Nature's Wheel
Two months ago, I signed up for a free class at the local library called “Visual Poetry.” The class description had gripped me:
“Visual art is one medium that poetry works in tandem with. In this workshop, we will explore that intersection, treating poetry as both a written and visual practice.”
Prior to the class, we were invited to spend some time gathering found materials to manipulate during the workshop portion. “These objects should be ones that draw personal curiosity or inspiration.” I went straight to the top level of my bookshelf, which no longer houses books, but has become a flux altar of sorts, where the girls and I collect nature’s treasures. I drew from it two mermaids purse seed pods, three feathers, 15 wide adorn caps whose undersides remind me of fish eyes, a crack of sycamore bark, various shells from my trip to Maine, and a sprig of rust-red Sichuan Pepper Tree berries.
When my mom visited over spring break, she came bearing supplies for art projects: a roll of sticky-backed black velvet and a zip lock bag bursting with vintage jewelry she’d collected from working estate sales. I owe much of my artistic bent to the countless craft projects Mom provided for us growing up. She knew, even before science proved it, how essential creativity was for child development. And for that, I am eternally grateful. On my way out the door, I spotted one of her leftover canvases in a corner of our basement and slipped it into my box alongside the hot glue gun.
I was dressed in my riff on I-mean-business casual: denim overalls rolled at the ankle, 70’s red and royal blue striped tennis polo, staple arrowhead pendant necklace, knock-off uggs with no socks because that's what was available on exit. I cranked up my current Barbara Kingsolver and spent 30 seconds holding up traffic so I could wave to Isla, who sadly watched me through our living room window. It is always hard to leave. Even when you know it will make you a better mom.
I arrived late at the Storyhouse, a colonial-style historic building with original hardwood floors attached to the library, and slid into the tasteful cream high-backed chair provided. I had missed some of the PowerPoint presentation but was determined to make up for lost time now that I was there.
Within 10 minutes, I was fighting back tears as one of the artists spoke of how her brother had cut himself out of all the family pictures in his home using an Xacto knife two years prior to taking his own life. Her work since then has been a visual exploration of cutting spaces out of old archived photographs and family videos and filling them with words, patterns, and sounds to invoke strong feelings in the observer. I was reminded of all the people I know who have very nearly cut themselves out of this world. Myself being one of them.
Our facilitator prompted us to take out our materials and arrange them on the table space. We went around the room and shared our reasons for bringing what we brought. One woman brought a small framed photo of her son and a Pokemon card that personified his spirit. Another brought a letter that her mother wrote her in college back in the 70s, she’d forgotten about until that morning. I was grateful to be in that room with those people. No longer strangers in our collective commitment to the honest expression of humanity and heart.
We took five minutes in silence to write down our observations of the materials before us. I borrowed a ballpoint pen from the cup on the counter behind me and scribbled on the back of a course outline I intended to cut words out of and paste onto my piece.
Seven years ago, I went to a yoga workshop in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I didn’t have a car, so I studied the public transport schedule provided at the Airbnb, and the next morning before the first class, took the bus to the supermarket so I could make sure I had enough wine to last the extent of the trip. I didn’t venture out into nature once while I was there in that holy place. Instead, I locked myself into my room, downing bottles of red wine. And made intricate mandalas in a sketchbook I’d brought with me while under the influence. It was a dark time in my life. Yet there was still an inkling of life force pushing through the veil. A deeper knowing that moved me into creative expression, even then. And for some reason, I’d brought two of those mandalas with me to the workshop that night.
Here is exactly what I wrote that evening, looking at my materials:
Done when I was in a dark place
They never fit anywhere
Look to nature for healing
Hard seed pods like shells
The sound of the ocean - all the adventures I’ve been on
Holds the sound of a sea or a tree
I am in the sound too
It always finds its way back to me.
Slippers, stones, iridescent
Attempts to become someone I wasn’t yet.
The mushroom, petrified
Rock hard preserved
Still buzzed in my hands when I walked through the woods
Spiraling back to center
Bark is the skin I’ve shed - rough and cracked on the outside from protecting, smooth and soothing on the inside
where soul sits
Seeds solid sturdy
Tethers
With the remaining twenty minutes, we silently organized our objects into something that didn’t exist before. I crouched at my hot glue gun, plugged in at a private corner of the room. I tried to move swiftly, bypassing the empty critiques of my mind. This was heart work, and I wanted to honor it.
This is what I came up with.
A continuous spiral whose initial seed was sown in darkness. Still, it broke through. Still, it refused to die. Still, it clung to its modest fertility. Still, the circle grew and grew to include its offspring, the birds of the sky, and the seashells that wash its whispers into cresting waves and fallen ears. Still expanding to embrace the spirit of adventure coded into its bones and biology. Still, the circle grew softer and stronger as it spiraled out into infinity. Still, it moves. Still, it widens. Still, it refuses to die.
