shallow depression

Les Oiseaux de Key West, (C) Westlander Poetry 2012

"Just as art saved me and got me out of Accrington, for a second time it got me through my depression and self-loathing, back to a place of innocence through experience."

~Jeanette Winterson (b. Aug 1959) is a British novelist and journalist.  From her book In Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery (1995).

Jeanette Winterson wrote that art can heal.  She’s lived it; and so have I.  Reading about her background I see connective tissue between our experiences.  Unique, but with similar themes:  adopted, mentally ill mothers, estrangement, writers, and women who love women.  Her story and art speak to me.

Art can heal.  But that is not always the case.  Sometimes art provides an outlet and a refuge, but only for a time.  We’ve all heard about the many amazing and talented artists who could not be healed from their profound depression and pain.

But art heals me every day.  Sometimes it’s taking out the computer and writing down these thoughts, crafting ideas and images into poems, playing with photography … but also healing comes from experiencing the art of others:  their words, images, sculptures, songs.

Tapping into the beauty of life, the beauty within, the creative spirits … finding one’s way “back to a place of innocence through experience” … that is what saves me.

Today’s poem is dedicated to art, in all its forms.

We’re so pretty sitting on the wire

Little birds in ecclesiastical attire

God’s creatures, that’s what you say

We see you praying, watch you stray

Flying to a spire, building on a hill

Moulted dreams in an ink-dipped quill

Limbs of birds, hearts of paper

Feathered dreams of your creator

Pretty creatures passing hours
stir and move like waking flowers

Perched between here and there

In this margin of light and air

When you slip we don’t weep

Nesting in our minds, twigs and sleep

We aren’t here to explain

Not your answer, not your blame.

Thanks to One Single Impression for the writing prompt of Depression.

deconstructed marathon

L'Oiseau de Feu sur L'arche (C) Westlander Poetry 2012

“It doesn’t matter how sensitive you are or how smart and damn educated you are, if you’re not both at the same time, if your heart and your brain aren’t connected, aren’t working together harmoniously, well, man, you’re just hopping through life on one leg.  You may think you’re walking, you may think you’re running a damn marathon, but you’re only on a hop trip, man.”

~Tom Robbins (b. 1936) is an American novelist, short story writer and essayist hailing from North Carolina.  From his novel Villa Incognito (2003).

Sometimes that connection between head and heart is a playground tug-of-war, adolescent bodies with unfettered hands grasping a thick rope and digging in sneaker-covered heels, pulling with all their might against an opposing force of youth and will.

It can take a lifetime to achieve balance and not hop trip through life.  For some, it takes more than a lifetime.  But if you can get closer to that place of lush understanding, of balanced awareness that all our gifts must be used in harmony, than perhaps you can find your stride and run that marathon.  Until then – just keep trying.

Today’s writing is dedicated to finding yourself in this marathon of life.

She woke confused

on a Tuesday tired

in a house filled with books

nobody read

no time for words, or music

filled with hollow rhythms

misplaced dreams

no precarious thrill

of what might come next

used to waking tired

this was something new

an itching deep

and legs, no longer solid

lost their dependence on certainty

The wind, still as a cat

lying in wait, twitching its ass

ready to pounce – her brain

no longer kept it all working

so she went searching

emptied the junk drawer

pulled books off dusty shelves

looked in cupboards, under

floor boards, nowhere found

she would have to tear it

down piece by piece

the race had begun.

Thanks to Sunday Scribblings for their prompt of Marathon.

half shell

Seashell (C) Westlander Poetry 2012

“I think I've always been half out of my shell and half in. Sometimes I can be extremely wild and sometimes I can be extremely shy. It just depends on the day.”

~Emile Hirsch (born Mar. 1985) is an American television and film actor.

The beauty of babies and very young children is that they are soft-shelled creatures that light shines out of with fearless abandon.  Before the time when they are older and begin to recognize that everything is not as it seems. Before they learn secrets, feel hurt, understand limitations and harden their shells.  Before the time they use the safety of their shell to navigate life's harsher side.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the shell.

