Creative Sanctuary

Nature

Reading Serendipitously: De l’âme

By Allison

tree man tommy mcrae

Spearing the kangaroo, Tommy Mcrae (detail)

Try this.  Pull a book from the shelf, open it at random, and let your eyes fall where they will.  What words jump out at you?  Do they hold wisdom, hope, or even an answer to a question you’ve been pondering?

I often find unexpected messages in this way.  It’s always a surprise when a seemingly random chain of words speaks to something that’s been on my mind.  The Improvised Life blog features this practice in its Opened at Random posts.  In his book on creativity, Phil Cousineau writes about engaging in bibliomancy in a Galway bookstore in hopes of finding inspiration.  When messages leap from the page to my heart, I call this reading serendipitously.

As spring was about to emerge, I was yearning to re-ground myself in nature, but it was still too cold to spend much time outside.  François Cheng’s meditation on the soul, De l’âme, spoke to my need to reconnect with the outdoors.

“Le lien entre l’arbre et les oiseaux semble naturel.  Mais l’alliance de l’arbre avec les hommes est-elle assez prise en compte par nous ?  Sommes-nous conscients que nous ne pouvons trouver dans la nature compagnon plus fiable et plus durable ?  Cet être debout comme nous, qui depuis les profondeurs du sol tend résolument vers le haut, nous rappelle que notre être tient tout autant de la terre que du ciel” (118-119).

“The connection between tree and birds seems natural.  But the union of tree with man, do we consider it enough?  Are we aware that we can find no more reliable and durable companion?  Like us, this upright being, who, from the depths of the soil stretches resolutely upwards, reminds us that our being holds just as much from the earth as from the sky.”

What lasts from generation to generation?

By Allison

;ink roses oil paintingThis week’s flames at Notre-Dame de Paris sunk us into collective grief and then unified us in hope, as we learned that much of the structure and most of the art had been saved.  Many Gothic cathedrals have been lost to flames, but in their grace we forget their fragility.

Notre-Dame has stood on Paris’ Île de la Cité for the better part of 1,000 years.  Having almost lost her, it is both sobering and gratifying to consider the cultural artifacts that last from generation to generation.  So little survives:  works of literature (many of them fragments), examples of religious sculpture, a little music, sacred buildings in varying states of disrepair.  We hold on to these traces of western cultures, but to what end?  Might it be better for us to loosen our grip on these tangible bits of our heritage?

Like many other French cathedrals, Notre-Dame de Paris honors the Virgin Mary.  The most venerated feminine figure in the Christian tradition, she symbolizes a compassionate feminine power.  Divine figures of other traditions represent this same quality—Guanyin and Tara in Buddhism and the goddess Kali in Hinduism, to name but a few.  The sacred spaces we erect in their honor frame and focus the universal energy that we attribute to the divine, feminine figures.  Sacred spaces help us to access these figures and the invisible power we’ve given to them.

Their energy is eternal though intangible.  Do we even need to honor Mary, Kali, Guanyin, and other feminine figures with special spaces?  Of course we do.  But let us embrace the constantly changing nature of scared spaces.  Cathedrals will crumble or burn.  The generative emptiness they leave will make way for new or altered sacred structures.

And let’s remember that although places like Notre-Dame de Paris can change the course of our spiritual lives, the protective power of the Virgin Mary is by no means contained within a building. The knowledge that moves from generation to generation is indiscernible to the eye and revealed in the soul.  Having grown up Catholic, I have always felt connected to Mary, but not because of a church.  The rose is my most personal, profound reminder of Mary.  Her flower is recalled in cathedrals’ rose windows, but for me the rose is entwined with family, with a Catholic upbringing, and with womanhood.  I see roses everywhere, and Mary’s flower is always sure to unlock the healing, compassionate energy she embodies.

Inspirations

Another magnificent cathedral:  Notre-Dame de Chartres

Clearing Space and evening walks

Rewriting a Symphony in Stone, by Summer Brennan

Colors of the Soul

By Allison

Shinique Smith Stained GlassThe soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.
–Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 5, v. 16

Thanks to my Instagram habit, much of my mental space is occupied by squares.  Within the limits of a square, I sense the freedom to share without words.  I envision a clear, thoughtful grid connecting experiences and exuding harmony.  Imagine my delight when I recently stepped into a contemporary stained glass exhibit that was dominated by square panels!

