LiDona Wagner

Coming Home to My Self

2012-01-22T18:48:00.000-08:00

At the 2011 Winter Solstice, I made the decision to do 12 Days of Coming Home to My Self. This 12 Days would be different than others I have done because the days would not all be sequential. I set aside four days around Christmas, five days around New Year's, and three days around a lecture and workshop on Calling Our Primordial Ancestors.

The focus on Coming Home to Myself was chosen because in actuality my home was being restored following a flood on November 28. Home restoration symbolized to me a desire to come back to center after many years of overextending myself. Three threads were woven through the 12 days: Physical Care, Studio Time, and Spiritual Practices.

Physical Care meant caring for my body and my home. I began with a facial on the first of the 12 days, a massage on the first day of the second time segment, restorative Yoga on the last day of 2011, and getting back into walking as the torn tendon in my right ankle has begun to heal.

Caring for my home began on Christmas Day with washing the front sidewalks of sawdust, plaster, and mud from all the workmen coming and going for the previous month; unpacking all that was stored during demolition and restoration and putting it back into place; getting the washer and dryer serviced; smudging my home of all foreign energies brought in by strangers; and having the carpet cleaned throughout the entire house. Moving and replacing everything for the carpet cleaning was quite a physical workout, so it was both body and home care.

I knew that Studio Time would involve working on completing the narrative cycle of my Heritage Mandala. A mandala is composed of several concentric circles around a central square. The narrative cycle is the fourth circle from the edge. Based on each of us having had a DNA analysis, this is where we have painted the journey of our maternal ancestors out of the Rift Valley in East Africa to some place in the globe.

Because we paint one segment at a time, the completed narrative circle is not always a balanced art form. Mine was really out of balance, like me over the past year. It had dark and light segments that needed to be integrated. Although it took far longer than I had anticipated, mandala work is very meditative, and I found it restful and healing. It seemed somehow important to complete the narrative cycle in 2011 and to begin the Sea of Human Life in the New Year, which I did.

The big surprise was my decision to create a Who I Am Becoming sketchbook. The concept for the sketchbook was a marriage of two ideas. I had committed in my Career Shaping group to do a sketchbook to record my explorations. Then I met a woman who wants to curate a self-portrait show of paintings/artwork based not on who we are but who we are becoming. The moment she used that phrase, I knew that was what my sketchbook needed to be.

I began it on the second of my 12 Days by doing the front and back covers. When I began working on the interior pages, I was amazed by how their execution and my understanding of them morphed and changed. Two collaged pages show how deep my struggle with this process is. I thought it was a simple matter of merging artist and writer, but I discovered that something deeper wants to happen.

The holiday season has always been an opportunity for me to do a variety of Spiritual Practices. Every day I played the Dalai Lama chanting the Maha Mkiiyunjava Manika. The healing force of this chanted mantra sends forth ripples from body to psyche and from psyche to soul. I would often stop whatever I was doing, sit, and allow the vibrations to wash over me.

Other spiritual practices included dreamwork, editing a friend’s book of poetry, divination readings, and attending a lecture and workshop on the Primordial Psyche. My divination readings were the I Ching, Sacred Path Peace Tree spread, and Medicine Cards to expand on the Peace Tree reading. The immediate take away from these readings is the awareness that I need a fallow period during which to replenish my self. If I do, like the dried Hydranga blossom above, roots will grow and the old stem will send forth fresh shoots.

The lecture and workshop on the Primordial Psyche took me back to a big dream I had in 1991, shortly after I arrived in Victoria, B.C., and to my travel around the continent of Africa many years before that. As more work is done with tapping into this deep layer of the unconscious, insights will feed into my Children of Eve series.

Like the Dalai Lama’s chanting, these practices set something in motion. Dream images, ideas and thoughts are tumbling around like seeds shaken in a jar. It will take patience to sort the seeds, nurture them, and allow them to sprout. As I was talking with my poet friend, the issue of patience arose. I mentioned that on the counter in the newly reconstructed downstairs bathroom I have a small rock with the word “patience” on it. She said, “The Mystery really picked up that rock and threw it at you recently.” Although we both laughed, it is not a laughing matter.

I hope for the patience to continue the healing begun in my 12 Days of Coming Home to My Self. For I know what has been set in motion may take months or years to manifest.

Winter Solstice! Rejoice!

2011-12-21T19:09:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-29T18:59:00.000-08:00

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

2011-10-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

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:

Purchase a copy for yourself.
Write a book review on amazon.com; the more the better, I understand.
Recommend influential people you know who would be willing to write an endorsement of the book.
Advise me on ways to reach my target markets of art lovers, world travelers, and spiritual seekers.
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

2011-09-29T22:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-31T11:46:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-30T20:17:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-29T07:15:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-29T19:24:00.000-07:00

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

2011-02-26T09:37:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-30T20:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Winter Solstice 2010

2010-12-20T19:08:00.000-08:00

I love to celebrate that wonderous moment when darkness has reached its apex and the return of light begins. After over twenty years of snail mail labor and expense, this year my Solstice greetings are digital.

First Museum Show

2010 was packed with activity and change. Early months were taken up with three back-to-back solo shows of my Pilgrimage paintings. Every spare minute was crammed with:
• Photographing and framing 19 paintings and 8 studies
• Designing installations for three starkly different spaces
• Framing and labeling accompanying photographs and artifacts
• Creating all the information for wall tags
• Lining up volunteers to help me transport the paintings, install the exhibition, and later deconstruct and move to the next location
• Creating, printing and making covers for a Pilgrimage Gift Pack of 17 cards, envelopes, and stories.

My relationship to these paintings changed once the first public exhibition took place. It was a bit like seeing one of your kids leave for college. I had the awareness that these works were no longer me or mine. While I am responsible for getting them out into the world, they now have a life of their own.

The high point of this period was having my first museum show. As I gave various artist talks and discussed my work with viewers, I began to use the phrase “narrative abstraction” to describe my style of art. It was wonderful to finally come up with a name for what I do, but it has also launched me into further reflection on what I mean by this term.

Spring morphed into summer as I packed up the last show at Grants Pass Museum of Art and began to contemplate shows outside of Oregon. I know the work has a powerful impact because a frequent comment made by Pilgrimage viewers to gallery staff was, “This is the best show you’ve had here. “ Please let me know if you have connections to cultural art centers or local museums of art.

Recreating My Space
In a moment of insanity, I decided to paint the interior of my home this summer, something I had contemplated many times in the seven years that I have owned it. Color choices made two years ago were revisited and altered as I clarified that I wanted the downstairs to be warm and inviting, the entry and stairwell to reflect journey and movement, and the upstairs to be calm and meditative.

I made a big mistake by employing a neighbor’s friend to paint the areas requiring ladders. What should have taken a week took over a month because the painter left in the middle of the project and had to be sought after to return and complete the task. Plus, my color changes required meticulous edging that, given the limitations of the painter, I had to do myself. More frustration ensued when the painter overcharged without providing proper documentation and invoices. I won’t go into my anger and disgust when this person left loaded paint brushes and rollers in my refrigerator.

Thank goodness I had a grand adventure to divert my attention from disruption at home. A weekend of kayaking the Rogue River with my yoga teacher and nine other women was totally exciting and exhilarating. Kayaking tested my willingness to take risks and set the stage for me to launch into a new series of paintings, Children of Eve. You’ll be hearing more about this in 2011

Opening to Change
Even though I’ve navigated many changes in my work at the university - my office moved seven times in ten years and the director who hired me moved to greener pastures - I was not prepared for the impact of having both the current director and academic secretary retire and go half time. Since the other two persons on my team were already part-time, that means I am the only fulltime person. After a couple of months being overwhelmed with trying to keep everything together, I set some boundaries and clarified work hours and duties for all team members.

The loss of my team as I had known it triggered memories of other losses – my daughter, former colleagues, a special workmate, organizations and meaningful missions. I suspect that each deep loss we experience must be renegotiated as circumstances in our life change. I am grateful that counseling and stress management are available as a job benefit. Although I still feel somewhat fragile, I think I’m handling the angst a bit better now.

Another big change is the transformation of my granddaughters from little girls into a teenager and young adult. Haley turned 17 in November. As a senior in high school, she is making applications for college next fall. Merron turned 13 early this month. She and I will be taking an international trip this summer, our destination to be selected in the next few weeks.

In 2011,
May hope infuse your daily life,
Courage embolden you to make changes, and
Care for planet earth become a focus of your actions.
Peace and love to all,
LiDoña

Be Inspired

2010-11-28T12:37:00.000-08:00

In my August blog I mentioned that my open studio group in Ventura had decided to publish a book presenting our art and the intentions behind it. Art: Twenty Ten is ready now and I want to share the process we used to create this inspirational gift. Perhaps you will find clues about how to make one of your dreams a reality.

Art: Twenty Ten was born when Katherine Chang Liu, advisor to our open studio, asked if we thought publishing a book showcasing the wide variety of our work would be a good idea. Two persons in the group had already self-published art books and told us how “relatively” easy it had been. One volunteered to put us in touch with the graphic designer who had prepared her work for publication. We calculated how much it would cost each of us to purchase this person’s assistance. It would be between $15 and $25 per person. (It was $20.) Thus encouraged, we voted to take on the project.

After the open studio, one of our members began floating title ideas via email. After a few rounds of input – for and against a variety of titles – we arrived at Art: Twenty Ten. The title initiator, Carole Gardner, has a lot of graphic and computer skills and in short order she was trying out sizes and cover designs. After another few rounds of email, we agreed upon a square format, the cover page she designed, and the basic design for each artist’s two-page spread.

After contacting our chosen graphic editor, Carole reported that if we got everything to him by mid-October, we could have the books in time for Christmas. We decided to go for it. The graphic editor felt it would make everything easier if he only had to deal with one person rather than twenty-seven individual artists. Carole volunteered to field input from all of us, check to be sure it met specifications, and forward approved work to him.

As project director, our appreciation of Carole grew by the day. She recruited a committee that included Liu to provide ongoing feedback, editing and proofreading. Each individual artist selected three images of works from one of her series (one to be large and alone on the right hand page), wrote a brief statement of the intention behind her work, and acquired a portrait to accompany the statement.

