Zen Writing and the Essence of Writing

This blog has become for me a virtual palette for Natalie Goldberg's Zen writing exercise. In Writing Down the Bones, she suggests this exercise daily:
Set a timer for, say, 10 minutes.
Put pen to paper and write.
Do not edit or stop until the timer rings.

I have done this exercise sporadically over the years. It is helpful to flex one's writing muscles, to get used to the idea of writing daily, and to just allow words to spill out from you onto the page. I think of it like singers running scales, or a pitcher doing warm up pitches.

Of course, here in blogland, these writings can actually be seen by others, whereas with my pad of paper, that is not the case. So this is also an exercise in opening my writing to the public.

Isn't that the idea? To write and then send it forth for others to read?
One would think so. But that entails a willingness to be seen in such a personal way, and a trust that others will read what is written and perhaps interpret it as was meant. It is a lot like standing in your underwear on a crowded street corner.

One lesson I learned after 13 years as admin in the Department of Communication is that message sent is never message received. How frustrating for a writer! My goal has always been to write words so clear and true that my meaning cannot be misinterpreted. But that is never possible.

The audience gets to make of the writing what they wish. Reminds me of the old Melanie song, What Have They Done To My Song, Ma? And in this electronic age, the misinterpretation can spread instantly and ubiquitously, leaving little or no trace of the original idea.

Why is it so important to me for my words to be read and understood? Because writing is what I am, my yoga, my way of interfacing with the world. Because I could no more stem the tide of my words as I could cease to sweat. Because this is the essence of me, or my one best manner of presenting the essence of me. Because the wondrous body of human writing is a miracle, a record, a delight, and source of such wisdom and poignancy and truth, that I must be a part of it. It is my link from my soul to my own conscious mind, and to the minds and souls of my fellow humans.

What is your link? Your expressive obsession? Can you boldly exercise it and then present its results to your fellow humans?

The Powwow Eagle

The picture above is of the eagle that was released at the Intertribal Powwow July 2009. The eagle had been injured, rescued, healed, and brought to the Powwow for ritual release back into the wild.

This creature, master of the skies, had survived near fatal injuries and had been given the opportunity to heal. This meant being taken to a strange frightening place by beings with powers and intentions unknown. Helpless in its injuries and status, the eagle had little choice but to endure the experience. Every instinct in it had must have screamed for escape. Wild is the eagle, and wild means not tameable, not in the nest of the humans, but completely free and independent, shackled only by its own instincts and the limits of its mind.

The eagle had no capacity to understand why this all had happened; the injury, the capture, the treatment. As time passed, it succumbed somewhat to trusting its rescuers. It grew stronger as it rested and healed. But there was, in the eagle's mind, only one goal.

So on that day at the Powwow, the cage was brought to an open area.
The elders in full regalia chanted and drummed. The cage door finally was opened.

The eagle swooped out of its confines and flew across the blue sky. Its sense of regained freedom was palpable to all who watched. Master of the sky once again, it flew from treetop to treetop, confused by its new surroundings, shaky in its wings, but free.

This moment lasted about two minutes. Suddenly every raven and gull for miles around were drawn to this new addition to the sky. Usually they would have run in terror from the eagle, the most powerful of all birds. But they knew that this eagle was disoriented, weakened, and filled with uncertainty. They began strafing the eagle, flying right into its face, challenging it.

The eagle looked overwhelmed at first, ducking the attacks, flying from one treetop to another in an attempt to protect itself. But the ravens and gulls were relentless. For an hour they continued their attacks. The eagle fought them off, every one, growing fiercer with each attack.

Eventually the ravens and gulls tired of the game, or they felt the full spirit of the eagle growing stronger the more they swooped at it.

The eagle flew off to places unknown to us humans, to regain an eagle's life. The eagle never could know what it had given to those gathered for the release, to those who had rescued and nurtured it, to any who heard this tale. It could never know that it had become for all who met it that day the embodiment of Eagle, spirit animal and guide.

Did the eagle know that its life had been given back, that it had been given a second chance to stay in this precious world and rule the skies? We can never know. We can only salute the eagle and wish it a good strong happy life, until the moment we all must face, when this life is truly at its end, and its splendid soul returns to more infinite skies.

Memorial Day Weekend Reflections

Lots of changes in the air right now.