My first thought was that much like me, the artists were under the spell of Instagram.  But then I thought of the stained glass windows in Chartres Cathedral, a few steps from the museum.  Some of the windows are 900 years old, and most are arranged in circles, squares, and rectangles.  Each window is its own medieval grid, to be read from bottom to top. So, placing a story in the bounds of a square is nothing new, but the immediacy and reach of Instagram is.

The contemporary pieces at the International Stained Glass Centre do not invite a bottom to top reading, but rather offer a sampling of work from artists all over the world, exploring the theme “the search for the light of the world.”  I treat the works as impressions rather than narratives.  My eye goes straight to the tight, bursting center of Shinique Smith’s untitled 2016 panel.  Her energetic swirls are reminiscent of dragon flies that skip across lakes in the summer and remind me of the fairy parties I organize for my nieces and nephew.  Much like the medieval panels in the cathedral across the way, color and light cultivate wonder.  Her work brings forth an inner light that radiates, undulates, and eventually flows from the frame.  Here, the multicolored lumière du monde grows from a dense, interior space of possibility–patterns, shapes and colors in evolution, expressing the harmonious contrasts of the soul.

Rooibos Season

By Allison

My former student and friend Maggie Heine of Louisville, Kentucky kindly agreed to contribute to Creative Sanctuary this month.   Her thoughtful piece celebrates autumn, rooibos, and wanderlust.  Thank you, sweet Maggie!

If you ever find yourself in southernmost South Africa, pay attention to its strange, shrubby fields. You may happen to see an odd little plant with needle-like leaves, covered with tiny golden flowers. Aspalathus linearis. You won’t find this bush, somewhat unremarkable at first glance, growing anywhere else in the world—farmers ranging from China to the U.S. have tried to harvest it in their home countries and failed. That’s because of the wonderfully strange ecology of South Africa’s Cape region: our planet is composed of six floristic kingdoms, or geographic areas with relatively similar plant species. If you’re reading this, chances are that you’re in the gigantic Holarctic kingdom, which comprises the vast majority of North America, Europe, and Asia. The Cape kingdom, on the other hand, is miniscule, containing only the very southernmost tip of the African continent. Despite its small size, it’s extraordinarily rich, and the majority of plants that call this kingdom home can only be found in that dot on the tip of South Africa.

The entire area is beautiful beyond comprehension, nearly extraterrestrial with its mountains that jut up against the sea, its preponderance of baboons and ostriches, its wide blue skies that become enveloped in clouds in an instant. Now that fall has finally arrived, I find myself thinking about that remote speck and all of its ecological strangeness regularly. I’ve been to South Africa twice, once in the southern hemisphere’s winter, and once in its early spring. During these trips, about six weeks in total, I was rarely without a cup of tea clasped between my hands. This brings us back to Aspalathus linearis, or as it’s commonly known, rooibos. When its leaves are plucked, dried, and steeped, they create an infusion that’s smooth, nutty, and the slightest bit sweet. It’s sold en masse in South Africa like we sell our Lipton green tea—clearly, it’s nothing fancy,  but it’s my constant companion when the weather turns chilly. I love the drink for its flavor, but it’s also more than that. For me, rooibos is the feeling of bundling up at daybreak to search for zebras and lions from an open-sided Jeep; it’s looking out over the expanse of the ocean from 4,000 feet up a mountainside; it’s falling asleep to the sound of rain on an old tin roof. It’s South Africa, in all its botanically bizarre wonder.

Slow Looking

By Allison

The painting unfolded before me and in me.

I’d spent years looking at art, then promptly filing away the images.  Wandering through museums, I encountered works by Rothko, Brancusi, and Degas.  Often, they moved me.  Yet I never lingered.  There was so much art to take in, so I “stacked” the images in my mind, sometimes retrieving them in conversation, in my studies, or in subsequent museum visits.  Mary Cassatt’s portraits of children sprung up in tender moments; Malevich’s White on White stumped my students; I sought and found Camille Claudel’s love story in her sculptures at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.

