Winter Solstice! Rejoice!

Winter Solstice, the time when the hours of darkness have reached their peak and the imperceptible increase of light begins once again. I rejoice in the painstaking snail's pace with which resurrection builds its energy all through the winter months and suddenly erupts in spring with crocus and daffodils. I delight in Winter Solstice because this is the time of year when I reaffirm my uniqueness.

The December holidays underwent a major change for me several years ago while I was living in Brussels. My daughter wrote to say, "I have good news and bad news. Bad news first: I'm not coming this December. The good news is, I've fallen in love." I was delighted with this wonderful turn of events in her life. Yet, at the same time, I was devastated. Through the best of times and the worst of times, before my divorce from her father and after the divorce, the holiday season had always been the time we were together and caught up on each other's lives.

As I walked the parks, seeking solace in nature, I worried about how to care for myself during what I felt would be a very difficult couple of weeks. I asked myself what this season was about if it were stripped of the family framework in which I'd always celebrated it. Having tuned into the rhythms of nature, I knew it was about the rise of light after the descent into darkness, the ascendance of hope after the plunge into despair.

My world travels had taught me that cultures the world over celebrate this annual beginning of a new cycle. Whether it’s the Festival of Lights in India or the elaborate astronomical observations and seasonal festivals from Ireland to Cambodia, all cultures celebrate the infinitesimal return of the light as if it were the birth of a child, a divine child. Steeped in this global awareness, I brooded over Carl Jung's image of the Self as a divine child within the psyche of each of us. That meant the divine child was within me.

 "What would it mean," I wondered, "for me to celebrate my own birth, my own worth as an individual?" I thought back to my actual birth and to the onerous situation this was for my parents. Expecting a boy, they had no name for a girl. Disappointed in the gift I was to them, they asked the nurse to name me.

"Well, maybe my parents were unable to rejoice in my birth,” I reasoned, “but that is no excuse for my not doing so?" Enchanted with the image of celebrating my own birth and the center of being within me, I  turned my attention away from sadness over my daughter's not coming. Returning home, I heard one of the season’s popular songs, The Twelve Days of Christmas playing on the radio. "That's it. I'll celebrate my own birth for twelve straight days!"

Deciding to give myself twelve gifts, one each day beginning with Winter Solstice, I made a list of things that give me pleasure. It included chocolates, a new teapot, getting a set of Motherpeace Tarot cards, and going to the ballet. On December twenty-first, I bought Belgian chocolates and a small ceramic nativity scene made in Peru. That evening, after wrapping gifts for friends in the area, I created a ritual with candles, music, and, yes, chocolates. Each day as I awoke, I would spontaneously decide what my gift that day would be. When going to the ballet presented itself, I hesitated; afraid it might make me despondent because my daughter and I had always seen the Nutcracker Suite together. Remembering one of my Latina friends who was also alone, I invited her to go with me for dinner and the ballet. We had a fabulous time.

Twelve days passed swiftly. I spent many delightful evenings reading Vicki Noble's book MOTHERPEACE, A Way to the Goddess through Myth, Art and Tarot and learning to use the lovely round cards. It was my first exposure to systems of divination and I found it fascinating to see how the cards echoed what was happening in my life. The Osho Zen deck has since become my favorite Tarot.

When I reflected on why my Twelve Days of Christmas had been one of the happiest times of my life, I realized it was the most self-affirming thing I had ever done. I realized that our unconscious registers our self-nurturing behavior. This healthy new appreciation for who we are encourages other healthy behaviors. Being good to yourself is good for you.

Moreover, a time that might have been lonely had been filled with anticipation, fun, and surprise. The negative symbol of my parents' rejection had been overpowered by my own self-acceptance to such an extent that since that breakthrough December, I have gifted myself with my present name, LiDoña. I took the name given to me by the nurse, Donna Lee, turned it around, and adjusted the spelling. Li in Chinese means fire or light. Doña in Spanish or Italian means woman or lady. Thus, LiDoña is Fire Woman or Light Lady.

I've never forgotten the power of self-affirmation and as Winter Solstice approaches each year, I feel a surge of anticipation as I contimplate my Twelve Days of Christmas. One year I celebrated my Artist Child with gifts to enhance my creativity. Another year I gave myself twelve days just for writing. This year, my home restored after the flood on November 28, I will do Twelve Days of Coming Home to Myself.