Carole’s diplomacy came to the fore. Sometimes what an artist wrote was too brief or too long. Sometimes the three images didn’t show well together; images were not sent in the correct format; or information was incomplete. Once all of an artist's information was correct, Carole sent a proof of the two-page spread to be confirmed or edited before production.

There were foot draggers. One artist had photos with background distractions that had to be removed. Another had to locate, unpack, and photograph her work. One suggested, “You really don’t need my work, there are plenty of other painters.” One didn’t know where she put the CD with her images. Nevertheless, with help from friends and using her own computer graphic skills, Carole brought all twenty-seven artists from twenty-seven different locations into the fold.

Each artist received a mini-proof of the whole book before it was sent out to possible publishers. You would think that after working together in open studio, some for many years, there would be no surprises. Not so. When writing her statement, each artist opened her heart and shared her most profound intentions. We found reading the statements and seeing the images inspiring and we weren’t even seeing the color version! We shared how blown away we were by the power and beauty of our book.

Our graphic editor got quotes from two publishers, Lulu and Createspace. He and Carole decided to make both versions available. The Createspace version is slightly smaller (8.25 x 8.25 inches) than the Lulu version (8.5 x 8.5 inches) and less expensive.

You can order Art: Twenty Ten directly from Createspace at www.createspace.com/3497717 and get a 20% discount ($8.20 - 20% = $6.56) plus shipping by putting in the code RPG886A7 on check out. At amazon.com Art: Twenty Ten is $8.20 plus shipping. The Lulu version costs $17.10 plus shipping. You can order Art: Twenty Ten by going to http://www.lulu.com/ and entering the title. It will not be available on amazon.

If you or someone you know has ever wondered what goes on in the head and heart of an artist engaged in the creative process, or if surrounding yourself with beauty inspires you, I highly recommend Art: Twenty Ten. And, of course, my work and intentions are included in the book.

Trip of a Lifetime

2010-10-31T12:31:00.000-07:00

I stood at the end of a long dirt road that reminded me of the TV series Gunsmoke, except that the soil was the russet red color found throughout eastern and southern Africa. I could feel my blouse sticking as the July sun sent sweat streaking down my back. My hands were clammy and my fingers were swollen so much they felt like small sausages.

At twenty-three this was my first trip abroad and everything about it was virgin territory for me: the flight from Chicago to New York, crossing the ocean by ship, taking a ferry from London to The Hague. We’d made a whirlwind trip to the medieval city of Bruges, a brief stop in Communist controlled Prague and then on to view the acropolis in Athens. We had been given a brief history of mid-east tensions by a Jordanian scholar in Aman, visited the pyramids near Cairo, and eaten highly spiced goat meat in Addis Ababa. We had received an overview of Africa in Nairobi before landing in Dar es Salaam, the capital of Tanganyika (present day Tanzania).

In the mid 1960s Dar es Salaam was a frontier town – rough and raw – starting from scratch to build something. The dirt road seemed to disappear into cavernous open space blanketed by an impossibly blue sky. A new signboard read Nkrumah Street, recently renamed in honor of the highly celebrated leader of Ghana. On either side of the rusty ribbon road stood low wooden buildings - unpainted, ramshackle, with corroded tin roofs.

Advancing along a row of these wooden sheds, I spotted ahead of us a rickety sign with FRELIMO scrawled in chipping white paint. We arrived at the office of the Mozambique Liberation Front and my heart skipped a beat as my then husband knocked on the shaky door. After a moment, the door creaked open and I could see three dark curly heads hunched over maps on a battered teacher’s desk.

Our research into African liberation movements had begun. We hoped to find clues in post-independence Africa for our work in the black inner city ghetto where we lived in Chicago. I stood among the guerrillas that day and listened to their stories of using community theatre to awaken villagers to the evils of colonialism. My stomach registered so much fear that I felt I might melt into a puddle at any moment. But my head was exploding with electricity.

Looking back, I recall being vaguely aware of Leakey’s discoveries of ancient human skeletons in this area, but I was oblivious to the fact that those dark skinned young soldiers were my distant relatives. We continued to Northern and Southern Rhodesia (present day Zimbabwe and Zambia), Congo Brazzaville, Cameroon, Nigeria, almost to Chad, Ghana, and almost to Timbuktu. At the end of the summer we flew from Accra to Paris and thence to New York and Chicago.

It would be another twenty-five years before mitochondrial DNA research would establish that all humans have descended from one woman in East Africa. It would take another thirteen years after that for the Discovery channel to produce The Real Eve and explain how DNA tracking reveals the migratory routes taken by our ancestors as they left Africa and traveled to all parts of the globe.

Since that summer decades ago, I have traveled all over the world and that first trip had receded into the darker recesses of my memory. It took an event last spring for me to realize it was the trip of a lifetime. Not because it was my only trip to Africa; I made several trips over three decades. Not because I was repulsed by steak ala tartar in a town on the border of Nigeria and Chad. Not because I flew around the continent in six-seat planes and nearly died on the way to Timbuktu when one of the two engines failed.

The significance of that primal trip was revealed when I did a DNA sample for the genographic project of National Geographic. The results of the test showed the migratory route of my maternal ancestors. The trip I made as a young woman had essentially retraced the journey of my mother's ancestors back through Eastern Europe, through the Near East, back all the way to their origin in the Rift Valley of East Africa 170,000 to 50,000 years ago.

I have been to the birthplace of all modern humans. I have breathed the red dust those first humans breathed. I have gazed at the same stars my ancient relatives followed. I know from whence I have come. I am humbled by knowing in my breath and bones what awesome courage it takes to live as they did, in harmony with nature.

The Practice of Self-Affirmation

2010-09-30T20:23:00.000-07:00

Many years ago I created a ritual to handle my anxiety over the first Christmas without my daughter. Called 12 Days of Christmas, for each of 12 days I gave myself a gift. These were as small as a $5 teapot from Goodwill, as costly as going to the ballet, as sweet as a box of chocolates, and as spiritual as a set of Mother Peace Tarot cards. It was one of the most self-affirming things I had ever done.

In the years since my first 12 Days of Christmas, I’ve used that ritual to navigate difficult periods of my life. I realize now that performing that ritual has developed into the practice of self-affirmation. In the last year I performed the following acts of self-affirmation.

To care for myself:

I set aside time every week to talk with my best friend.
I walked thirty minutes a day and did yoga or Pilates at least two days a week.
After owning my condo for seven years, I painted the interior in colors that nourish my spirit.
Knowing my tendency to become absorbed in a book and read all night, I held off reading The Help until my most intense period of work had passed.

To respect my creativity:

Despite early rejections of my Pilgrimage series of paintings, I persisted for nine months in creating and sending out an exhibition proposal that resulted in having three solo shows.
In spite of having limited resources, I invested in spending two weeks studying with my art mentor.
I purchased a professional easel so as not to harm my neck and back by leaning over a table for long periods of time.
I reorganized the studio to accommodate the easel and have all my supplies close at hand.

To challenge myself:

I went kayaking and refused to give up just because I didn’t get it right in the first half hour.
Despite not being a science fiction or fantasy fan, I read Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy because both of my granddaughters loved the books. It turned out that I thoroughly enjoyed them.
I committed to doing my Children of Eve series on wood panels rather than paper, a support with which I am very comfortable.
I wrote a blog every month – even if it was in the last wee hours of the last day of the month.

In listing the above items, I’m not bragging about myself. I am giving you examples of what the practice of self-affirmation might look like. I challenge each of you to take up this practice because the interesting thing about self-affirmation is that it does not lead to self-absorption. On the contrary, it opens us up to care for that which is beyond ourselves. For example,

In my care for the environment, I choose not to own a car. (See my blog on E to the third power.)
A friend and I have traded our gift exchanges for making contributions to groups doing critical work in the world. Some of these include Central Asia Institute, Ophelia’s Place in Eugene, Partners in Health, Doctors Without Borders, Heifer International and Institute of Cultural Affiars.
I am a member of President Obama’s Honorary Kitchen Cabinet – meaning I gave generously of time and money to elect a visionary leader.
I’m out canvassing for Democratic candidates who will move our country forward - out of the slide into oblivion where we were previously headed.

If each of us cared for ourselves, nurtured our creativity, and challenged ourselves to move out of our comfort zone, I suspect that not only our economy but our civic life as well as the arts and education would blossom in exciting ways. Why not give it a try?

2010 Ventura Artists Summit

2010-08-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

A cardboard woman with a skirt of white netting, a hollow left leg, and overflowing shopping bags presided over twenty-seven artists working at an array of tables. easels, chairs, and stools. Judy Levinson's wacky take on figures set a magical tone for two weeks of serious studio work in the company of artists intent on producing meaningful work. Bell Arts Factory in Ventura, California was the venue for our gathering.

Ranging from thirty to eighty years in age, we artists were Swiss, English, Canadian, Asian American, East and West Coasters, South Westerners, and a sprinkle from Middle America. We came bearing the wounds of divorce, cancer treatment, high blood pressure, arthritis, diabetes, asthma, motherhood, grief, broken hearts, exhaustion and exclusion. Each artist had extracted herself from an easy or difficult situation in order to produce her best work and take it to a new level; no eye, ear, neck, back, leg, or emotional ailment could extinguish her will to create.

Katherine Chang Liu, leader and mentor for the two weeks, presented thought-provoking slide shows, gave individual critiques, cheered flagging spirits, and extracted commitments from those who have kept their creations away from the public eye. But it was the energy of the individual artists that created an electrifying atmosphere conductive to high performance.

For me personally, the summit was an opportunity to launch into my new Children of Eve series of paintings after months of research and data collection. I needed a concentrated period of work to release the visual language of Pilgrimage and find something fresh and specific to the story of our human migrations out of Africa 70,000 to 50,000 years ago. Hopefully, producing four pieces has built enough momentum to keep me going on the remaining eighteen.

Together we artists committed to publishing a book that will showcase the range of work we are doing. Twenty-seven artists are doing one-of-a-kind: cardboard creatures, imagined topographies, lithographs via computer, textural histories, collaged self-portraits, off-the-wall assemblages, genealogical constructions, distorted spacial arrangements, bold and lyrical abstractions, outrageous and gestural figures, and paintings of sculptural forms, color-field shapes, feminist antics, pointilistic skulls, moody environments, color frequency settings, surreal and composite images, calligraphic landscapes, garden vegetation, symbolic narratives, and social commentary. There are no duplicates.

