"I honor every woman who has strength enough to step out of the beaten path when she feels her walk lies in another; strength enough to stand up to be laughed at, if necessary. That is the bitter pill we must all swallow in the beginning, but I regard these pills as tonics quite essential to one's mental salvation." -Harriet Hosmer Harriet was a very wise woman! Fortunately for me, I have yet to find the rule, stating an age limit for stepping out of said beaten path, a maximum number of out-steppings, or a ceiling on failed(?) quantity of attempts to blow up the proverbial box. And should I come across these rules at any point in my trudges, travails and travels, I shall, happily as ever, break them. In keeping with my contradictory life and self, it begins (again) now, with a sexy-ass BigSteelBox. ~Marcela; moving off the beaten path, coming un-boxed one more time, in a BigSteelBox. March 02, 2019
“The Artist is no other than [s]he who unlearns what [s]he has learned, in order to know [her]himself.”
The longer I write, create anything, the more I get this on a level so profound it hurts; and it hurts so good that at some point it stops hurting, and serves to validate, that, which I have always known, self.
The less I care about what you or anyone think, of anything I create, written or otherwise, the more I unlearn about all you and they have inured me with: false concepts and ideas, of who and how to be.
The more I unlearn about these things you have gifted me with, the less I need your, and their validation for my art; or anything, pertaining to me, any little thing at all.
And the less I need your validation, the more forth-rightly I can inform you, when you have mis-read me, again, and care little, if at all, about what you do with that. This is a freedom, an intelligence of self, I have not known, here-to-fore.
February 26, 2019.
As I watch the squalls bend the fir and cedar behemoths surrounding this house,
see the lake pound the log booms, docks and boathouse into the most bizarre angles,
I am struck by the thought that while I yearn for straightforward, low-maintenance,
I repeatedly choose complicated, convoluted, even, for that thing we call home.
As I navigate flying tree limbs and floods driving the scary highway for the umpteen-millionth time,
curse the road-warriors recklessly passing logging trucks to beat all of us to the same place by 2 minutes,
I am struck by the thought that while beautiful; this place, metaphorically and realistically speaking,
is so far away from the peace and solitude I so desperately crave, that it is indeed, its antithesis.
As I gaze upon my storied-face, decorated with the lines and ridges of a life well enjoyed, and suffered,
pick up electronic and figurative stylus, to scribe chapter six in the book of my nine(teen) lives,
I am struck by the thought that while spectacular in appearance at first glance, like the lake it abuts,
below the immediate surface of this home, looms the deepest dark of high-maintenance and very little peace.
As I rest on this, the final day before the next enormous learning curve in the profession I hate to love,
play many games of solitaire and look out upon the best vista eVer from my beloved, flannel bedecked bed,
I am struck by the thought that while I am as restless a spirit as the scary-wild weather patterns of late,
I am urgently compelled to settle into, a life of less (everything), in order to enjoy, a life of more, me.
And as the gusts move on and we dodge the next wind-storm-blackout-bullet,
so I dodge my own impulsive need to bust the next big move,
and I cancel the viewing of a beautiful, beautifully low maintenance
domicile, in another community.
And I whisper to self: patience Grasshopper-Queen, patience!
One big move at a time! For while we know, you and I, that you
‘can deal,’ with more, it is not an advisable choice at this this juncture.
For to simplify, to conquer the goal of less,
requires a practice of restraint. So do not obfuscate, with more.
First, conquer self.
January 06, 2019
Image & writing: All Rights Reserved.
I sat on the plastic blue chair, stared down at the green dots on the floor which designate that area of the hospital as the medical imaging department. I have worked in this hospital, I do not like this, other role, here. I thought about how I ended up here, waiting for a CAT scan of my head, and reminded myself of my Dr’s words, that she’s not expecting to find anything of concern in there, but we’ll do it just to keep ruling things out, or to find something, an explanation for the current bizarre and frightening set of symptoms my body is manifesting, a body that has mutinied for a while now, in various ways, in an effort to show its disdain for how I have driven it, used it, over-used it, for 3 years short of 60.
I cannot help but notice the two women occupying two other plastic blue chairs, directly to my right. A 40-ish daughter is supporting a my age-ish mother, from what I can gather by their conversation. As we wait, mom is asked to guzzle a radioactive cocktail prior to the scan of her innards, and told that the tech will be back for her in an hour, she is free to leave and come back, if she wishes.
They had been laughing until then, attempting to make light in an obviously heavy situation, and then mom breaks down. She is sobbing, and I see the terror in her eyes when I look up at her. She says, “it’s not funny, I wish it was funny.” Her daughter says, “it’s not funny at all mom, not at all. I love you.” Mom laughs and says, “how do I look”? I look toward her, and say, “you look fabulous,” to her child, I say “and you, are a very good daughter.” Mom says “yes, yes she is! I am blessed.” And then she adds, “the lady says I look fabulous, we have an hour, let’s go buy a New Year’s ham.”
We all laugh a little, cry a little, and the two of them walk out of the hospital to buy their New Year’s ham, before coming back, to their heavy reality, in an hour.
I am called in for my head scan, and my heavy reality feels lighter. Validation, to feel seen, heard, understood, in a world where we are all so terribly caught up in self, it’s all most of us need, to be OK in, to lighten, the heavy times.