2011 was the year of the book. I helped edit Prayers for Transition, In Memory of Sandra Anderson True. I helped edit Art Twenty-Eleven, work by thrity-eight of the artists with whom I attend an open studio every other year. I achieved a twenty-five-year goal by publishing PILGRIMAGE Wonder Encounter Witness. The photo above was the state of my home on November 30, the night of my author event at the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art in Eugene, photo below. Stay posted for information about my author tour in mid-March to independent bookstores in Seattle, Bellingham, and Spokane in Washington and Moscow, Idaho.

Tonight is the longest night. Tomorrow light begins its magnificent return.

May your 2012 be filled with joy and light.

Memo to the Universe

Those who know me well, recognize that I have a strong streak of independence. Thus, you will perhaps appreciate that the universe has been delivering some strong messages to me about the fact that we humans are dependent upon one another.

The messages began to arrive in late August. I cut my left thumb while framing for my September Ancestral Lines show. A neighbor’s quick thinking got me to urgent care for five stitches by a female doctor from Barbados. Several wondrous friends stepped in to help me hang the show. I was filled with gratitude for my neighbor’s thoughtfulness, the medical care I received, and the compassion of my friends.

Then, in the fading light of an October evening, a curb and I had a miscommunication, my right ankle wrenched and I landed with a yelp on the cement parking lot. Three college students and a friend rescued me and got me started on RICE, rest, ice, compression and elevation. My seriously sprained right ankle has been in an air cast and I've been using a walking stick for the last month. In spite of the pain and stress, I am so grateful not to have broken any bones and for the wonderful care I received from friends, medical practitioners, and a young physical therapist.

The restorative power of physical therapy made me more stable and I was just celebrating being able to put away the walking stick, when the universe decided to upend my life in yet another way.

Early on Monday, as I was tending my plants, a water pipe in the upstairs bathroom broke and water began gushing out of the wall. Plumbing Dummy that I am, I threw down some towels to soak the water and raced for help. My neighbor’s light was on so I banged on her door. She grabbed some shoes, raced up my stairs, tramped through four inches of water and turned the water off. 

Together we threw down all the blankets, sheets, and towels we could find to soak up the water. We stopped the water from going into the room where all of my finished paintings are stored, but gravity is an irresistible force. Water flowed down the walls to the downstairs bathroom and dining area. I spotted water pouring through the light fixture above the kitchen counter. I pushed aside my computer modem and threw a quilt over the counter. My friend and I tossed more towels on the downstairs bathroom floor to catch the water running down the wall.  

Having done as much as we could, I tried desperately to find a plumber. When references from my neighbor and another friend produced nothing, I turned to the yellow pages. I called the company with the most professional advertisement and lucked out. He would arrive in less than an hour. Once the pipe was fixed, his knowledge of restoration professionals proved as important as his plumbing skills. We could have a team on site within another hour.

Next on the docket was the insurance claim, something else about which I had no previous knowledge. As I launched into what would become a day of phone calls with insurance representatives, the restoration crew arrived: two young men, one an ex-Marine and the other from the navy. Great, I thought; they will know about water. And they did.

I appreciated the way they began assessing and documenting the damage before crafting a restoration plan. When flashes of Katrina and the various earthquakes of the past two years visited me, I was aware that what I was experiencing did not even begin to compare with what others have endured. I was grateful for having lesser issues with which to contend.

As the marine team began releasing carpet edges so they could direct heat from drying fans underneath, they recommended that I go to a hotel. I saw the wisdom in their suggestion. However, I opted to remain in my home, at least for now. Yes, the noise from the fans is very loud, making it difficult to sleep. But it is probably no more difficult than trying to sleep in a strange hotel room where I would have no idea what was happening in my home.

They warned me that today the bathroom fixtures would be removed because both floors and some walls have to be restored. Then it will be one to two months before everything is shipshape. As I contemplate the disruptions and discomforts of the upcoming weeks, I am nevertheless once again filled with gratitude. In a world where children go to sleep hungry, elderly people find themselves isolated, and rocket fire keeps thousands wondering if they will greet the sunrise, I have been given so much. I have a job. I have a home. I have been blessed with awesome friends.

