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 I finished an unpublished memoir that helped me separate my identity from that of the organization for which I had worked.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