December 28, 2018
Irons in fires and babies in bathwater burning hands on hot choices tossing dreams with the gray matter Dead horses are flogged and red herrings are leaders drown on dry land cry-cry the bleeders Cats bark up the wrong trees and worship false gods disheveled deliriums reverence for frauds Covet glittering fool’s gold and turning blind eyes doves are but pigeons baked blackbird pies Stitch in time saving nine and the madd hatter’s head gear leaches mercury anyway insane-inside voices leer jeer and snear Knights in armour so shiny and heads up in clouds chainmails breed rust glory dreams become shrouds Hold feet to wildfires and get raked over coals an ingrate's in-gratitude shown to kind souls Hands unfit to hold candles and heads full of loose screws hold powerful offices govern from pews Low men on high horses and caught with pants down got nil on Godiva gadding all about town Pots call kettles black and once upon a blue moon justice prevails victories small and hard hewn Keeping nose to the grindstone and paying with arms legs and heart a fertile mind screams just keep making art Get your three squares and beeline to the hive but find the bumblers and fumblers they are your tribe Life in a pickle jar and facing the music pay heed inner wild children they are the muses Make all days red letter and pull out all the stops climb trees climb mountains view your world from hilltops live high on that hog for yours doth have wings and when lift-off fails get up on a swing Affix rose coloured glasses and don your finest of finery misbegotten cretins remain but you’ll make damn fine scenery ~Marcela: Idiomatically yours. November 11, 2018 Poetry: All Rights Reserved, please share with attribution Image: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Don%27t_throw_the_baby_out_with_the_bathwater
Where do we run to Sister? The noise on the outside, the noise in our heads, where do we run to Sister? May we find a place to rest our minds for the noise all around is building prison walls with no means of escape, where do we run to Sister?
I run no more Brother, I run no more. I find solace in my mind for I know it to be aware and fertile. I find peace in my heart with self for I know me better, now. I seek peace and solitude in my personal environment for my public environments are loud with others’ pain. I run no more Brother, I run no more.
Be still in your heart my Sister, for it knows the true meaning of truth & tranquility. Run no more my Sister. Be still in your heart…
My heart breaks my Brother, my heart breaks. It breaks or us, for them, for me… and I understand, why Vincent cut off his ear… .
I understand as well, we are here for other reasons, not to gouge out our eyes or cut off our ears. We are here to witness and listen. We must give credence to those who cannot do for themselves… he says as he carries his 20 year old dog outside, because he can no longer make the journey alone. Along with the fear in his eyes I see much love and understanding as he holds on knowing that he is safe in my arms. Soon I will have to let go, where do I run to sister?
I held Gloria’s hand, for she had no other, when her eyes saw no more, and I had to let her go. I understand. I seek Brother, and we run no more, we run no more.
Gloria was honoured to have held your hand, she moves on knowing that some one cared and now she too, runs no more. I love you sister…
We have battled over our differences, only to find, that we are so alike. I love you brother.
We battle no more my sister, we battle no more… we took different paths to get to the same place. One can only fight with one self for so long before the futility becomes evident and it is evident to me that we are ONE my sister, we stand together as one, and we run no more.
I cry tears of joy my Brother, I cry tears of joy. And I laugh my Brother, I laugh aloud! For we are cut from the same cloth, and our seams are crooked, but they tear no more Brother, they tear no more!
Yes, they are crooked and you know we wouldn’t have it any other way, the straight path was never meant for us… we are adventurers of sorts and must stray off the path every now and then. It is what makes us feel alive. Walk the crooked path my sister for I am behind you sewing up the seams and filling the potholes as you do for me.
Where do we run to sister, where do we run…? We run no more Brother, we run no more.
This poem is the literal and direct outcome of something I posted to my personal Facebook page. It is the ensuing thread of comments/replies, to the original post. In it, I was expressing my dismay with others’ disregard for their neighbours. The post occurred in a moment of significant emotional, physical and psychological fatigue and pain. The unwitting poem began with the heartfelt words of my brother Tom in response, and took us somewhere quite unexpected, or is it… that? Out of current and more long ago struggles and battles, individual and mutual, we created something deeply meaningful to me, and I am thunderstruck by its depth and the reverberations still going through me, hours later… I am beautifully blind-sided, by its acuity and by its power to break me down, in the most beautiful way, though not without some anguish, to the core. This could not have happened, without his input, which only serves to underscore and demonstrate, the entire point of my original post, and what I am challenged with on a daily basis: what we do (good/bad and all points in between), matters, has impact, good/bad and all points in between. We are connected to everything and everyone, and we live a world which increasingly diminishes, denies and destroys, that. The words of my brother are his heart, my responses are mine. The continuing love and loyalty of my one and only ever best friend Sue, the immediately raw responses of my friends Collie and Carol to the thread/poem, are theirs, and I am profoundly moved by and grateful for, the presence, in my unruly and precarious life, of these women, and my brother Tom. You have done good work mama Marcella, you have done good work. All of your toil, sacrifice and pain, have not gone unnoticed, have not been in vain. And we love you. This poem is yours, mama, it is of your making, word for word.
~Marcela & Tom, with Sue, Collie and Carol.
November 03, 2018
Writing and photographs: All Rights Reserved.
While you were busy careening toward the artificially-cultured dream, you let your own take a back seat. While you were busy painting a life of colour and nuance into a black and white world, you fell into your own grey area. While you were busy loving haters, because compassion, compromise and ‘the right thing,’ you learned to hate and mistrust yourself. While you were busy over-working to make other lives better, you made your own heartbreakingly hard. While you were busy flailing and falling to live a life long undesirable, your voice drowned in the noise of survival. While you were busy lighting others’ flames to roaring bonfires, your own diminished to barely a flicker. So while you flail and fall, flicker and dim, do heed this voice: for it has found that most calcified crevasse, the one to your heart’s ear, and know; I am you, and: [I will] not go gentle into that good night, [I will] rage, rage against the dying of [my] light.
Sunset Photo & While You Were Busy: All rights Reserved M.Y.M.
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night by Dylan Thomas
Reading:Dylan Thomas Reads Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night