It would be nice if I could somehow send a memo to the universe that I wouldn’t mind having fewer reminders of just how lucky I am. However, for now I shall just allow gratitude to be my overwhelming message.

PILGRIMAGE Available on amazon.com

PILGRIMAGE Wonder Encounter Witness is now available on amazon.com for $17.90 along with a super saver discount of free shipping for orders of $25 or more. If you order 5, the price goes down to $15.88 each.

Your participation in LiDoña Wagner Studio's first publishing venture is deeply appreciated.  You can:

1. Purchase a copy for yourself.
2. Write a book review on amazon.com; the more the better, I understand.
3. Recommend influential people you know who would be willing to write an endorsement of the book.
4. Advise me on ways to reach my target markets of art lovers, world travelers, and spiritual seekers.
5. Include PILGRIMAGE on your Christmas list, gifting those you love with something you have enjoyed.

www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=lidona+wagner&x=0&y=0

Not sure why, but you have to click the title before you see the book cover.

Learnings from Ancestral Lines

Two things about my recent show, Ancestral Lines, pushed me to take a step closer to installation or site-specific art. First, the gallery space was unique. Two walls were primarily windows onto busy streets. A third wall was brick. A hallway entrance, metal vault, and air vent interrupted the fourth wall. A post stood in the center of the room.

Secondly, my Children of Eve paintings contain multi-sensory elements: bone beads, sand, sticks, twigs, matches, and textured surfaces. They point to events that happened hundreds, thousands, and even millions of years ago. It seemed to me that invoking a massive time warp requires an immersive environment.

Using the long hallway into the gallery to set a mood, I hung mounted copies of photographs of ancient awe-inspiring cave art. These were from the 2001 August issue of National Geographic on Chauvet Cave in France. I placed books and DVDs on genetic research in an alcove, along with an animal bone and a historical timeline of human evolution and migration patterns from 2 million to 10,000 years ago. 

To create a sense of timelessness, I placed natural elements on clear acrylic pedestals arranged around the post in the gallery.

One pedestal held items related to the sea, another had stones and pebbles. Beneath a third was a pile of dirt and on top were two stick of cedar wood. Human touches included one of my self-box collages, an African reed mat mounted on the post, and information about tracing your DNA journey.  

To add to the sense of our connection to nature and antiquity, I hung animal bones on the brick wall between Children of Eve paintings. I placed a bromeliad plant with brilliant red foliage on a clear acrylic pedestal near one of the large windows, setting up a tension between the busy street and nature.

I began telling the story of our ancient origins in Africa by placing placards under each of the Children of Eve paintings. I was delighted that both kids and adults took time to read the story.

Although the intent was to give a sneak preview of my emerging Children of Eve series, there were other paintings in the show. A red cord strung around the walls, representing Kazantzakis’s crimson line (the human evolutionary journey) connected all of the artwork, emphasizing the show’s theme. A mounted quote from Kazantzakis marked the beginning of the red string. A cloth hung in front of the vault served as a backdrop for a show poster and my artist statement.

So much more could have been done. I am already thinking of how to integrate interactive elements, ceiling, floor, and multimedia into future exhibitions of Children of Eve. I welcome your feedback and suggestions on ways to develop a total experience of our origins deep in the heart of Africa.

Photographs 1-5, 7-9 by Mikayle Stole Anderson

Photograph 6 by Sharry Lachman

Ancestral Lines

Where do we come from? This is probably people’s second most-asked question; the first being, who am I? Poets, theologians, philosophers, scientists and ordinary folks are all equally curious about our human origins. How did we get to be the way we are?

In Ancestral Lines, I visually explore the agreement reached by contemporary archeologists and genetic scientists that modern Homo sapiens originated in East Africa. My fascination with this point of view has deep roots.

In 1988, Newsweek had an article on Rebecca Cahn’s genetic research - DNA studies showing that we have a common ancient mother, Mitochondrial Eve, who lived in East Africa around 170,000 years ago. All of us - regardless of skin color, facial characteristics, ethnic culture, or linguistic expression - can trace our mitochondrial DNA (our maternal line) back to this one woman.

Time magazine reported around 1990 that archeologists had found four sets of footprints in molten lava in East Africa, two large sets and two small ones; presumably this was a family of two parents and two children fleeing a volcanic eruption. What were the relationships and destiny of this small group of humans?