That summer day we played so freely

the sand smiled

I was nine
you were seven

years away from certain pain 

we swam like seals 

skipped like sandpipers
a game of tag 

happiness burst out of us

like lightning bugs at dusk

This is our home 
I said digging a moat 
- you agreed 

I decorated the sides

with shells not thinking

Something died and this is what was left

from an aluminum plaid nylon chair

lime green and bright yellow

I heard an old woman say

What you see is what you get

But I thought 

That isn’t true

I knew the water looked warm

but when I dove

it was so cold I thought

I lost my breath

I don’t think about other things

that aren’t what they seem

because, like ocean water,

I want something else to believe.

Thanks to Sandy Carlson at One Single Impression for her prompt of Shells.

world reversed

World Reversed (C) Westlander Poetry 2012

Wassail! wassail! cried the yeoman hail.
As he shouldered his quarter-staff,
And homeward rode where the spiced ale stood
Awaiting his hearty quaff;

The cot meanwhile, lit up by the smile

Of a frank, good-hearted mirth,

And free to all who might chance to call

Was the happiest place on earth!

~From the book Christmas Poems and Pictures:  A Collection of Songs, Carols, and Descriptive Poems, Relating to the Festival of Christmas (1864)

The term wassail came from the Saxon phrase wæs hæl, which meant “health be to you” or “to your health.”  It later evolved to also refer to a hot mulled spiced cider or mulled wine served during the Christmas season, ready for whoever might stop by.

What if the proverbial wassail was always at the ready – prepared to welcome whatever friend, stranger, opportunity or dream that presents itself with a hearty cup of good cheer and good health.

Today’s poem is dedicated to being ready to welcome the stranger.

We are all connected, moving notes

fingers and strings and breath and voice that

compete, harmonize, soothe, excite, agitate

wassail!  wassail!

sing a song of hope and drink a cup of cheer

When you came knocking on my door

the dog held his growl

you fell

on my good fortune

this day of resurrection

Truth

three doors down

where a stranger stood

these degrees of separation justify

the walls we’re breaking down

To your health

I drink in this quiet moment of promise

open to the possible

treat of a new song

connected, moving notes

So happy in this place

I carry on

I carry on this day

hope and hype and memory

and what is; what may become.

Thank you to One Single Impression for their prompt of Wassail; to Three Word Wednesday for their prompt of Growl, Hype, Justify; and, to Sunday Scribblings for their prompt of Treat.

Transition: the rest of her story

Blowing Expectations, Seattle, WA  3.12

“What a pleasing transition I am about to make from those who believe too little, to those who believe rather too much.”

~Anne MacVicar Grant  (Feb. 1755 – Nov. 1838) was a Scottish poet and author.  From her book, Letters from the mountains; being the correspondence with her friends, between the years 1773 and 1803, of Mrs. Grant of Laggen, Vol. II. (1808).

There is the adolescent dismantling of childhood certainty in favor of inquiry and debate.  The transition from blind acceptance to an awakening examination of ourselves and the world we inhabit.  A psychic growth spurt that, if we’re lucky, will be repeated over the years.

I remember the start of questions.  Remember the transition from blurred-astigmia to an almost-surreal clarity.  Remember the fear.  The building realization that truth was a rare commodity and closed minds starved souls.

The many growth spurts it took – jumping slick-smooth stones across a bumpy river – before I began to associate with those who believed too much, rather than too little.  Before I could spot and avoid self-shackled emotional mercenaries, instead of following them off that slippery rock.

When the diligent path forward takes you to the other side, there is not more pleasing transition than completing one journey and starting another.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the many transitions in life.

It slips off her mind, into cupped hands, a stunning realization

the amateur had waited for a special message, already received

when old convictions began to wither from lack of belief

she nurtures a new truth now, warms it like an egg

with eyes of blue that see a little more each waking day

the rest of the story will not suffer from believing too little

but will flourish in believing too much

holding too many possibilities

she will be diligent in keeping mind and heart open

windows – not shuttered, swung wide – invite light and air

and bugs and the sticky wind when it is too humid

but she would rather feel and be part of the world

than to not be.  This transition.