John retired from his 24 years of civilian personnel service at Eielson AFB yesterday.
Two faculty in my department have retired.
Dozens of my students have graduated, are packing up their belongings and their lives, and are trying to reconstruct themselves for the next phase.

The sun is shining round the clock, illuminating all the Fairbanks world, including all the wasps buzzing outside and inside my home. We have a humane method of removing them, which involves chasing them about with a hand held vac, waiting for them to land, sucking them, like Dorothy's house in the tornado, into the device, then taking it all out onto the porch and releasing the frightened agitated creature.
This method is preferable to me than killing them, since I abhor killing any living creature. Having begun my college career as an entomologist, and having spent countless hours in my youth befriending insects as not only objects of study but as pets, I have a respect for the little guys.
There are exceptions, of course. One wasp was in my bedroom, too close to the possibility of sharing my bed. The portable vac was downstairs. Afraid to lose track of the wasp, I wound up killing it with a rolled up magazine. Which begs the question: How much bad karma do you invoke by killing a wasp with a Buddhist magazine?

John has retired and everything that has been on a standardized stable plateau in our lives is now about to change: our morning and evening routines, the times of the month that money arrives, images of ourselves, what aspirations we choose to work to actualize.
My own retirement is about three years hence. So much to do: Assist John in his transition, walk my true path, overcome my fears and chronic conditions, appreciate the unspeakable miracle of everything at all times, try to live a well written life.

It is Memorial Day weekend. I must of course remember the fallen:
* My father, who died of a service connected disability, and who would don his army uniform on Memorial Day weekends to march in our local parade and to lay wreaths on the graves of the dead.
* Michael, who served his country in the Air Force, and who even in retirement remained engaged in his mind and heart with his mission. He is gone 11 years.
* Pat, who served in the army as well. He is gone nearly 15 years.
* All those WWII vets to whom I was the mascot at the Jewish War Veterans meetings that my father would cook and prep for.
* Rippy, who served against his will, who suffered and eventually died in part from the traumas of the Viet Nam war, that damned war that cut like a deep and near fatal scar across my entire generation.
* Artie, who served in Nam as an unwilling draftee as well, who survived all that and wound up dying in a car accident in California a few years after his discharge.
* Sam, who wound up in an interment camp in WWII, living through it only because he buried his dog tags so the enemy would not identify him as Jewish, who lived into his 90s. Such a bastard in so many ways, yet a war hero.
* All the unknowns, who have no one to remember them and what they sacrificed for us all.

Will we ever find another way to settle our disagreements besides armed conflicts? How much must we sacrifice for this fashion of dealing with our "enemies"?

Whether we agree with the cause or not, it behooves us to honor those who serve. Each generation makes its own sense of war and warriors.

My personal war is against unconsciousness. The only real hope for humanity is the evolution of consciousness. Everything we can do, big or small, that enhances the evolution of consciousness brings humanity closer to the tipping point where everyone wakes up, deep archetypal problems can be healed, and the true genius of the species can rise and shine, like that sun that endlessly appears in every window and skyscape in Fairbanks this summer.

Welcome to My Blog!

Leah Aronow-Brown here, with my first ever blog.

Soul Star Arts is the name of my arts business. It encompasses my work in writing, beadwork, clay and fiber art, and music.

Sunhaven Institute is the teaching branch of the business. The Institute plans to present classes on the arts, crafts, sciences, and spiritual and metaphysical topics.

I have big dreams for my businesses, and hope for the health and energy and focus to make them happen.

My project focuses for Summer 2010:

1. Complete the creative nonfiction memoir book I have been working on since (really) 1966.

2. Apply for an Interdisciplinary PhD at U of Alaska Fairbanks in English and Psychology, to begin Fall 11, to complete my second memoir book.

3. Take my large poetry collection from the past 10 years and create individual manuscripts to send out to publishers.

4. Complete my 4-year project of a Meditation daybook and get that out to publishers.

5. John my husband John on plenaire art trips around Alaska, working on my writing and bead, clay, and fiber proejcts while he paints his watercolors.

Somewhere in all this, I'd like to find time to play my harp, guitar, and sing and songwrite.

My - vita brevis, ars longa
With this blog, I hope to post my progress in all these areas.

If you've read this far, thanks!
Now go forth and pursue your own creative visions.