A National Geographic article, “France’s Magical Ice Age Art: Chauvet Cave,” became my muse in the year 2000. Its stunning photographs of cave art inspired my first intentional series of paintings, called Stone Age. Stone Age was followed by other series that culminated in 2008 with Pilgrimage, paintings based on my experiences in cultures around the world.

By 2010, I was groping my way toward a new series about our one Black mother when I heard about National Geographic’s  “genographic project” – a research effort that allows any human being to do a DNA test to reveal the migratory route our ancestors took from East Africa to some part of the world. I knew instantly, “This is the entry point for which I’ve been searching. My new series will be called The Children of Eve.”

In Ancestral Lines, one set of paintings takes an archeological perspective: imagining some of the cultural preoccupations and artifacts of early humans. Another set of paintings takes the perspective of genetic research: translating abstract concepts into visual symbolic representations.

Both perspectives are held in tension by the image of “the crimson line,” a phrase coined by Nikos Kazantzakis. To me it means, “You, me, and every person who has ever lived have a common heritage that is carried in our blood. We trace a crimson line through history, all the way back to one Black woman in East Africa.“

I find great meaning in knowing that I am connected to the artists of Chauvet Cave, to a family fleeing a volcanic eruption in East Africa, and to Mitochondrial Eve.

I love San Francisco

My companions, two thirteen-year-old girls, were standing on the cable car’s running boards, each with an arm around a carrousel-like pole. We crested the hill and were greeted by a spectacular view of San Francisco Bay. As we hurtled downhill, Cheshire cat smiles spread across the girls’ faces. This was as good as any roller coaster ride in an amusement park. In fact, this may have been the inspiration for such thrilling rides.

San Francisco had never made it to my “must see” list. Perhaps it was dozens of transits through the San Francisco airport when it was being renovated that squashed my natural curiosity about people and places. But my granddaughter had chosen this port city for our biennial trip and invited a friend to join us. Pre-research had established a menu of nearly twenty things the girls and I might like to see. I was pleasantly surprised to discover how easy it was to get around with the municipal passes I’d purchased for us. Now she and her friend were helping me discover San Francisco’s magic.

The weather cooperated – not raining, not hot, not cold, in other words, as Goldilocks would say, “just right.” Immediately upon arrival, a visit to Chinatown transported us into another world, as did Golden Gate Park on our second day.

We found our way to the park all right, but my notoriously bad sense of direction resulted in an accidental tour of Stow Lake and our first full views of the bay and Golden Gate Bridge. After contemplating raked pebbles and old rocks in the Japanese Tea Garden, my granddaughter announced, “I really want to go to Japan.”

We proceeded to the De Young Museum to view a traveling exhibition of Picasso works. What a thrill to see the ongoing evolution of this master artist – from early unremarkable sketches to studies for major paintings, to fully realized works of art. The only thing that could have made it more amazing would have been the presence of Guernica. We were likewise captivated by the Inuit, Mesoamerican, and Northwest contemporary glass art in Art of the Americas. We went be bed that night sated on beauty, tempura and sushi.

We had tickets to see a matinee performance of Billy Elliott, the musical, downtown on Market Street on our third day. I suggested we fit in the Bali exhibit at the nearby Asian Art Museum before the show and my companions agreed. Art, Ritual, Performance is the first full museum exploration of Balinese culture in America. But as I watched a video of the Monkey Dance, I was aware of how far it was from the real experience of smelling the incense, feeling the body heat, and being mesmerized by the vibrations of gamelan music.

Reemerging into the sunlight, we made our way to the second balcony of the Orpheum theatre. For the next two and a half hours we were in England during the mining strike that resulted in Margaret Thatcher shutting down the industry. (90% of England’s coal today is imported from the Ukraine – good for Ukraine, bad for England.) Billy, his miner dad, his ballet teacher, and his friend Michael tugged at our hearts. Although the girls said they could have cried, I was the only one who did.