Until the book is ready, enjoy these photos of Katherine commenting on another of Sand Poland's stunning assemblages, my easel in the studio, and the beachside view from my balcony in the Crown Plaza Hotel.

Kayaking the Rogue River

2010-07-28T15:45:00.000-07:00

“I’m going to lead a women’s yoga and kayaking retreat on the Rogue River at the end of June,” announced my twenty-three-year-old yoga teacher. My arm shot up when she asked if anyone in the class might be interested in attending. I’d been looking for an opportunity to go kayaking for seven years and there was no way I was going to miss it when it arrived dressed as a women’s retreat.

“Those who don’t want to kayak can ride in the raft,” Kelly continued. Not want to kayak? How could anyone not want to kayak? My experience seven years earlier had been in a wooden kayak on a lagoon. The kayak sat low in the water and the thrill of “being the water” had made me ache for more of such experiences. “No raft for me,” I said, “I’m going to kayak.”

Kelly effused about how we would do yoga and meditation and have a fabulous outdoor meal on Friday night and then camp overnight. More yoga and meditation before breakfast in the morning and then at 9:00 we’d be picked up by our river guides. Even though I’m not an avid camper and knew I would have a restless night on the hard ground, nothing was going to stop me from kayaking the Rogue River.

And kayak I did. As we stood at the edge of the Rogue and got fitted with life jackets, our appointed guide, a highly experienced woman in her fifties, jumped into the raft. “Who’s coming in the raft with me?” Four of our band of eleven women moved toward Carrie. They tried to lure me, the oldest in the bunch, into the raft. “No way, I want one of these shiny red inflatable kayaks.” They gave me a new one to christen.

Many of the other six kayakers wore bikini bathing suits and baseball caps. I was determined not to have sunburn cut my experience short, so had covered all over and had a wide-brimmed sunhat. I was proud to be wearing Tevas - real river shoes - a leftover from my previous kayaking adventure. I lathered sun block on the little bit of exposed skin as our life-jacket fitter showed us how to hold the paddle long side up. Then he helped each of us into our kayak and pushed us away from the shore. “Oops,” I thought, “is that all of the instruction we get?”

Two sixteen-year-olds, a boy and a girl, were in kayaks on the river. Eric and Kelly (same name as my yoga teacher) were introduced as the kayak guides. The guy would take the lead and the girl would bring up the rear. Eric took off and some of the women followed. All I could remember was that you moved the paddle from side to side, pushing back against the water. I started paddling.

The inflatable kayak sat on top of the water and was easily taken by the currents of the river. Just then a big boat whizzed by and I started going around in a circle. “Oops, how do you stop this? Oh well, when it faces forward again I’ll just paddle fast. Oh. Oh, there’s a rock up ahead.” Not knowing how to get around the rock, I held my oar out in front to keep from crashing. I used the oar to push away from the rock and by shifting the oar around the rock I managed to get past it alright.

Eric motioned for us to gather round him. He explained how we would go through the first rapid. He would take the lead and we should follow, doing exactly what he did, staying on the right side of the river. The raft would come through last. Guide Kelly came up to my side. “I think you need to put the oar more deeply into the water,” she said in a friendly voice. “Thanks, Kelly. I’ll try.”

I was in the middle of the nine kayaks. I kept focused on Eric and paddled as deeply and as hard as I could. The kayak shot forward, crashing into waves that came cascading over me. The cold water was shockingly delicious under the hot sun. I kept paddling with deep and strong motions. “Thank God for all of the rotations I’ve done in Pilates class,” flashed through my mind. More waves and showers of cold water and we were through the rapid. I was breathless from the exertion but also from the excitement. “That was so much fun,” I thought.

Kelly came by and flashed me a smile. “You did great,” she said. The rafting guide motioned for all of the kayaks to gather around her in a shallow quiet area. “Does anyone want to get into the raft now? We can deflate a kayak at any time.” None of the seven kayaking retreaters raised their hands. Carrie called out, “LiDoña?” I shook my head, smiled and yelled, “No. I’m fine.”

Another big boat went past and I started bumping into the other kayaks. “I don’t know how to keep from running into you,” I said to no one in particular. Kelly came over. “Look, if you push the paddle forward instead of backward, the kayak changes direction.” I did as she instructed and low and behold, the kayak righted itself. “Thanks, Kelly,” I called as the raft took off and Eric moved into the lead again. ”Oh, yes, now I remember that part,” I said to myself. My friends on Quadra Island had made me practice both strokes before they let me leave their pier on the lagoon. I thanked Leslie and David for their foresight and Kelly for reminding me.

Now I was really having fun. Being able to direct the kayak doubled the pleasure. After each of the next few rapids, Kelly would come by and say, “You’re doing great.” I smiled my gratitude. After about three and a half hours and I don’t know how many rapids, we stopped for a picnic lunch prepared by the rafting guide. It was none too soon as my arms were getting tired. Eric explained how to get out of the Kayak. “I think I’ll need some help,” I said. “I don’t think my hips will unbend.” My colleagues obliged.

After lunch, Carrie once again asked, “Anyone want to get into the raft now?” Our retreat leader said she was ready, so they deflated her kayak. “Tell us what’s up ahead and then I’ll decide,” I said. “More of the same except that there’s one really big rapid,” Carrie responded. “I think I’ll try to make it until we get to the big one and then I’ll get into the raft,” I ventured.

Off we went, this time with the kayaks taking the lead and the raft following. It was harder now because there was a wind against us. I could feel how tired my arms were but I kept paddling. After twenty or thirty minutes, I looked up ahead. A gap was widening between me and the other kayakers. The raft was hanging back with me. I examined the widening gap, felt the power of the wind against me, and measured the tiredness of my muscles. “I’m too tired to be able to fight this wind and catch up with the others,” I thought. “And I’m holding the raft back.”

“Okay, Carrie,” I called. “I think I’m done. I’m ready to come into the raft.” Carrie grinned. “Bring your kayak along beside the raft,” she said. “We’ll pull you in and then deflate the kayak.”

I happily took a seat as Carrie let the air out of my brand new kayak and put it into the back of the raft. It felt good to let Carrie’s strong arms narrow the gap between us and the other kayaks.

Two people were sitting on the front of the raft, each with one leg hung over the edge. They were holding on to a rope fastened to the rim of the raft. As we went through the rapids they were sprayed with water just as I had been in the kayak. After a while, one asked if anyone would like to take her place. I jumped at the chance and found that it was almost as much fun as running the rapids in a kayak.

As we approached a bend in the river, Carrie called out to Eric and asked him to retrieve a water bottle she’d left in some bushes at her friend’s house the day before. As Eric looked for the bottle, Carrie’s friend came out of a house up on the shore and the two of them exchanged pleasantries. Once the water bottle was retrieved, people in the raft began peppering Carrie with questions about life along the river.

Carrie had lived by the Rogue for most of her life. Our two young kayaking guides had grown up on the river. We learned that the rapids we were going through were called class two or three. The toughest ones are class ten and they are on the Columbia River in Colorado. I think Carrie said there are class five to seven on a different stretch of the Rogue River and she has done those but has never done the ones on the Columbia. I’m pretty sure I’ll stick with class two and three rapids.

Someone asked me if kayaking the Rogue was scary. I was not scared because precautions were taken. Our retreat leader told us repeatedly that we would only go on the easy part of the river and that we would have experienced guides. She kept her word. She told us that the advantage of the inflatable kayaks was that they wouldn’t flip over like wooden ones, trapping you underneath. That reassured me. Everyone, including guides, had to wear a regulation life jacket, one that had a neck cushion so that if you passed out your head would be up out of the water. I know how to swim and I'm fairly fit from weekly yoga and Pilates classes.

On the same weekend that I kayaked the Rogue, two Oregon men drowned while rafting the Columbia River. Neither of them wore life jackets. Now that’s scary. What we did was outrageously fun, exciting, and safe. From the time we set up tents beside the Rogue until we hit the road to return to Eugene, I couldn’t stop smiling. I asked Kelly to please do a repeat yoga and kayaking retreat next year.

Recharge Your Creativity

2010-06-29T20:16:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you get more than you were anticipating. Looking to recharge my creativity, I offered my four-session creativity class this spring. I hoped a few people were also feeling this urge and was delighted to find four others who were willing to commit time and resources to exploring their creative edge.

One taker was halfway across the continent and requested to take the workshop via Skype. That was something of a challenge, but class members provided feedback on how to overcome the limitations of the virtual process. We got progressively better at making sure that our Skype member was clearly visible and connected throughout each session. In the end, by sharing our various creative projects both in class and on line, we did feel that she was a “real” member of the group.

The singer in our group announced, after a week of having her living room carpeted with magazines for her self-box collage, that if she had nothing else to do she would spend the next three months making one box after another. The front of her box is the first photo above. Our social activist expressed her passion for the environment in several sections of her self-box collage - one section is shown in the second photo above. An artist member became so fascinated with her colored-pencil Maori symbol drawing that she rendered it in acrylic on canvas - third photo.

Having a virtual student was not my only technological challenge. I also had the idea of making a video of the class and a friend agreed to be the videographer. It became clear early in the process that video documentation requires more dexterity and pre-planning than I had imagined. Not only had neither my friend nor I practiced enough with the camera, I hampered her by not having clear ideas or goals regarding what should be shot during each session. Nor had we anticipated how the intimate nature of the class would make it embarrassing to move in for close-ups. Once I even forgot to recharge the camera between sessions, rendering her powerless for half of that class. Nevertheless, my patient videographer persisted to the end.

If the first step of any learning curve is discovering what you don’t know, then I guess my videographer and I have begun the journey. And if making a video is similar to a writing project in which success comes from being willing to make the shitty first draft and then revise, revise, and revise some more, then there is ample scope for creativity. I hope you enjoy the one-minute video from our session on bark brush mark making.

Green Soup (No Sam, Not Eggs and Ham)

2010-05-24T07:58:00.001-07:00

As I approached my front door last weekend, my next-door neighbor popped her head out and said, “I’m going away for a few days. Would you like to have the Swiss chard I bought at the Saturday Market?” Never one to turn down good organic food, I said, “Yes, of course.”

I don’t know how many times you’ve purchased or prepared Swiss chard, but the answer for me is that I have never bought it. So I had no idea what to do with this bunch of big dark green leaves with red stems that remind one of rhubarb.