Yet somehow, I never allowed myself to sit with these works.  After so much study and so many museum visits, I found myself in the National Galleries of Scotland in front of Van Gogh’s The Plains near Auvers.  For once, I wasn’t prone to move efficiently through a museum.  Rather, that dreary afternoon I planted myself in front of the piece that beckoned.  Van Gogh’s green and gold fields seemed to move on the canvas.  The grasses in the foreground swayed from side to side, and successive fields opened back toward the horizon, one after the other.  I sensed that I was in the painting and that the painting was in me.  My altered perception of space left me feeling a bit wobbly, but I remained “inside” the image, allowing my mind to move farther into the fields. By engaging in “slow looking”, I connected to an artist and his chosen landscape in a startling, deep way.

The Plains near Auvers still moves about in me.  Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I inhale and summon the haphazard rectangles, the swirly sky, and the dabbed red flowers.  Other times, the painting wells up, catching me off guard.  I am glad to have my tall, orderly stores of images, gathered over years of museum time.  They are my foundation and springboard.  Now I know to be still with them, attuning myself to their quiet language of color, line, and shape.

 

Inspirations

Inspiring Impressionism:  Daubigny, Monet, Van Gogh, National Galleries of Scotland

The Art of Slowing Down in a Museum, New York Times

Slow Art Day

 

Cicada Song

By Allison

Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch

This bean has recently fallen under the spell of cicada music.  As the day’s last light falls, she wanders from Grandma’s porch into the front yard to explore the emerging sights and sounds of twilight…  she seems most intrigued by cicadas, which the Bean Girl sometimes refers to as bicadies.

She hears their song—verging on deafening—but she doesn’t see them.  Perplexed, she returns to the porch, peppering Uncle Jack and Aunt Allison with questions.  What are cicadas/bicadies? Where are they? Why do they make that noise?

We dig deep to share what we remember about the insect.  In the winter, they live underground.  After many years, they are ready to come up and spend time in the trees.  Cicadas have wings.  When Uncle Jack gets technical, Bean Girl makes her way back to the yard, swatting at oak and hickory trees with sticks.  She hopes to lay her eyes on a cicada.

Her precocious exploration sparks my own inquiry.  What do cicadas teach us?  I recall that they are a beloved symbol of Provence.  They spend years underground before seeking the sunlight.  19th century poet Frédéric Mistral even granted cicadas their own motto:  the sunlight makes me sing.

That light is slipping through our fingers.  The evening air is heavy, but we feel autumn coolness pushing up against these last days of summer.  As Bean Girl searches the yard, we settle deeper into our spots on the porch and sip the last of the rosé, engulfed in cicada song.

 

Inspirations

Out on The Porch

The Song of the Cicada

 

Impromptu Porch Party

By Allison

The beginning of August was gloriously cool and breezy—not Iowa State Fair weather by any stretch of the imagination.  Mom’s cozy front porch is underused, so one day I welcomed her home from work with a mini porch party.  It was a snap to organize this tiny gathering:

–I mixed up a pitcher of Aperol Spritz—a refreshing and slightly bitter Italian apéritif we drank during our trip to Florence a few years back.  Happy memories of relaxed, buoyant terrace restaurants!

–I picked up some nibbles at the local grocery—pitted olives, bocconcini (bite-sized mozzarella) marinated in olive oil, parsley, and red pepper flakes, roasted and salted pistachios.

–I pulled out Mom’s most colorful glassware, which are works of art in themselves.

Our porch party required a little thought but not much action.  It came together quickly and allowed us to have a relaxed, lighthearted moment together, enjoying the flowers and the late summer light.

…

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Between, Within, Beneath

By Allison

<img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-768" src="https://www.creativesanctuary.net/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/collioure-succulents-water-300x300.jpg" alt="Collioure Succulents Water" width="300" height="300" />Life is lush in this Mediterranean village.  Located in the south of France mere miles from Spain, Catalan culture pervades Collioure.  Tapas, espadrilles, sunshiny wine…  People glide between French, Spanish, and Catalan.  Vivacious and expressive, they draw me in.