Thank you to One Single Impression for the inspiration of Transition; to Three Word Wednesday for the 3-word inspiration of Amateur, Diligent, Nurture; and, to Sunday Scribblings for the inspiration of The Rest of the Story. 

Englightenment

Montmarte Light, Paris

“The best way to navigate through life is to give up all of our controls.”

~Gerald G. Jampolsky is an American psychiatrist, author and inspirational speaker.  He is a graduate of Stanford Medical School and author of Forgiveness: The Greatest Healer of All.

“If you shut up truth, and bury it underground, it will but grow.”

~Émile François Zola (Apr. 1840 – Sept. 1902) was a French novelist, critic and political activist in the political liberalization of France and in the exoneration of the falsely accused and convicted army officer Alfred Dreyfus.

Why do we bury the truth of ourselves underground and try to control our lives with constructs and paradigms of who and what we think the world expects?  Does it start when we are young and the world around us begins to tell us who we should be instead of embracing who we are?  Does it grow like a cancer with media, sound bites, and images shaping a reality that is homogenous and controlled?

Paris earned the nickname, The City of Light ("La Ville-Lumière) because of France’s key role in the Age of Enlightenment.  From the middle of the 17th century to the end of the 18th century the Age of Enlightenment was a social movement based in reason and science that sought to shake up religious authoritarianism and dogma.   One of the leading historians on the Enlightenment, Professor Jonathan Israel writes, "democracy, racial and sexual equality; individual liberty of lifestyle; full freedom of thought, expression, and the press; eradication of religious authority from the legislative process and education; and full separation of church and state."

I wonder if we’re in the midst of a second age of enlightenment.  Another 150 years of societal change starting at the beginning of the 20^th century that includes gender equality and women’s rights, racial equality and civil rights movement and LGBT rights including the current discussion on marriage equality.  Another round of discourse and discussion; another attempt to find truth; another attempt to break from the controls and navigate a path of light and awareness.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the search for truth, freedom and enlightenment.

Sitting here with our cat in this waking day

gas flames lick

ribbons wrapped on ballerina ankles

your legs wrapped

in our sheets holding crinkled secrets of truth – surrender

buried in underground roads I trace

fingertipped demands

Sitting here with our cat these minutes pass

beats of a song

I write while you dream and hemlock branches rock

the rhythm of the day

I remember our youth – hours ago

shall I wake you and slip back in time again?

Thanks to 3 Word Wednesday for the three word inspiration of Crinkle, Demand, Navigate; to Sunday Scribblings for the prompt of Search; and thanks to One Single Impression for their inspiration of Underground.

Modern Muse

Looking Outside, February 2012

“Far away
This ship is taking me far away
Far away from the memories
Of the people who care if I live or die

And I'll never let you go
If you promise not to fade away
Never fade away

Our hopes and expectations

Black holes and revelations”

-from the song Starlight by the British rock band Muse (Black Holes and Revelations, 2006).

For me the muse is a state-of-mind.  The emotional space to stretch and focus and blur the lines of convention.  A time to move inward, and from that place, to look outside yourself.  To cancel limitations and see what surrounds you -- to connect with that broader experience.

Today’s poem is dedicated to the art that surrounds me.

These memories are department store windows dressed in

violins, crystal, white stallion dreams and turquoise taffeta

only lasting weeks, straining to remain fresh

the elastic shape of time stretches thin

a muse, an interpreter, a laborer building and tearing down

asking what do I owe the world?  Wondering

when I become

pieces scattered far and wide

children in separate worlds and imagination

dreaming awake, growing, morphing

shedding, reborn as history grieving, a feather

capped prince wearing the weight

 of a kingdom

modern

and eternal.

Thanks to my friend Tara for the visual inspiration found at Tara Bradford. com – An Ode to New Orleans.    Thanks to Three Word Wednesday for the prompt of Cancel, Elastic, Labor, to Sunday Scribblings for the prompt of Modern, and thanks Leo over at One Single Impression for the prompt of Muse.