Fortunately, I had acquired Anna Thomas’s cookbook Love Soup the previous week, on the recommendation of one of my yoga buddies. To my surprise, chapter 3 had four “Green Soup” recipes, all of which had Swiss chard as an ingredient. I selected one and made some slight adjustments in the ingredients in order to use what I had on hand.

I cleaned and cut the chard, added spinach, water and a pinch of salt and watched as what had been a full pot of green leaves dwindled to about one eighth in size. As the greens simmered, I chopped and cooked an onion in olive oil until it was soft and golden, scrapped it into the pot and rinsed the skillet with sherry. Then I sizzled some garlic in a little olive oil and added it along with black pepper and a dash of cayenne.

After everything had cooked for about twenty minutes, I poured batches into the blender and pureed the mixture. The result looked like a darker version of one of Odwalla’s superfood drinks. Back into the pot to reheat and, voila, one of the most tasty soups I’ve ever made.

I don’t know if it was the sherry, caramelized onion, Swiss chard, or cayenne that set my taste buds humming, but I’m so inspired by this success that once a week I’m going to try cooking another of Anna’s soups. I’m particularly eager to try her arugula and apple soup since years ago I was ridiculed for putting apples into one of the experimental soups I like to make from leftovers.

Thank you to my neighbor and to my yoga buddy for introducing me to Swiss chard and Anna Thomas’s Love Soup.

Children of Eve

2010-04-28T20:45:00.000-07:00

Newsweek magazine reported in 1988 that we are all descendants of one black woman in East Africa 50,000 to 70,000 years ago – the Real Eve. In 2002 Discovery channel followed up with a video that traced, using DNA research, Eve’s migration out of Africa and subsequent migrations by her children to all parts of the world. The video ended with two people in Chicago – a Native American man and a woman of Greek descent – each doing a cheek swab and discovering they have a common ancestry. What a lovely image of the one human family occupying planet earth!

In 2005, National Geographic and IBM teamed up to launch The Genographic Project," a multi-year research effort using DNA as a tool to map how humankind populated the planet." They began offering members of the public an opportunity to trace their genetic lineage back thousands of years using an anonymous process. I chose to participate in National Geographic’s project because resources paid for processing my sample go to further research and to help prevent extinction of indigenous peoples.

I have done my cheek swabs. My samples have been received and batched. My DNA has been extracted. I now await analysis of the results regarding my matrilineal heritage. These results will provide the backbone for my next creative project - a series of paintings about my ancestral connections back to genetic Eve.

I have spent hours enjoying the incredible information available at the website: https://genographic.nationalgeographic.com/genographic/journey.html I encourage you to go to their website and peruse Atlas of Human Journey and Globe of Human History.

Workshop Announcement
During the latter part of May and early June I’ll be offering a four-session multi-media, multi-modal opportunity for you to get your creative juices flowing. Creativity is Your Birthright meets once a week in Eugene and addresses questions such as: Who are you? Where are you in your life? What’s next? If you are interested, contact me via email.

My First Museum Show

2010-04-03T17:44:00.000-07:00

My first museum show opened in the Grants Pass Museum of Art on Friday, April 2, 2010. Despite a rainstorm, 400 people came during the three-hour event. That’s rather impressive for a town of 32,000 people.

While viewing Pilgrimage is a holistic experience, when viewers speak to me as the artist, they tend to focus on a particular impression:

It’s anthropological.
The symbols are powerful.
All of your patterns and textures give the impression of fabric.
There’s so much movement and rhythm in each painting.
The feelings being expressed are touching me deeply.
Clearly, you have something to say.
You have captured the essence of each place.
Your shapes are totally original and the colors are vibrant.
It’s so overwhelming I’ll have to come back.
Thank you for sharing this work.

This was the third opening of Pilgrimage and each experience has been different for me. I was scared at the first reception in the Hallie Brown Ford Gallery in Roseburg. Pilgrimage reflects so much of my interior that I felt totally exposed. I was grateful that people were friendly and willing to open themselves to abstract art.

The second reception at the Chessman Gallery in Lincoln City was exciting. Being close to the metropolitan center of Portland, people were accustomed to contemporary works. Viewers were so effusive in their affirmation of the quality of my artwork that I was able to begin distancing myself from its personal content.

With two openings behind me, I felt comfortable and relaxed in Grants Pass. I enjoyed meeting many local artists as well as members of the art department from Rogue Community College. Their interest in the creative process made the experience of giving my first official “artist talk” a positive one.

One of my granddaughters asked, “What’s next, Grandma?” I'm wondering that myself!

Lincoln City Opening

2010-03-06T17:00:00.000-08:00

Pilgrimage opened to an appreciative audience on the Oregon coast.

When I walked into the Chessman Gallery and saw LiDoña’s work, I said, ‘Wow!’ This is the quality of work that you would see in the Metropolitan or MoMA* in New York!
Natacha Popovici
Executive Director, Lincoln City Cultural Center
(formerly Working Playground Program Director, Brooklyn, NY)

This is the work of a mature artist. It’s an honor for us to show LiDona’s work.
Sharon Maribona
Gallery Chairperson, Board Member, Lincoln City Cultural Center

You have given us a world tour.
Dean Ingram
Commercial Photographer, Board Member, Lincoln City Cultural Center
*Metropolitan Museum of Art and Museum of Modern Art

Pilgrimage Gift Pack is Ready

2010-02-24T20:56:00.000-08:00

PILGRIMAGE: WONDER ENCOUNTER WITNESS

The Pilgrimage Gift Pack includes:

Attractive Protective Cover

LiDoña Wagner Artist Biography

Introduction to the Pilgrimage Series

17 Art Cards, Anecdotal Stories, and Envelopes

WONDER: Places that evoked wonder in me

Australia

Malaysia

Mexico

Peru

Philippines

United States

ENCOUNTER: Encounters that challenged me to face myself

India

Indonesia

Kenya

Nigeria

WITNESS: People whose courage I witnessed

Egypt

Hong Kong

India

Japan

Sudan

Zambia

Price is $35 plus shipping when ordered on line

To order contact LiDoña via email

Also available are limited edition Giclee prints

8.5 x 11 $100

11 x 14 $150

16 x 20 $225

20 x 30 $325

Overflowing Gratitude

2010-01-31T13:08:00.000-08:00

“This is the best show we’ve had in the gallery.” and “I’ve been a cop all of my adult life, but I get this show!” were comments made to me during the opening of the first Pilgrimage Exhibition at the Hallie Brown Ford Gallery in Roseburg, Oregon. These visitor statements on January 22 calmed my fears about sharing my interior universe with strangers.

While I’d like to take some credit for the receptive response, it was really the gallery manager, Aleta McGee, who had the vision for how to make my colorful symbolic works accessible to the Roseburg audience. She asked me to provide photos (black frames, please) and artifacts from places represented in my paintings. Aleta’s request put me in a bind; I never owned a camera during the years that I lived and worked in villages around the world. And those were years of poverty, so I assumed I didn't own any artifacts.

But you, my friends and colleagues, enabled me to realize Aleta’s vision. Upon receiving my request for photos, many of you took time to dredge through your archives, scan your pictures according to my specifications, and send them to me digitally so I would receive them in time for the show. I received photos from villages in Australia, Egypt, Hong Kong, India, Indonesia, Japan, Kenya, Malaysia and Peru. You were awesome!

I soon discovered I was wrong about having artifacts. In my studio I found a small Egyptian bird plaque given to me by Anne Yallop, an Australian Aboriginal Wandjiru picture from Katrin Ogilvey, and a carved Kenyan woman’s bust from Alfrieda Wilkins. In my bedroom I discovered a blue butterfly scarf from Japan given to me by Joan Knudson, a red purse from China given to me by Katrin Ogilvey, Indonesian Batik cloth from Diane Dunlap, and a Chinese silk scarf with calligraphy - a gift to me from Phil and Nancy McCullum. In the living room I found a small Mexican pyramid from Rose Worden, a Filipino wicker handbag from the Bengals (now my sewing basket), and an Indian cloth painting given to me by my daughter after her semester in Gujarat. My penchant for all things Indian was revealed in Pier 1 purchases strewn throughout the house: silk scarves, pillows, napkins, and table runners made from old saris.

Day by day as I prepared for the show, I would turn around in my home and find another of these treasures. I had never really thought of them as cultural artifacts. They are simply the warp and woof of my daily life. In my jewelry drawer are other gifts that I am unwilling to risk in a public space: a silver necklace from India given to me by Kamala Parekh, an Australian Boab tree pin from Katrin Ogilvey, silver bracelets purchased on my honeymoon in Mexico, and the black Filipino bracelet given to me by the nuns from St. Mary’s School where I taught “new math.”

A number of people generously loaned things for the 2010 shows. Nancy Golden and Roger Guthrie and Joel and Terri Narva allowed me to borrow back village paintings from their art collections. Phyllis Hockley loaned me her precious Indonesian Tjangkul man statue.

Preparing for the Roseburg exhibition was a month-long marathon. (Remember, I still work full-time. Thankfully, the holidays gave me extra time.) When I finished framing all my paintings and getting them digitally documented, I turned to composing and framing photo collages. Aleta wanted brief descriptions for all 29 paintings to use as wall tags. So I wrote those. Then I collected, cleaned and tagged all the artifacts. Finally I packed everything so Wesley Lachman could help me transport the show to Roseburg. (In an earlier blog I shared why I do not own a vehicle.)

Am I tired? I am exhausted! My brain is so fried that I can’t remember the four-digit ATM pin code I’ve been using for years! But more than that I am grateful - grateful for the experiences that have made me who I am, grateful to Aleta for her vision, and grateful to each of you for your role in my life. Thank you.

PS 1
As some of you have noted, I’m behind on updating my website. Hopefully it will be ready before the end of February. I’m also working on a Pilgrimage gift pack of 17 art cards that will be available for sale. Inserted into each card will be an anecdotal story that celebrates the wonder I experienced in that place, embraces the self-revelation that happened in that place, or honors the courage and ingenuity of the ordinary people of that place. Giclee prints of the Pilgrimage paintings will also be available.

PS 2
On Saturday Feb 6 the Umpqua Valley Arts Association will open at 2:00 for a special showing of Pilgrimage for people from out of town.

