, but the color made it all make more sense, and the process of doing it was one more way of connecting to the people and the tableau we had made.

I know I've been scarce around here. We're working on cleaning, reorganizing and downsizing both our home and our studio. We're keeping the studio for one more year, but it's been emptied of more than half of its contents. And I admit to struggling to keep my mood up, as the days have grown shorter and colder, the pandemic continues, and I've had very little time for writing, music, or art, let alone meditation: the things that center and ground me. Now that we've reached November and life has moved mostly indoors, I actually feel better in the coziness and warmth of home, and seeing that there's some light at the end of both personal and global tunnels. We're gradually beginning to be more social, to take public transportation and do a bit more out in the city, and starting to think about traveling somewhere else again. I'm hoping to be able to write more here, too, soon.

 

 

Hermit Diary 50. Christmas music from our choir

Here are two musical offerings for this Christmas season by the Cathedral Singers of Christ Church Cathedral Montreal -- a lullaby written by our director of music, Jonathan White, and a lively carol. As always, I'm delighted to be part of this group and glad we've managed to maintain some enthusiasm even though it's painful to all of us not to be able to make music together or present it in the usual way. (Both of these videos sound better with headphones and look better full screen, but do watch however you want!)

Merry Christmas!

 

Hermit Diary 49. Star

Christmas in my house would hardly be Christmas without a paper project or some sort of ornament-making, and this bizarre year is no exception. A while back, I became fascinated by mathematical origami models which are constructed using identical folded units that then are assembled into a shape, and over the years I've made a number of stellated octahedrons using Japanese papers in various combination of prints and solids.

This year, though, seemed like a good time to tackle the Bascetta Star, a model created by an Italian mathematician, Paolo Bascetta. The repetitive folding and concentration of origami are calming and meditative for me, and the process of making this star was a perfect antidote to the news.

Although each star requires 30 modular units, compared to the octahedron's 12, the folding goes fast once you understand how to do it and memorize the steps. And the assembly was actually easier than the octahedron, and way easier than the finished product would indicate. If you want to try, it's fun, and you'll end up with a pretty spectacular object that could even be hung with a small bulb inside. I made two -- this larger white and blue one, from 6 3/4" square sheets in different shades of blue and green with white on the reverse side, and a smaller red and gold star ornament from double-sided 3" squares.

 

This is the basic unit, folded from one square of paper. You can download a .pdf with instructions from Paolo Bascetta's website, and see other 2- and 3-dimensional origami pieces he's designed.

Three units joined together to make one "point". At first I thought you needed to make a bunch of three-unit modules, but that's wrong; in the final assembly, you make only one of these, then add one unit at a time in the same way, and in a particular order, until you've added all thirty. There are a number of videos out there, but I found this one on YouTube the best; it explains the assembly process very clearly, including how to hold the growing star and count the points so that you don't get confused!

Let me know if you try it -- I'd love to see what you make.