We decided to top off the day with dinner at the Zuni Café, a few blocks from the Orpheum Theatre. With directions from one of the girls’ parents, we found the triangle-shaped restaurant about half an hour before the dinner menu would be served. A local pianist arrived and began playing as my granddaughter took over as hostess for the evening. Her dad had given her money to take us out for dinner. She graciously paid for our before-dinner sodas and haystack of shoestring potatoes, but blanched when she saw the dinner menu prices. Not to worry, we stayed within budget. She proudly accepted the bill, figured the tip, and sighed with satisfaction as she closed the folder over the required amount of cash. 

Venturing back out to Market Street to catch a streetcar home, the wind kept the girls busy, holding down their dresses. Back at the hotel, as we settled down to read before falling asleep, we deemed our cosmopolitan day a grand success.

For our last two days, we decided to do normal touristy things like Ghirardelli Square for an ice cream soda and the cable car ride that landed us at the top of the most crooked street in the world. After descending Lombard Street and since we had stood in line for an hour and a half that morning for tickets to Alcatrazz, which we were eight people away from getting, we stopped midday at our hotel to rest before heading for Golden Gate Bridge.

Now I must tell you about our charming hotel. The San Remo was built in 1906, in North Beach, after the earthquake. It has twice been restored to its Victorian origins and is complete with pull chain toilets and shower rooms, down the hall, of course, from our sleeping room. No TV or phone in the room, but computer access in the upstairs lobby, WIFI available, and the friendliest most helpful attendants imaginable. It brought back memories of the pensions in which I stayed on my first trip to Europe.

The girls really didn’t get why we were going to walk on the Golden Gate Bridge, but they humored me. And from the moment we stepped onto the bridge, they experienced the awesome nature of walking in the clouds. The sun lighted portions of the distant shoreline and wind surfers drifted by beneath us. As we walked to the first tall suspension post, we felt the exhilaration mountain climbers must know when they reach the summit, the top of the world. Despite the chilly wind, we were reluctant to turn back. “Next time,” they declared, “we’ll walk all the way across to Sausalito.”

As we returned to the hotel that evening, I asked, “How badly do you ladies want to go to Alcatraz? To get tickets will require being in line by 6:00 in the morning.” They decided it was worth getting up at 5:30 on our final day. Now it was Grandma’s turn to humor them. Next morning, after two and a half hours of standing on concrete and munching on Fig Newton cookies, we got tickets for the first sailing. Twenty minutes to grab a muffin and use the bathroom and we headed for the ferry. For me, the ferry ride back and forth was the high point, but the girls were fascinated by the cellblock audio tour.

We decided to end our San Francisco adventure the same way we began it – in Chinatown. One girl bought six pashmini scarves for twenty dollars, the other bought a dramatic, floppy sun hat. We stopped for thin crust pizza at a “best in San Franciso” Italian restaurant before buying ice cream cones and heading to the San Remo to get some sleep before a 4:45 morning wake up. The girls had an 8:00 am flight back to Toronto.

We had tons of fun in San Francisco and the girls pronounced it a “great trip.” But for me the memorable part will be our dinner conversations about friendship: what is a real friend, do your friends have to be like you, how do you make friends, what does it mean to be a friend, could our talents of singing and guitar playing help us make friends. As with the cable car perched at the top of the hill, these two girls are plunging downhill, into their first year of high school. I declare them ready.

Pilgrimage is Here

25 years in the making, PILGRIMAGE Wonder, Encounter, Witness is coming out in a private pre-retail edition in two weeks.

People reviewing proof copies say, “This is a treasure.” “What a gorgeous book!” “I want copies to give as gifts.” 

What sets Pilgrimage apart is not simply its beauty; it’s the layers of meaning it holds. In the first section I share where I went, what I saw, what I did, what I gave, what I received. This is done through photographs, maps and brief contextual material.

The second section displays amazing color reproductions of the 17 paintings in my Pilgrimage exhibition. Two sentence blurbs invite the reader to explore each work of art.

Anecdotal stories that accompany the paintings comprise the third section of the book. Each story has color details cropped from the painting it narrates. This makes it easy for the reader to move back and forth between stories, paintings, and photographs.

In gratitude for the many persons who have assisted in bringing this dream into reality, I am making 75 copies of this private edition available to followers of my blog at the printing cost of $17.50 plus shipping.

Of course, I’m hoping those who get Pilgrimage at the special private edition price will fall in love with it and encourage people to buy the retail edition when it comes out in the fall. 