One-Man Yak Train

2009-12-29T10:51:00.000-08:00

You may have met Greg Mortenson, founder of the Central Asia Institute, in his previous book, Three Cups of Tea. The sequel, Stones into Schools, is the ongoing saga of building schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan, an adventure in which Mortenson is not main protagonist but storyteller. As narrator, he describes unforgettable characters, incredible obstacles, and spectacular local color.

What you discover in Stones into Schools is that Mortenson is an astute judge of individual character. When he meets Sarfras Kahn, “the man with the broken hand”, Mortenson recognizes enormous potential in a high school graduate who knows seven languages. Then, as you follow Sarfras on missions in earthquake torn Kashmir and the remote Wakhan Corridor, you realize that this man’s life experiences have made him a quick study on cultural nuance and a mastermind with logistical puzzles. Possessing a stamina that puts athletes to shame, Sarfras modestly offers gratitude that Central Asia Institute (CAI) has allowed him to become something other than a merchant of yak butter.

In contrast, an inn-keeper when he first meets Mortenson, Wakil Karimi is a product of twenty-three years in a refugee camp. Wakil becomes something of a pest about wanting a school in the town of his birth, 30 miles southwest of Kabul. However, his persistence pays off and he is brought on board as CAI’s Afghanistan director. Wakil turns out to be a visionary who starts a regional movement of women’s literacy groups and has the patience to untangle an unworkable bureaucracy.

Meanwhile, high up in the Wakhan Corridor, an area that is isolated for six months of the year by snow too deep to traverse, lives Abdul Rashid Kahn. A dedicated tribal elder, Abdul goes to enormous lengths to find and bring opportunities to his people. Having exhausted all his resources, Abdul finds in his imminent death a way to rally his people around a project that represents a new future for them.

Mortenson brings to light the heroism of these and other descendants of peoples who were once at the apex of Silk Road trade. These individuals are at the forefront because Mortenson is forced to concentrate on the fund raising opportunity presented by the popularity of Three Cups of Tea. He obviously misses the on-the-ground experience of directly enabling the building of schools and describes himself as nothing more than a “one-man yak train faithfully transporting the donations of ordinary Americans to the far side of the world.” The love and support of his wife Tara and his two children enable him to go from one stretch of 115 presentations to another of 118, then another and another ad infinitum.

Threaded throughout Stones into Schools are stories of individual girls/women who benefit from CAI’s network of schools. Mortenson shows both the enormous difficulties women face in Central Asia, but also their strength and perseverance. Stones into Schools is a delightful and inspiring way to learn about the geography, history, and culture of Central Asia. When laying it down, the reader experiences hope that this geographic region so plagued by war and poverty might actually tap into the DNA of its ancient intellectual primacy and play a new role on the international stage.

The Future of You

2009-11-29T15:14:00.000-08:00

Mine was the only gray head in a sea of young people chatting, munching on cookies, opening laptops, and checking their cell phones. I was not where anyone, including myself, would expect to find anti-consumerist me. I was attending a lecture by, gasp, an advertising creative director.

Creativity, Media and the Future of You, the lecture’s title, had struck some chord in my being. Creativity has been my theme song for eons and I’ve been struggling for the last few years to grasp and participate in social media. But it was “the future of you” that cinched my decision to give up my favorite yoga class to hear Simon Mainwaring speak. I sensed that “the future of you” was profoundly different than “your future” and I needed to know what that was.

“The future does not fit the past,“ Mainwaring told these 19-20 year olds. Speaking with an Australian accent, he challenged them to reframe their thinking about the advertizing profession – to think in terms of cyberspace rather than Madison Avenue. With 560 magazines ceasing operation in the last year (prime advertising space) and people finding numerous ways to avoid TV ads, the industry is in major transition. There will no longer be large advertising firms to join, no career ladder to climb.

That being the case, “You are your industry. You must put your brain under new management." He suggested that they spend ten years becoming an expert in something while at the same time keeping the attitude of a generalist and the mindset of an amateur. "Be an agent of your own imagination by asking, 'What if?'”

"You are your own brand." Your brand is what you care about, who you work with, how you behave, how hard you work. You are what you value. You are the curator of your own content. As walking ads for your values:

Define your purpose
Identify your values
Prioritize your values
Seek work in sync with your values
Serve with integrity – be consistent with your values
Leverage technology
Resist definition
Be curious – do lots of things
Be newer – something you weren’t before

Mainwaring described himself as being about the business of social transformation. He told these aspiring advertising professionals that their role is to listen to what’s going on, advocate for what they care about, amplify their values and add meaning to people’s lives. They were to be storytellers who understand emotions, use media, and give meaning to events of the day.

I came away with the understanding that “your future” is similar to a threatening rain cloud you can’t avoid; it’s going to get you one way or the other. But “the future of you” is something you create, something for which you are responsible, and something for which you are the primary agent.

On the Road in 2010!

2009-10-31T17:32:00.000-07:00

Pilgrimage: Wonder, Encounter, Witness has been in process for over three and a half years. I'm starting to home in on the finale. In the last couple of months I’ve completed two paintings in the series. Completing them feels monumental.

I had started the Maliwada, India painting three years ago by putting several base coats on paper. That piece stood untouched at the back of my studio. Then last February I did seven small color studies, more than I've done for any of the other fifteen paintings that I’ve completed. That shows how anxious I was about trying to capture what this model village project in India means to me. The studies excited me but did not move me to action. Instead, they sat upon a shelf. Finally, in September I challenged myself to do the painting. It came together in about one month’s time. I guess three years of greasing the wheels of creativity finally got them to move!

I began the painting of Azpitia, Peru over a year ago, worked on it for several months, then set it aside when the section on Machu Pichu didn’t work. At the beginning of October, encouraged by completing Maliwada, I challenged myself to resolve the Peru painting. I spent four weekends putting in Machu Pichu with collage, removing a dark area, reconnecting with the Quechua writing that captured my imagination, putting in a vertical light line, glazing to match the shade of beige I had used in other parts of the painting, and making all the tiny adjustments necessitated by each of these changes. It’s done.

With Peru finished, there’s one final painting in this series: Oyubari, Japan. In August 2006, I did sketches and a study for this piece. I made an unsuccessful attempt at the painting over two years ago and quit. About a year ago, I had an idea for how to do the base coats, but didn’t attempt it. Now I’m challenging myself to complete the Oyubari painting by the end of November.

Why have I put this pressure for completion on myself? Because Pilgrimage is going on the road in 2010! Two exhibitions are scheduled, one in March and one in April-May. Five other sites are looking at shows in 2011 and 2012. And, it looks as though there may be a show catalog that shares both the paintings and stories that go with them. This new wrinkle came out of a visit I made last week to the gallery where Pilgrimage goes up in March.

The stories that accompany Pilgrimage have been evolving for even longer than the paintings. Two tales on my life in the village of Kendur, India were written in 1986. In 1990 I wrote a poem about my experience in the Philippines. In 1996 I wrote a story based on my experience in El Bayad, Egypt. Last January I wrote anecdotes from Australia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Mexico, Nigeria, and Zambia. Now I’m working on stories from Hong Kong, Japan, Kenya, New Mexico, Peru, Sudan and Maliwada.

Working on paintings for the villages in which I have lived and worked has been like turning a sock inside out. My village experiences in diverse cultures have totally shaped who I am but I’ve always kept them on the inside, hidden from public view. As Pilgrimage goes on tour, my interior will be on the outside for anyone to see. That’s pretty scary, but I know that these paintings and stories need to have a life of their own. They don’t belong to me. They were gifts to me from the Mystery.

Family Food Fun

2009-09-26T19:58:00.001-07:00

When Lily starts her brood of chickens, she selects their lineage with care. She wants those that will lay eggs during the winter so that she can keep her customers supplied year round. Lily is the nine-year-old daughter of Barbara Kingsolver and Steven Hopp and she has an entrepreneurial bent focused on chickens and eggs. She’s the character in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life who stole my heart. Her commitment, determination, excitement and downright love for her chickens make most adults look like wimps.

After twenty-four years of living in Tucson, Barbara Kingsolver returned to the area where she grew up, the tobacco growing area of Virginia. She and her family decided to spend one year eating only those foods grown in their local area, and most would come from their own farming efforts. The meals and recipes described in chapters such as Waiting for Asparagus: Late March, Zucchini Larceny: July, and Smashing Pumpkins: October are mouth watering. They go a long way toward convincing the reader that it’s possible to give up our petroleum-based food system and eat in a healthier and tastier way.

The major character in Kingsolver’s book is the family farm, a place overflowing with bounty of different kinds during various seasons of the year. To help us non-farm-based readers comprehend how the farm can feed a family throughout a year, Kingsolver invents the “vegetannual”, a mythical plant that bears spinach, kale, lettuce, and chard in April and May; snow peas, baby squash and cucumbers in June; green beans, green peppers, and small tomatoes in July; beefsteak tomatoes, eggplants, and yellow peppers in late July and August; cantaloupes, watermelon, and pumpkins in late August and September; and lastly the root crops.

One of my favorite chapters is Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast. It was cool to find out that husband Steven, who teaches environmental studies at Emory & Henry College, bakes the family’s bread almost every day, but “What kind of weirdo makes cheese?” Well, it turns out that Kingsolver’s family members are those weirdos, treating the reader to some humorous moments in the description of a cheese-making class. In fact, the image of the whole family making mozzarella together, “all of us laughing, stretching the golden rope as far as we could pull it” is enough to make readers want to participate in all the fun.

Making cheese, canning tomatoes, baking bread, roasting turkey or lamb are all sources of delight for this family of four. Glimpsing their homegrown fun makes you wonder why we gave up all of this to pull a lever or sit at a computer all day!

Barbara Kingsolver authored most of this book, but her daughter Camille contributed great family recipes and short pieces on a young person’s reaction to all of this farm business. Husband Steven Hopp wrote informative sidebars on environmental issues. Only Lily, too busy with her chicken and egg enterprise, failed to pen any part of the family food narrative.

Encountering Living History

2009-08-20T16:14:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure what I was expecting when I made plans to visit Washington D.C. with my two granddaughters, but I certainly never expected to be profoundly moved by live statues. “Live statue” is a Buddhist term that refers to statues that have been blessed and at which people have prayed. It means that the statue has acquired “living energy” that can be accessed by viewers. During last week’s visit to Washington I encountered the living history of the United States through many live statues.

