Well, three days of not saying anything negative had somewhat iffy results. Time to try something else, and I’m going big–365 days of Mussar, the Jewish spiritual system of working your personality. It’s an ancient process, and some say it is tainted by harsh self-reproach and the vestiges of patriarchy. Although I don’t usually approve of how the New Age waters things down, in this case I’m content with a contemporary if fairly orthodox book of daily practices.
So, this week’s theme is gratitude. It’s a favorite for most of us, because it has a pretty spontaneous element that can be cultivated. The first part of the practice is “Awaken to the good,” which has a sympatico Zen feel. This leads me to my vegetable garden.
Did I know that veggies were so…prickly? That squash had giant majestic leaves essentially covered in a fur of thorn? Everyone is happy with the vegetables but I’m all excited about photosynthesis. It seems I went on rather too long about the glories of nature, because my husband Rich said, “Do I hear the strains of Appalachian Spring playing?”
Well, that was amusing, and pointed. But “T’is a gift to be simple” isn’t the worst background music for a day.
I looked back at my youth in this one. It’s interesting how certain parts of the past have a freeze frame we can access. Thanks so much to Doug Holder for making this a Sunday poem. I’m glad to be in touch with my Boston roots.
I liked it better
than the rest
of Harvard. Sad
undergraduate, I’d wander,
depressed and damp,
my boots leaking
my vision compressed
among the world’s artifacts
that calmed me. Archaic
vessels that held smoke
or who knows what
sacrifice, a Greco-Roman torso
an Ingres of an odalisque
was something to look at!
Better than boys,
soft and voluptuous flesh,
mine? or another’s?)
Each frame was a window
promised someplace else
Gauguin’s “Poemes Barbares”
a kind of Waikiki Beach cliche
but still located far from here,
far from the rainy square
where I’d skip dinner, buy a magazine
and apple, read the unassigned
Each reader sniffs the air.
There is a boat, a bus, a train,
the blue line to Logan, and a plane.
Or let me turn
to anywhere but here,
self like the earth must spin,
the snowy road, the vanishing point
the figure’s back
will led me out of this
to somewhere else.
I was very struck my this thought from Mia Mingus:
“With disability justice, we want to move away from the “myth of independence,” that everyone can and should be able to do everything on their own. I am not fighting for independence, as much of the disability rights movement rallies behind. I am fighting for an interdependence that embraces need and tells the truth: no one does it on their own and the myth of independence is just that, a myth.”
I was just out in my vegetable garden. It is a raised bed, to my waist. I don’t have to bend over. It was designed and installed by several millennials–family members and a neighbor. Part was a gift, part was paid for, all was received with gratitude. It has a great hoop shade design. And now more lemon cucumbers than one household can eat.
My parents had a rugged individualistic attitude towards life. They often rejected help from their own children, and certainly never depended upon friends or neighbors. I found this attitude exhausting.
Many years ago, when I was suddenly widowed and was raising a six year old child, I realized abruptly that although I tended to see myself as the giver I was now about to start taking–maybe without an end in sight. People did some amazing things for me–my pride was easily overcome by my admiration for both their caring and inventiveness (Who knew I needed a large homemade raspberry cheese cake? Or to have my daughter taken for a camel ride? Not me).
In terms of disability, although I’m grateful to the movement for existing I can’t identify completely. Abortion on demand and death with dignity are things I firmly believe in, and the disability movement often opposes these. I’m not about to debate these issues here, just to say they are the backbone of my social beliefs that I’m not interested in modifying. I try to show respect for other beliefs, and hope that feeling is mutual.
That said, I truly appreciate Mingus’s thought we don’t have to strive to be totally self-reliant. This isn’t just about disability, it applies to community, artistic endeavor, and more. Anthropological thinking suggests we need a group of 40-150 people just to survive. And maybe twice that to find unrelated mates. There is a mystical Jewish belief that we reincarnate in groups the size of a small village. I’m always looking to recognize my soul mates so I don’t have to go it alone.