Dream Deferred

My necklace broke. Beads spilled and bounced down the stairs. They rolled into nooks and crannies that my fingers could not reach. I sat on a step and cried. Waking from this dream twenty-five years ago, I knew at a wrenching gut level that the project upon which I had embarked would not come together.

I had read and reread pieces written in brief workshops I’d conducted while on the road doing fundraising. Surveys from colleagues who had worked in community development projects told of drip irrigation that made a desert bloom, shrimp farms that tripled family incomes, and healthcare workers who reduced infant mortality. But something was missing. I could not grasp the story that needed to be written. Where was the string to hold these precious jewels?

Concluding that I was not skilled enough as a writer, I resolved to learn to write in a way that made people, places and events come alive on the page. I imagined that a writing workshop with Vivian Gornick would be the magic pill I needed. I was wrong. Each workshop and writing venture led to another.

As I pursued my ambition of becoming a writer, my daughter became an artist. I began taking art classes so I could converse with and encourage her. With no forethought or planning, I fell in love with the creative process of using paper and pigment to express my inner world. I moved back and forth between visual creations that unleashed sensory memories words could not capture and my conscious struggle to become a writer. 

I had a column and wrote feature articles for a magazine in British Columbia. I finished an unpublished memoir that helped me separate my identity from that of the organization for which I had worked. I published poems, wrote unaccepted book proposals, edited journals and newsletters, and completed a manuscript on women’s empowerment.

And always I journaled, hoping that I would stumble upon the story of what had so profoundly moved me in my work with impoverished communities  – the unwritten story that launched me on the quest to become capable of telling my truth so others could grasp it. 

My daughter died and I grieved.

Just as I was accepted to do a master’s degree I met Katherine Chang Liu, an Asian American abstract artist who grew up in Taiwan. Unlike other artists with whom I’d studied, and there were many, Liu was not peddling tricks and techniques. She sought to reach into each artist’s heart and unleash her personal vision. I made a date with Liu to study with her two and a half years in the future.

A master’s degree in literary non-fiction did not make me a book author. Perhaps writing was not my destiny. Returning to brushes and paint, I kept my date with Liu. Arriving at the open studio, I knew exactly what I wanted to paint – Third World villages that had imprinted themselves upon my heart and psyche. Prodded by Liu, visual memories tumbled easily from pencil to sketchbook. Colors to express my feelings swam before my eyes. Within two years the village series was well underway. 

When no local gallery wanted to show the work, I became discouraged. Liu would not accept despair. “Do the work. Send me slides so I can show others what can happen if they undertake a series of paintings with a sincere purpose. And you’d better send me some of those stories you tell about each village painting so I know what I’m talking about when I show the slides.”

So the stories began to be written. An anecdote and a poem were retrieved from the beginning of my writing quest. A feature story was abbreviated. As memories were recorded, a few paintings that had slipped out unconsciously were recognized as part of the village series. Liu suggested the material I’d sent hinted of an exhibition proposal. Colleagues pushed me to figure out how to position the work and where to submit proposals.

Pilgrimage: Wonder, Encounter, Witness was born - seventeen paintings and anecdotal stories that express the wonder of places where I lived, encounters that forced me to examine who I am, and the amazing courage and ingenuity I witnessed in the people I met. Three exhibitions hit the calendar, back to back. One gallery wanted photographs and artifacts, so I reached out to former colleagues and they responded. Each exhibition was a milestone.

But Liu was not done with me. “LiDoña, don’t you think there should be a book? I mean, shouldn’t you take Pilgrimage beyond Oregon, and don’t you think you need a book to do that?” Oh my god, do you really want me to do that? Well, all right, since I have all the contents, I might as well. It will be a nice memento for my granddaughters.

Nine months later, as the graphic designer and I prepare to send my book of paintings and stories to the printer, I wake from a dream and it hits me. This is the book I wanted to write twenty-five years ago. A few precious beads have been strung. The missing string was Pilgrimage – a sacred journey to honor the mystery found in every place, person, and culture.