Representative DeFazio’s office had arranged a national parks tour, capital tour, and tour of the National Archives for us. The parks tour began with the Washington Monument – an obelisk that provides a 360 degree view of the capital from its top. My granddaughter took the first picture above showing the WWII Memorial and the Lincoln Monument on one axis. From the Washington tower we went to the Viet Nam Veterans Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and the Korean War Memorial. Next we proceeded to the World War II Memorial, the Jefferson Memorial, and finally the four outdoor rooms of the FDR Memorial.

Many persons have spoken about the power of the Viet Nam Memorial and that is true. However, one of the most moving moments of the week was standing in the presence of the Korean War Veterans Memorial – second picture above. The 19 statues sculpted by Frank Gaylord are heroic in scale (7’3”) and made from a reflective material that makes them appear to come to life in bright sunlight. They are reflected in a mural wall that is engraved with 15,000 photographs of the Korean War, making a total of 38 statues, symbolic of the 38th Parallel and the 38 months of the war. Blowing ponchos on the figures convey the feeling of a cold winter wind at the backs of these soldiers. One could not help but feel the loneliness and suffering endured by those who have elected to defend our values.

What is striking about the World War II Memorial is that it salutes the entire American people. It honors not only the 16 million who served in the armed forces and the 400,000 who died, but all who supported the war effort from home. Pillars for each of the states stand in a circle around a reflecting pool – commemorating the spirit, sacrifice, and commitment that made WWII the defining moment of the 20th century. Here one feels the strength that comes from standing together – the fruit of Lincoln’s efforts to save the union.

Since in contemporary times presidential terms of office are limited to two, I have never really thought about the fact that Franklyn Delano Roosevelt served four terms. As we walked through the four stone rooms, each representing one of his terms, I felt just how much influence this one leader had on our nation. Certainly Washington and Jefferson laid the foundation for our free democracy and Lincoln guided us through a Civil War that could have been our undoing. But it was FDR who led us into the global era and shaped our response to global crises – the depression and World War II. Eleanor Roosevelt played a key role in forging the United Nations. These two people ushered us into the world as we know it now.

I was moved, nurtured, and inspired by the energy emanating from these live statues. I appreciate the power and purpose of memorials for the deceased – to pass their creative force on to the living.

Food Glorious

2009-07-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

“What’s that?” I asked a neighbor, pointing to a large pot on her patio.

“Salad,” she replied with a smile. Sure enough, she had sown lettuce, snow peas, and a tomato plant into what would normally be a flower pot. On the spot, I fell in love with the idea of being able to step out to my patio and pick my salad. After arriving at the doorstep of my mind, the idea moved in and took possession. I figured if she could grow salad in a patio pot, so could I.

That was last August, too late to plant. Nevertheless, I surveyed my limited space, already flowing with hydrangea, lavender, jasmine, geraniums, two struggling little dogwood trees, weeping cherry tree and a newly planted quince. How could I make room on the patio for a salad growing box? Except for trees, I’m a committed container gardener. It’s so much easier to control the weeds, you see. What if I extended the plant patio I’d put in by the fence that separates my yard from other condo residents?

I confess that over the last year, additional bricks and pavers began inching slowly along the fence behind two vacant condos. As the days began to lengthen, I took a deep breath and approached the condo association about putting in a second plant patio, down at the end of the fence. With permission granted, I was ready.

Once the new plant patio was in place, I began my “salad” garden, starting with sugar peas in two black plastic pots. Then came a cherry tomato plant, appropriately festooned with a metal cage, followed by lettuce and melon in a planter close to my patio sliding door.

Then I turned my attention to my poor root-bound bamboo plant. Hoping to staunch the browning of its leaves, I decided to thin it. (I should have pulled it out of the pot and trimmed the roots, but being too lazy then I’ll have to do it this fall.) As I cut away, it occurred to me that bamboo sticks often come in handy. So I trimmed the stalks neatly and placed them in my storage unit.

When tiny green sprouts appeared in the two black pots, I realized I would need trellises for the peas to climb. “Ah ha, I bet I can use those sticks I harvested from the bamboo plant.” It worked. The resulting bamboo and raffia structures were not exactly Japanese garden quality, but they stood erect and had crossbars for the peas to twine around.

Now nutritious veggies are growing in my container garden, alongside my lavender, geraniums, jasmine, and primroses. I’m freezing blueberries and strawberries and I might even try my hand at making quince jelly.

Twenty years ago, in the middle of a financial crisis, I told myself that all I really needed was a basic shelter and a small plot of land where I could grow my own food. I suspect it was seeing so many subsistence farmers in countries all over the world that planted this image in my mind. Certainly there were no other agricultural experiences upon which to draw. Anyway, other solutions arose and I set aside the food growing option, until now.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t claim to be a farmer. I’m certainly not producing enough food even for my one person household. But what has happened is that I have a new connection to the cycle of life and a deeper appreciation for organic growers who till the soil day after day, season after season. I feel I'm participating with Great Mystery in the miracle of life.

It would be hard to overstate the pleasure and contentment I derive from an evening walk in the garden. After work each day I check out my plants to see how they’re doing. I go around deadheading the flowers, picking peas, pinching off lettuce leaves, watering if needed. Last night I harvested my first cherry tomatoes.

So you see, Michelle Obama isn’t the only person growing food! I am. I’ll bet you can do it too.

Gifts of Friendship

2009-06-25T10:51:00.000-07:00

What does friendship mean to you? Is it the support provided by someone who picks you up after a medical procedure or brings you supper when you’ve sprained your ankle? Is it the solace that comes when you sit up late into the night discussing things that hold meaning for you? Or perhaps, the faith in one’s self that is regenerated by receiving a no-interest loan at a time of life transition? Or the sense of longevity that comes from staying connected to a childhood neighbor or schoolmate?

Having moved around as a child, I didn’t discover the gifts of friendship until I was a young adult working in the civil rights movement and later doing grassroots empowerment in developing countries. Now I’m involved in training administrators for our public schools. As a result of choosing this kind of personally meaningful engagement, I have met many incredible people who have become life-long friends.

These buddies came to my rescue this past year as I struggled with how to get my most recent series of art works shown. Among my allies I discovered those who were Brutally Honest Colleagues, those who were Resource Locaters, and those who were Coaches.

The Brutally Honest folks were communications colleagues who shot down my ideas for how and to whom to present the work. They showed me how I was off base and what objections I would face. They probed my intentions and examined my rationales. When tears of frustration glistened on my cheeks, they sent me home to plumb more deeply into what the series meant and why I cared about it. Unhinged by not having answers to their queries, I vented with friends who are avid readers and researchers.

These Resource Locators told me what they’d been reading and a couple of books threw off sparks. Made to Stick by Chip and Dan Heath sounded as though it would help me think through how to present my artwork in a way that captured people’s interest. The Art of Pilgrimage by Phil Cousineau touched on experiences that had given rise to the paintings in the first place. Indeed, reading those two books convinced me that “Pilgrimage: Wonder, Encounter, Witness” was a more “sticky” title for the series than “Lessons from the Village.”

The Brutally Honest Colleagues helped me see that Pilgrimage would be a non-commercial exhibition. Instead of approaching galleries I needed to contact public art centers and museums. I located a couple of places that might be appropriate venues, but cowered when I received their guidelines for exhibition proposals. Three months passed with me doing nothing with my “sticky” idea. That’s when my coaching associates entered the fray.

Coaches ask exceedingly practical questions: Have you made a comprehensive list of non-commercial sites around the state? How many do you need? How long would it take you to do that research? What does “20 images” mean? How can you find out? Do all 20 images have to be from the series you want to show? How many digital images do you have from the series? What’s your next step? By the way, is there any opportunity you can exploit?

The coaches weren’t posing the deeply profound questions that the Brutally Honest Colleagues asked. They weren’t stimulating my thinking the way the Resource Locaters did. They were trying to get me off my duff and into action in the world. They succeeded. My first Pilgrimage exhibition is scheduled for March 2010.

Friendship is like a favorite pair of shoes, comfortable and long-suffering. It’s a relationship that has withstood the test of time, the ups and downs of crisis and misunderstandings. It’s the camaraderie developed by working shoulder to shoulder.

As you peruse your network of friends, ask yourself what roles they play for you and you for them. Give gratitude for the priceless gifts they bestow on you, for their solidarity with your purposes and for their ongoing belief in you.

PLAY: An Under-Appreciated Need

2009-05-29T21:57:00.000-07:00

The card in my office mailbox announced a sale – a 13” MacBook for $777 – to celebrate the reopening of the Digital Duck in its renovated space. Since that same laptop was close to $1500 a year ago when I bought my IMac, I took the bait and plunked down my dough.

Then buyer’s remorse set in. “I don’t need a laptop computer. I have my PC at work and my IMac at home. I don’t need a laptop, so why did I buy it?”

A friend who’s a computer whiz came to help me install the necessary software. When I expressed regret that I had bought something I don’t need, she said that since I hadn’t opened the box, I could return it. I paused. For some reason I didn’t want to take it back. So I replied, “Oh well, if it turns out that I don’t use it, I’ll give it to one of my granddaughters. They’ll be going to college soon.”

I put the laptop in the bedroom and started using it for my morning journaling. It was kind of cool to be able to sit in bed and record my morning reflections, but that was certainly no excuse for buying it.

Meanwhile, I was feeling frustrated with progress on a museum proposal for my Pilgrimage exhibition. I’d stalled because I needed to submit 20 images of my work on a CD and wasn’t sure how to do it. With a nudge from a friend, I stopped procrastinating, selected the images and created 20 files. Then it hit me: no one will bother to open 20 separate files. I need a slide show.

I had never created a slide show. I checked with various friends whom I consider to be proficient on computer stuff. It became clear that to have something that could be opened on either a Mac or PC and would allow viewers to progress through the images at their own pace, I needed to create it in PowerPoint. I had never used PowerPoint. Panic. Pause. Stall.

Cut to me journaling in bed one Sunday morning. On a whim I start fooling with the laptop. I try out Pages for a while and think, “Why not open PowerPoint and have a peek?” Click. "Yuk! I hate templates. Oh well, here goes." I fiddle with a template that shows promise and sort of like it. I see a button for inserting a slide. Click. The slide template allows me to import a photo, so I bring in a scan of one of my paintings. "That was pretty easy!" I start playing around with how I want each page to look. Suddenly I discover I can turn off the background graphics, yeah! Then I find a whole passel of different frames for the image, way cool.