I initially came to Collioure to spend a few days on the water.  I discovered the light that moved Matisse, making way for Fauvism.  I ate fresh, briny anchovies.  I watched the sun rise over the medieval lighthouse-church sitting at the edge of the water.  This bright village of 3,000 gave me both solitude and company.  I made friends at every turn—at the hotel reception, walking along the jagged inlets, sipping Banyuls wine at a waterside café.

I also experienced the grace of stillness.  In “Song of the Reed,” mystic poet Rumi counsels,

Stay where you are
inside such a pure, hollow note 

I practiced inhabiting that hollowness.  Allowing my mind to settle beneath the buzz of the village, I connected to the minute elements of its landscape.  From that still, internal space, my attention moved to the generous succulents that dot the village, to the smooth, flat stones that make up the beach, and to the laundry artfully hung outside the windows of pink, yellow, and blue homes.  Inside my hollow note, the surrounding hills and massive château lost their grandeur.  The vividness of Collioure made its way to me through the secrets hidden within the notes of overlapping voices and juxtaposed colors.

 

Inspiration

Rumi’s “Song of the Reed”

Chamomile/Camomile

By Allison

chamomile herbal teaI am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.  His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! —The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Beatrix Potter

With her strong connection to the natural world, Beatrix Potter knew that chamomile was just the thing to ease her mischievous protagonist.  Preparing and sipping herbal infusions is soothing and healing.  But we needn’t wait for upset to benefit from them!

In the last few years, I have liberalized my consumption of chamomile and other tisanes.  I admit to getting a little bored with plain water.  I crave variety.  I always keep a few herbal teas on hand, and chamomile is one of my “fun” hydration options.  I find chamomile to have herbaceous, subtly floral notes.  Warm, it calms me.  At room temperature, the drink tastes more botanical.  Chilled chamomile tea is refreshing and cooling.

Studies on the health benefits of chamomile are intriguing. Yet even without reading up on the medicinal uses of this dainty flower, we can choose to use it in healing ways. As we prepare tisanes, we connect with the plant and the people who grew and harvested it.  Drinking a chamomile infusion is hydrating, and that in itself is therapeutic. Peter’s mother instinctively knew that chamomile would help her little rabbit.  We, too, can trust ourselves to reach for the tin of chamomile when we need to rebalance, rehydrate, or rejuvenate.

 

Inspirations

Miss Potter, a charming biographical film about Beatrix Potter

Blog post on chamomile and other tisanes, by tea expert Bruce Richardson

 

 

Maximizing Summer

By Allison

My little patio garden is bursting.  Each year, I tinker with this square space off my kitchen.  I’ve learned that it’s too sunny for impatiens and that begonias thrive in the morning sun.  Potted herbs always take off, and so each summer I find myself swirling ribbons of basil into gazpacho, stirring mint into lemonade, and topping my green salads with chives.

Yet as much as I cook, I can’t possibly use all the herbs tumbling over the terra cotta pots!  The basil is blended into pesto, frozen in ice cube trays, and then transferred to freezer bags, to be popped out later in the year.  Last summer, I finally started drying sage, mint, thyme, and rosemary.  Why did I not think to do this before?

After snipping the herbs, I bring them inside and give them a good rinse.  I remove and discard all the yellowed or bruised leaves and thoroughly dry the rest. I lay them out on a big plate, and the drying process begins.  In the days that follow, I flip them, shift them, and watch their slow transformation.  As I go about my day, I may sense a hint of mint in the air; sometimes I’ll notice the sage leaves begin to curl.  I honor the humble beauty of a patio garden by preparing herbs for colder seasons.  I waste less of summer’s goodness.  And perhaps most unexpectedly, the weeks of herb drying become a meditative experience for me—one that requires focus, attentiveness, and care.

Each herb dries in its own time. As they are ready, I gently nestle them into the glass jars I’ve set aside and labeled.  Months later, I will reach for them to season a pot of lentils or bundle them into a bouquet garni.  These moments will bring me back to the summer fullness of my lively little patio and to the slow beauty of watching herbs dry.