Photographs by Bruce Robertson, David Zahrt, Tim Lush, Gloria Santos, Walt O'Brien

“Wicked” Myth Making

Have you seen the stage play Wicked, a prequel to the Wizard of Oz? It “explains” how the Tin Man lost his heart, the Lion lost his courage, the Scarecrow lost his brain, and the Witch of the West came to be called “Wicked”. It’s about myth making in the negative sense - how lies, deceit, and popularity become confused with history. You might see shades of Sara Palin and the Tea Party. Here’s a quick recap.

Elphaba, Witch of the West, is born with green skin. She suffers the sticks and stones hurled at those who are different, especially those who possess extraordinary powers such as she has.  When her school’s history teacher, a goat, is caged and forced to stop speaking and teaching, Elphaba gets angry and lets loose some of her power. The headmistress, Madame Morrible, is so impressed that she decides to take Elphaba to meet the Wizard of Oz.

Glinda, Witch of the North, is an egotistical, self-righteous, goody two-shoes whose mission in life is to be the most popular person on the planet. She tags along with Elphaba to meet the Wizard.

The Wizard gives Elphaba a book of spells and goads her into reading and using one of them. Elphaba discovers that the Wizard is all smoke and mirrors and that she has greater powers than either the Wizard or Madame Morrible. The Wizard tries to placate her by telling her there is no truth; history is just what a lot of people agree to believe.

At this point Elphaba decides to leave the Wizard and free the caged and muzzled animals in Oz. The Wizard imprisons her and Glinda. Elphaba decides to defy gravity and fly free. She invites Glinda to join her, but Glinda is afraid and refuses. Elphaba grabs a broom and rises up. She sings my favorite song, “Defying Gravity.” Elphaba flies freely and goes about Oz releasing the animals. This provokes the Wizard, Madame Morrible, and the people of Oz to call her “Wicked.”

Meanwhile Glinda announces to Oz that she and Fiyero are engaged to be married. Fiyero is shocked. He is in love with Elphaba and has not asked Glinda for her hand.  When Fiyero goes searching for Elphaba, Glinda gives the Wizard and Madame Morrible information that leads to the death of Elphaba’s sister Nessarose, Witch of the East, (the one with the red slippers) and the capture of Elphaba.

The people of Oz think they have succeeded in killing Elphaba and Fiyero, but the couple actually escape and go underground. Glinda, deceitful but popular, is crowned “Good” Witch of the North. Elphaba, who understood the importance of nature and set about caring for it, is forever known as the “Wicked” Witch of the West.

Truth is often trampled underfoot and forced to go underground. There it gathers energy and erupts in surprising ways, much like current movements for democracy in the Middle East.

Visions of Hope

What if, just as you were ready to enter high school, there were a drought in your region of the world and your family didn’t have money for the regulation shoes or mandatory fees? What if the only library near you was a room with used textbooks from the United States? What if the drought created a famine and the famine were accompanied by an outbreak of cholera?

Faced with these mind-numbing circumstances, William Kamkwamba of Malawi, a poor country in Southern Africa, did what others only talk about – he became the change he hoped to see in the world.

It began when William saw a picture of a wind farm in an old text book. Intrigued by the picture, he attempted to read some of the English words surrounding the picture. That smattering of words gave him a vision of possibility – wind power could create electricity and pump water from a well. Inspired by this vision, William decided to build a windmill.

Despite never having built anything of scale, having no supplies, and knowing nothing about electricity, he set about his task. When others saw William combing through the junkyard in search of usable materials, they labeled him a madman and treated his family with derision. Yet William persisted and his father, though not understanding William’s vision, gave him time from fieldwork to keep tinkering away.

Day by day he found pictures in the textbook and deciphered words related to each image, gradually conquering one concept after another. For each mechanical device necessary for the windmill, he drew models on pieces of scratch paper. Mounds of junk covered the dirt floor of his room. Sections of the windmill began to take shape. Flattened PVC pipes became the blades. Bicycle spokes, bent and twisted, served multiple purposes.

His friend Geoffrey, the chief’s son, saw William painstakingly creating nuts and bolts from old nails. To erase hours of such labor, Geoffrey went to the general store and bought William a bag of nuts and bolts. William’s friend Gilbert suffered from anemia that caused his legs to swell from malnutrition during the famine, yet he steadfastly helped William and believed in the dream of a windmill that could generate electricity for lights and pump water for irrigation.