"Oh my God, I can do this!"

I save the file to my thumb drive so I can open it on the IMac where all 20 of my image files are stored. I run downstairs and in a couple of hours, the slide show is done. I am floating on the ceiling with excitement. I, LiDoña, a complete jerk with computers and software, have created a professional-looking slideshow, saved it as a PDF, and burned it on a CD. Totally remarkable!

In the days that follow I begin using functions in Word that I have previously ignored. Somehow by playing on the laptop, I have broken through a barrier. I have used all previous desktop computers as work tools and since not knowing how to do something frustrated my work objectives, I would freeze and call for help. For years, I’ve watched people fool around with one button after another until they figured out my issue. But not me - I might lose some of the precious work I’d completed!

Now I understand that I really do need my MacBook. I need it so I can play.

Food & Mood

2009-04-28T15:27:00.000-07:00

Many of us have probably been fighting the dark days of winter by self-medicating with food 'stressors' such as sugar, caffeine, alcohol, chocolate, wheat-containing foods, additives, dairy, and some saturated fats. Now is the time to kick the sugar and refined carbohydrates. Want to overcome the blah feelings you may be experiencing as winter wanes?

Eat foods high in key amino acids
The two amino acids that matter most and most often affect mood are tryptophan (for serotonin) and tyrosine (for dopamine and its cousin adrenaline).

Foods high in tryptophan include turkey, milk, oil-rich fish, avocado, pumpkin seeds and bananas.

Foods high in tyrosine include meat, eggs, fish, milk products, beans, nuts and soy products.

I became interested in the “food/mood” connection when I had the opportunity to hear a presentation by John Bagnulo. With a Ph.D. in Food & Nutrition, Bagnulo says that neurologically we need omega 3s, vitamin D3, and vitamin B12. Study the lists below to figure out how to get them into your diet.

Omega 3 (anti-inflammatory)

found in plants, walnuts & flax

eat 4-5 Brazil nuts/day(grown in Bolivia and not in Spain) or ¼ cup of walnuts/day

take fish oil supplements (arctic cod liver oil 3500-4000 IUs will treat full blown depression)

eat cold water fatty fish such as Pacific halibut, sardines, or wild salmon 2-3 times a week (haddock & cod do not have omega 3s)
enjoy those egg yolks or reindeer meat

Vitamin D3 (controls rate of cell division and is needed by everyone in northern hemisphere)

need 5000 IUs/day (except in June/July/August)

take selenium

get 3000 from fish oil

can eat seal liver or Shitake mushrooms dried in the sun

eat 4-5 Brazil nuts/day

eat dark green vegetables such as kale & mustard greens

eat tempeh and tofu

Vitamin B12 (affects mood, energy, and outlook)

need 1000 mg/day (a challenge for strict vegetarians)

eat spinach, beans, miso, sauerkraut

if not enough, there is a risk of dementia

if in doubt, Honocysteine is a helpful test to find out your levels

When asked for overall recommendations on staying healthy and having a positive attitude toward life, Bagnulo gave the following tips.

eat a low protein diet of fruits (apples, grapefruits, dark cherries) and vegetables

to help prevent arthritis eat watermelon & pineapple

to get iron: eat oysters (also great for minerals), spinach & beets (enhanced by lemon juice)

anti-skin cancer: use sun block not sun screen, eat Brazil nuts, take selenium

don’t overcook pasta or baked potato

good to eat daily: beans, lentils, humus, tempeh

eat steel oats, millet, quinea, kasha, wild & brown rice, not boxed cereal

for help with balance and chronic pain - eat almonds, Black Mission figs, and oranges

In summary, give these food 'supporters' a try: water, vegetables, fruit, oil-rich fish, nuts and seeds, whole-grain foods, fiber, protein, and organic food. (Stressors and supporters lists from PCC Natural Markets.)

E to the 3rd Power: Life Without a Car

2009-03-31T17:11:00.000-07:00

“I see that you don’t own a car,” commented a friend visiting from out of town.

“Yes”, I responded. “I haven’t owned one since 1964.”

“Why?” she queried. So I proceeded to tell her about my E to the 3rd power life without a car.

“Well, it started as an economic decision. It costs from $6000 to $12,000 a year to own and operate a car. That has always seemed like a lot of money to me, especially during the years that I was self-employed. If I didn’t have to earn $6,000 to $12,000, that meant I had more time for my passions of writing and painting."

What I didn’t mention was that the cities in which I’ve lived – Brussels, Chicago, Manila, Mumbai, Victoria, Singapore, and Sydney – all had public transit systems that seemed less of a hassle than finding (and paying for) parking. Likewise in the small city where I live now.

“Then,” I continued, “over the years, as I learned more and more about global warming and issues of environmental degradation, my economic decision became an ethical choice. I saw that not owning a car was a personal way that I could limit my impact on the environment.”

Again, I didn’t mention that on the occasions that I’ve borrowed or rented a vehicle to accomplish some task that was difficult on public transportation, I felt intensely separated both from nature and other human beings. I find that public transportation puts me in touch with a diverse population that I, as an educated professional, would otherwise not encounter – the poor, youth, immigrants, single parents, and the disabled.

Not that all of the characters I encounter on buses or trains are pleasant and agreeable. I’ve been known to avoid certain times and routes noted for having loud and belligerent passengers. But the truth is, my fellow passengers keep me connected to reality and to our common human suffering. They force me out of my comfort zone and challenge my limited perceptions.

“And now,” I concluded, “not owning a car is a major component of my exercise program. I take routes that force me to walk at least part of the way to and from work or to and from the grocery store. I’m the kind of person who has to build exercise into my everyday routine to make it happen. Not owning a car saves me a gym membership and gets me moving whether I feel like it or not.”

Of course, I didn’t tell her I also do Pilates and Yoga because walking and weight-bearing are just the beginning of what it takes to keep the whole body flexible and resilient. Or that my morning and afternoon walks keep me in touch with nature’s rhythms even as I curse the rain, snow, or blazing sun!

So there you have it: my life without a car makes good economic sense, delivers a low impact on the environment, and gives me ongoing physical exercise - with connections to society and nature thrown in for good measure.

In fact, I have so much invested in not owning a car, that it’s hard for me to see why anyone would want one of those clunkers – except, of course, when I need to lug a forty-pound bag of dirt or pebbles for the garden. Thank you to everyone who’s come to my rescue at such inopportune moments.

The Translator

2009-02-26T12:49:00.000-08:00

The Translator is Daoud Hari’s story of individuals who risked everything to get the truth of Darfur out to the world. His principal character is the place, Darfur, a desert area of Sudan that is home to indigenous farming and herding peoples who are being systematically wiped out because they occupy oil-rich lands. There are spaces in Darfur where: “Mirages make birds sitting on distant dunes – birds no bigger than your fist – look like camels. Mirages make dry flatlands look like distant lakes … make the bones of a single human skeleton look like the buildings of a city far ahead.”

For Hari, his older brother Ahmed epitomizes the Zaghawa tribesmen of Darfur. As a teenager, the author planned to go fight with a charismatic commander in Chad. Ahmed found his younger brother and told him to use his brain, not a gun, to make life better. “Shooting people doesn’t make you a man, Daoud,” he said. “Doing the right thing for who you are makes you a man.” Hari returned to school where he learned English, a skill that would later afford him a means to assist his tribesmen.

After years of working abroad to support his family in Sudan, Hari returned home. He arrived as Ahmed was preparing their village to escape an anticipated attack by the Janjaweed. Moments before the assault villagers began walking to Chad. For the next three months, Hari and six of his friends scouted ahead on camels to find water for their desperate tribesmen. The seven men brought food from Chad; helped people find one another and safe routes; and buried men, women, and children who could not finish the trip.

Seeing the flood of refugees pouring into Chad, Hari began serving as a translator, leading dangerous forays back into Darfur. While accompanying Paul Salopek from National Geographic, the two men and their driver were captured, imprisoned, and tortured. Salopek gives a journalist’s report of that ordeal in the March 2008 issue of National Geographic. In The Translator you will receive a more graphic and gripping picture through the storytelling voice of Daoud Hari.

The Translator is a character-driven narrative. Into this ancient land of familial alliances come strange new characters: cell phones that save lives, friendships that survive under torture, and international journalism as a vehicle of truth. The characters exist in a surreal environment: “All trails are erased with each wind. … mountains are not to be trusted … the crunching sound under your camel’s hooves are usually human bones, hidden and revealed as the wind pleases.”

I highly recommend that you read this book, even though it will break your heart. Maybe your broken heart will lead you to participate in stopping the genocide in Darfur.

PILGRIMAGE

2009-01-23T14:45:00.000-08:00

I’ve been working over the last couple of months on how to position my village series for presentation. My current thinking is to have an exhibition called Pilgrimage that would include all of the village paintings, but also others related to similar experiences. The paintings would be accompanied by stories that relay the encounters that led to the paintings. Below is a draft of my artist statement for this exhibition.

Artist Statement for Pilgrimage

To go on a long journey … to confront obstacles …to be grateful for kindnesses
What places in the world have beckoned to you?

To do penance … to pay homage … to find meaning
How have “off the beaten path” experiences transformed you?

To seek answers to one’s deepest questions … to find one’s self through testing
In what ways have personal quests shaped your identity?

To see the world … to know the world … to become the world
When have people from other cultures deepened your humanity?

The paintings in Pilgrimage are the product of forty years of wanderlust – a passion that arose at the age of seventeen when I left my blue-collar home in Midwestern United States and embarked upon a quest that took me to remote sites around the world.

Paintings began emerging sporadically, as various meaningful experiences bubbled to the surface of my memory. In 2006 I began intentionally developing a body of work around human and cultural encounters that have shaped my identity. Many of these pieces are based upon an aerial view of a specific village where I lived and worked. In addition to colors, symbols, architecture and/or fabric patterns indicative of the culture of each location, I have embedded my own personal symbols to express the impact the people of that place had upon me.

I hope the narratives that accompany the paintings will not only deepen the viewing of the exhibition but also elicit the viewer's reflection upon her/his own personal quests.