Grumble, Grumble, Grumble
In a fashion that I think is most often typical of the Academy, the Art Dept. at Pretty Good U made a “decision” to dump all of its “artisanal” or (to use language I have often heard) “crafty” concentrations a number of years ago. They dumped jewelry-making, replaced the world-class ceramicist who retired with a conceptual ceramicist (she’s VERY smart, but I’m a big fan of the wheel and cone 12 firing and all that jazz), and ditch Fiber Arts. Fiber Arts got dismantled precisely in time for fibers of all sorts to become hot again in circles up and down the Cultural Ladder. I was emphatically reminded of this by a temporary exhibit at The Magic Garden in Philadelphia last month in which upcycled clothing was used in several really interesting and engaged ways:
There is also my recent FB obsession, the Up-Cycled Cloth Collective, which has women all around the planet making remarkable art and clothing from scraps, thrifted, stashed, recovered, and revised cloth, partially out of an awareness that a huge proportion of what’s in our landfills is cloth and clothing, and a hell of a lot of it either doesn’t break down at all, or breaks into its component microfibers and ends up in the muscles of sea life. There are other groups, including the happily hipster/millennial Mildly Offensive Fiber Arts.
And while all the individual Pussy Hats at the marches were not, in themselves, art, if felt as though they were a pretty powerful collective artistic STATEMENT. I admit, though, that even though I made a clutch for various people, I dislike myself in pink and went bare-headed to the marches. But that sea of pinks was beautiful to see, and spoke loudly.
So fibers are back, but not at Pretty Good U. Because we are pretty much always a step behind here in DE, which is weird, given how close we are to all those East Coast Hubs of Artistic Edge. Maybe as the current (hopefully long-lasting) trend toward fibers (with all their happy Feminist associations) begins to pass, we’ll get the Dean to give back a “line” in fiber arts. The older I get, the less I give a hoot about these sorts of distinctions between what is “high” enough and what isn’t, even though I understand about the complexities of territory in the Academy. Our fibers prof. was fabulous, though, as were our ceramicist and our jewelry/metals profs. I am often baffled by the inclination of academics and artists to shoot their own communities in their feet. Humans.
For publishing this:
How To Find Henry David Thoreau
1. Wake up at 5 am. Take a small plane to a larger plane.
2. Arrive in Boston, a city you have too many feelings about.
3. See your body asleep in a motel bed, as if from a great distance.
4. Get on google maps.
5. Watch Lexington Street turn to Moody turn to Common.
6. Get lost at Hanscom Airforce Base and feel humiliated when the soldier you ask for directions glares at you.
8. Ask the turbaned owner of the convenience store for directions and go back.
9. Bear left on to Old Bedford Road.
10. Turn right on to Virginia Road.
11. Sit at a green desk on a mustard colored floor.
12. Eat a peanut butter sandwich, because what would Thoreau eat?
13. Write haiku, by hand.
14. Get slightly bored because it is raining.
15. Realize you could have stayed home and read WALDEN.
16. Admire bright green lichen on tree trunks and the piles of oak leaves this raw November afternoon.
17. Realize every day is a fine day for Henry David Thoreau.
Last week I got captivated by this piece by Yoko Ono:
Cleaning Piece III.
Try to say nothing negative about anybody.
a) for three days
b) for forty-five days
c) for three months
I decided to try it for three days, and some folks joined me.
Here is what I have learned so far.
The project inspires immediate resistance. Many people said they knew they’d fail first thing in the morning–when they listened to the news. Personally I don’t follow news on a daily basis, and I was hoping that not speaking ill might lead people to take more positive social action, but no luck there. Also, it surprised me that more people weren’t curious about how to change a habit.
In my own life, I’ve observed that not saying negative things actually led me to have less contact with those who inspired the negativity. Which is positive, in my book. But no one, it seems, stopped bad mouthing Donald Trump and started doing voter registration or donating money to the ACLU.
I had a peaceful two days. Then, Santa Fe had a thousand year storm, the basement flooded, two drivers cut me off, and the cursing began. In the land of my birth, New Jersey, douche bag and other colorful expressions are de rigeur. Let me just say I have not forgotten them.
One participant said:
I had been trying out “say nothing negative about anyone” for the past few months, trying to replace those negative morning demon thoughts with positive ones. But when actually faced with a time challenge of 3 days, I did not do well. So I did not manage to keep my words positive when talking to my family about my day, each day. I will restart the test when I am not around so many challenging people, and maybe I will not talk much at all, if possible, for those 3 days.
I thought this was honest and inspiring. Obviously challenging people makes it much harder. Adding in quiet helps build up peaceful muscle.
So, I’m also going to try and go for longer. Why? Well, it turns out is enjoyable to not speak ill. I’m seeing how anxiety–flooding, traffic–increases my aggression towards others. And I’m hoping to reduce the situations where I have to curse my world.