What so deeply inspires me about William’s story is his passionate desire to learn. When he couldn’t go to school, he tackled an enormous problem that forced him to learn on his own. I associate that same passion with Abraham Lincoln, who as a young man would walk miles to borrow a book that he would read by candlelight. I’m not going to tell you how this story ends but I will give you a clue. You can see William and his windmill on TED. I hope you will read The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind and be inspired to create your own “windmill,” your vision of hope for your community.

Simple, Simple, Simple

I did it! I did a home yoga practice for 21 days straight with the help of Yoga Journal. Then I did another 21 days all on my own. And ... I’m still doing it.

In early January I saw an article in Yoga Journal announcing a home yoga practice challenge January 10 through January 30. The article was intriguing, but I was doubtful. Then I found the two-page spread on a “simple everyday practice” by Kate Holcombe. I noticed right away that there were no down dogs, back bends, or hand stands. It was all done lying or kneeling on the floor – simple – simple - simple.

I cut out the spread, taped it into a file folder for easy reference, and gave it a whirl. It was primarily spine, leg, and arm stretches. It was just what it said - simple. Afterward, relaxed and refreshed, I signed up for the challenge.

The first issue was, WHEN am I going to do this? I had imagined doing it first thing in the morning. But I already have a morning journal writing practice that occurs before breakfast and dressing for work. I knew trying to get up earlier was not going to work for me. Then I realized that I go to a yoga studio two nights a week after work. I decided on the days I didn't go to the yoga studio I would do the home practice immediately upon arriving home from work.

During the challenge, I received a daily email with a 20-45 minute video.  At first I tried to watch the video and then do the sequence. But it was too hard to remember all the poses, so I switched to setting my laptop on the floor and following along with the instructor. After one 45-minute sequence, I determined that 30 minutes would be my maximum. Since all previous videos were still available, if the one for a particular day seemed too much, I would repeat one that had worked well for me. There were plenty of down dogs and sun salutations, but no backbends or hand stands.

During the 21 Day Challenge, I found that the daily yoga practice became a ritual for marking the end of my workday and the beginning of my personal time. I remembered how years before, when I was teaching in Singapore, I would arrive home in the heat of the afternoon and take a shower to mark the conclusion of my workday.

When the challenge ended I had enough momentum to keep up a daily practice using Kate Holcombe’s twenty-minute sequence. After about a month, I began to notice a decrease in the pain and stiffness I have had in my right arm and shoulder for over a year. That victory has spurred me on. I am now committed to maintaining an ongoing SIMPLE everyday practice.

Mystery

Birth is a mystery. Life is a mystery. Death is a mystery. When we stand present to these realities we experience awe.

Green leaves of summer turned red and gold, fell from their branches, and were replaced by falling snow as one of my dear friends fought an aggressive cancer. Three weeks ago the cancer took a final ferocious  turn.

For the last twelve days of her life, almost a hundred colleagues joined our friend in an around the clock and around the world prayer vigil, giving her support and comfort. Set to New York time, colleagues in Australia, Malaysia, Taiwan, Japan, India, Africa, Italy, Canada, Costa Rica. Mexico, and all across the United States selected an hour in which to pray or mediate with our friend and send her uplifting energy.

At every hour of each day there were three to nine persons accompanying our friend by lighting candles, singing songs, ringing bells, saying prayers, repeating mantras, clapping hands, remembering her gifts to humanity, meditating, and sitting in silence.

As our friend’s time for transition to pure spirit drew near, her husband requested that we send short prayers, brief poems, and messages to be read aloud to her. Via email, an amazing collection from varied traditions and cultures was compiled and sent to New York. The global vigil continued.

On the morning of the final day of her transition, with family and closest friends assembled around her bed, the reading began. Throughout the day, names evoked memories, prayers occasioned wonder, poems released tears, phone messages brought smiles, and hand holding gave comfort. Late in the afternoon, a friend arrived to give Reiki and to guide a meditation.

Both my friend and her husband were transported into awe. Each experienced that, “Darkness is just a curtain and when the curtain is pulled aside all that exists is Light, Energy, and Pulsation.”

A few hours later, embraced by her husband and lifted up on a wave of love, my friend slipped quietly away to become one with Infinity. Those who accompanied her on the journey are filled with the extraordinary lightness of her new being. Mystery is everywhere.