Sticky Ideas

2008-12-16T15:34:00.000-08:00

What do "Where's the beef?" and "It's the economy, stupid!" have in common? They have both passed Chip and Dan Heath's test for ideas that stick. The two brothers credit Malcolm Gladwell, author of The Tipping Point, with giving them the concept of stickiness.

If you're like me, you've generated a lot of ideas that haven't gone beyond your best friend's, "Hey that's a great idea!" Yet other persons with "less great" ideas get published, splashed all over the news and celebrated in major galleries. Have you ever fretted about this injustice? If so, then, I recommend that you read Made to Stick, Why Some Ideas Survive and Other Die.

The Heath formula for a "sticky" idea is SUCCESs: Simple, Unexpected, Concrete, Credible, Emotional, Stories. I hope my summary below intrigues you to read the book.

Simple means getting to the campact core of the idea. Similar to the militray term, Commander's Intent, it means determining the single most important thing. An example from Southwest Airline: We are THE low-fare airline.

Unexpected means using the surprise factor to get people's attention. It requires creating a mystery to hold their attention. Nora Ephron tells about her first journalism class. The instructor gave them all sorts of information about a conference teachers would be attending and then had the students write "the lead" for the story. After he'd seen their drafts, he said, "The lead is: There will be no school next Thursday." Ephron says that she suddenly realized journalism wasn't about information; it was about getting underneath the facts to their importance. And for the rest of the year, every assignment had a secret - a hidden point the students had to figure out to produce a good story.

Concrete means using people and specifics that help others understand and remember your idea. James Grant, a former director of UNICEF, always carried a packet that contained one teaspoon of salt and eight teaspoons of sugar. When added to a liter of water, these ingredients constitute Oral Rehydration Therapy (ORT). As he met with ministers of developing countries, he would pull out his packet and say, "Do you know that this costs less than a cup of tea and it can save hundreds of thousands of children's lives in your country?" Very few people would forget this encounter with ORT.

Credible means helping people believe in the idea. This can be through offering authority (or antiauthority) and/or passing the Frank Sinatra test: "If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere." During a mandatory orientation session for basketball rookies, several players went to the hotel bar on the first night. They were pleased that some female fans paid them a lot of attention and made plans to meet up with them later. The next day these female fans were in the front of the classroom. Each introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Donna and I'm HIV positive." "Hi, I'm Sheila and I'm HIV positive." Suddenly all the talk about AIDS was concrete. And the antiauthority of Donna and Sheila made it credible. The rookies became believers in safe sex.

Emotional means making people care about your idea. Mother Teresa said that if she looked at the mass of human suffering, she felt paralyzed; but, if she looked at one person, she was moved to act. Anyone who has ever made a charitable donation knows that the story of one woman whose life was improved by receiving a cow or chicken has caused them to feel generous while tales of mass genocide in Darfur have left them immobilized. We care about the individual because we can identify with him or her. We may also get people to care about our idea by associating it with persons with whom they identify.

Stories mean moving people to act. Jared was a 425 pound college student who lost over 200 pounds by eating Subway sandwiches. Does that get your attention? Does that pique interest in your local Subway shop? It seems that when we hear a story we simulate it in our own life. Anyone who has ever done visualizations about success in a particular area of life, will be fascinated by the research done on event simulations. I'll give away the punch line: Visualizing how a problem arose, going over in detail the incidents that occurred step by step and the actions you took, what you said, the environment, who was there, etc. is more effective than visualizing the outcome you want and the feelings you will have when you achieve it.

May you have many sticky ideas!

Transition Time

2008-11-30T20:49:00.000-08:00

Obama won and now it's transition time. After spending all fall working on Obama's campaign, at long last I'm getting back to my creative work. I'm focused for now on my painting. I've figured out that the "village series" is really something a little bigger in scope. These pieces, along with a few done earlier and a few yet to be painted, make up a set of paintings that might better be called "Human Encounters of the Transformative Kind," or something like that.

As often happens in my creative life, my mind had me heading in one direction - the villages - while in reality my heart was singing an unconscious song. As I see the paintings that have been produced and listen to the songs that they are singing, I realize this work isn't about "the villages." It's about how people and places around the world have made me who I am. Each painting in this global series is like an artifact in a museum; it encapsulates a story of how I was changed.

Stay tuned while I try to figure out what those changes were.

An Engaged, Informed Electorate

2008-10-17T12:57:00.000-07:00

Recently Michelle Obama was on Larry King Live. What impacted me was that despite the ongoing hostile and trumped up attacks made by the McCain campaign on her husband, Michelle was without rancor. Instead she demonstrated calm composure.

I realized that during the nearly two years that Barack Obama has been running for President, I have never seen either him or Michelle project fear, anger or disrespect. Instead, their emphasis has been on engaging people - normal everyday people, middle-income people, ordinary Jacks and Jills who work hard, pay their taxes, and dream of being surpassed by their children - people who have felt disrespected and ignored throughout the gilded age of Wall Street high finance.

In his acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention, Barack Obama said that across America "something is stirring." That something is a quiet revolution in which those "insignificant Jacks and Jills" have been coming out of the ground and claiming their citizenship by standing up to the political machines of the past. They have been snatching our democracy back from the special interest groups that have for too long determined both the agenda and the policies generated in Washington.

While other Democrats mocked Howard Dean's 50 State Strategy, the Obamas embraced and moved it forward. Whether or not Barack wins the election, the Obama campaign will leave a legacy of citizen participation the likes of which has not been seen for a very long time. When asked about all the voter registration efforts, early voting drives and plans to get out the vote, Michelle said every bit of it is necessary. She was absolutely clear that when Barack takes office in January, he will need an engaged and informed electorate in order to make the changes that are necessary.

An engaged and informed electorate - how novel!

Imagine ordinary people actually understanding the difference between the health care plans of Obama and McCain. Wrap you mind around having neighbors who grasp how McCain's $300 billion mortgage purchase plan would rip them off. Consider the impact of masses of people believing again in public education. Think about an American public that supports bringing our troops home from Iraq and sending fresh troops to Afghanistan where our security demands that they be. Envision a United States that moves vigorously toward energy independence. Picture a nation united in the same way that the Democratic party has become united in this election.

All of this is possible. It is possible because Barack and Michelle do not hold grudges. Even as John McCain and the Republican Party slander Barack, Michelle says, "We must all come together. We will need John and Cindy to help us rebuild this country we love."

You rock, Michelle!

Breaking through Cynicism

2008-09-20T11:52:00.000-07:00

Cynicism about elections runs like a deep river through this great land of ours. It is easy to understand why people laid off from jobs that have been shipped overseas would be cynical. Or why the single mom working three jobs to make ends meet would believe that the federal government doesn't care about her and her children.

Likewise, considering the handing chad/supreme court debacle of 2000 or, in 2004, Republicans' character assassination of John Kerry and African Americans in Ohio forced to stand in line for ten hours to vote, our nation's cynicism is not surprising. Or that so many people have concluded, "It's impossible to buck the system, so why try? It doesn't matter who you vote for, nothing will change. Everything is stacked against me; only big corporations have power."

Recently Republicans held a convention in which they discussed none of the issues facing middleclass Americans, yet their candidate, John McCain, proclaims himself to be "an agent of change." In the face of such farce, it is easy to throw up your hands and declare, "One politician is just like another. They're in it for themselves."

Nevertheless, it remains true that elections matter. Had Al Gore been declared victor in 2000, we would not be pouring $10 billion/month into Iraq. Instead we would be on a fast track to reduce carbon emissions that compromise the planet's climate and the future of our children.

After watching the "radical right" dominate politics for eight years and produce an administration of deception that panders to the rich and to special interest lobbies such as oil, it takes courage to believe that something else is possible. It takes courage to trust that Barack Obama is different, that he truly cares about ordinary Americans.

I have seen Barack Obama demonstrate core values. He has conducted the most disciplined and grassroots campaign in modern American history. He manifested judgment regarding the war in Iraq, the more critical war in Afghanistan, and rebuilding our diplomatic mission around the world. His leadership in calling together renowned advisors on the economy, national security, energy innovations, healthcare and social security has built my trust in him. I am tired of hearing that people still question Obama's capacity to lead this nation.

Yes, Obama is smarter than I am. Yes, he is more dedicated than I am. Yes, he has made more of his life than I have of mine. Yes, he goes to the gym more regularly than I do. Yes, he's closer to his family than I am to mine. Yes, his family background is more diverse than mine is. Yes, he has more to offer to this country than I do. For those reasons, I do not identify with him. But neither do I resent that he outstrips me on all of these fronts. In fact, I am grateful. I am grateful that someone of his capacities is willing to take on our national challenges. Surely I and my fellow citizens can set aside our resentments and our cynicism to do the one thing we can do, vote for him to become president of the United States.

An Obama administration would bring:

Thousands of new green jobs
A $1000+ tax break for most Americans
Strategies to achieve energy independence
Investments in education
Health coverage for all persons
Protection of social security for seniors

Elections matter. Do you have the courage to believe again in democracy and a leader who challenges us to become more than we dare to dream is possible? I do.

Obama Fresh Starts

2008-08-01T14:11:00.000-07:00

Recently it occurred to me that fresh starts is a foundational image for the United States. Almost four hundred years ago, Europeans crossed the Atlantic Ocean in search of a fresh start in the spiritual realm - freedom of worship. When they wrote the Declaration of Independence and formed our democracy they were making a fresh political start. Succeeding generations of immigrants, facing famine in their places of origin, came to our shores seeking a fresh economic start. Westward expansion across North America was also founded on the image of making a fresh start, the hope of providing a better life for one's family.

Barack Obama understands and lives out of America's foundational image. His father left Kenya to get an education that would allow him and his family to leave servitude to the British and make a fresh start. His mother, single and with two children to raise, made a fresh start in providing for her family by studying for a doctorate degree. Thus empowered, she enabled others caught in poverty to make fresh starts by providing them with micro loans.

Obama is calling Americans back to our creation story. He is challenging us to let go of oil dependency and make a fresh start with renewable energy. He is calling us to break withe the negative browbeating of contemporary politics and make a fresh start by discussing the common issues we face. He is asking us to renounce the "go it alone" posture of the Bush administration and make a fresh start as a partner within the international community.

As in the realm of nature, fresh starts in society assure the future of our children.