Tuesday, April 20

Restoring an Angel (1)

My first new thing came to me the first weekend I was 52. She came to me mysteriously, and she saved me, allowed me to meet my goal of beginning my new things that first weekend even when I felt like pulling inward, staying home, working in my garden rather than heading out for adventure as I'd imagined. I don't remember how she came, not the exact manner. I'd pulled in Saturday, retreated to a Kate Elliott novel, immersed myself until 3:00am in her world where the guardians were humans who had died trying to do good in the world and whose companions were winged horses. Sunday still had that solitary feel. I wanted to spend my time in the courtyard, enjoying the bright mix of fresh marigolds and the deep magenta snapdragons, the sprawling tomato plant and the softness of the April air. I can't remember how the idea came to me. My eyes may have strayed to them, or I may have knocked them with the hose as I tend to do when I'm watering. They were our own garden guardians, the keepers of the doorway, winged angel and metal horse, a reversed echo of the Kate Elliott pairings in the world I'd escaped to.

My mother gifted me with the horse, knowing they are one of my big loves, and her slender, tender grace has been a pleasure always. The angel I found long ago at a yard sale back in my Santa Rosa life when I'd look for Saturday sales I could walk to. This sale was in the MacDonald neighborhood, old established estates near my more modest Humboldt home. She was in a side yard, lying askew on a makeshift shelf. She was old and worn even then, her blue paint lacking luster, her metal wings showing spots of rust, her scrubble hair wearing off her wooden head. I fell in love with her, and she has graced our doorways ever since. Loyal, she followed us from Santa Rosa to Hopland, Todos Santos, Ajijic and now to Palm Springs, five homes in these past six years, though I believe she came to us eight years ago. Her bristle hair wore bald, her wings all rust. I'd always meant to spruce her up.



















That Sunday I knew she would be my first new thing, and though I don't remember how the idea came to me, I remember my relief and my delight once I knew. I'd been saving some packaging material, some shredded papery strips all creased and folded, perfect for the new wild hair I'd imagined for her. Yes, I'd made art before, I thought. But I had never done angel restoration. I decided she qualified as a new thing, and I was glad. It was just the sort of solitary and gentle task I wanted for the day. The timing seemed perfect, too, not only having just emerged from the world of Elliott's guardians but because I had begun to acknowledge angels themselves in recent days. Janice had been urging me for years, and I'd resisted. I didn't see angels, didn't have direct knowledge of them. I never doubted, never thought they weren't there, but I resisted any need to interact with them. I asked for things, for blessing and protection, and I trusted the response the world(s) provided, didn't think I needed to know how it was happening. I asked, and I thanked. Wasn't that enough?

I think once long ago Janice told me the angels especially liked it when you asked them specifically, but I must have ignored this. Just days before I became 52 I had an "aha" when she and I were on the phone. This time she said something about them liking direct appreciation. That sunk in. I'd been accepting their help all this time without thanking them, and I knew that was wrong. I started talking to them that very day, mostly apologizing for my ungratefulness, my ungracious ways. I explained to them I hadn't understood, didn't see them, was in truth, I thought, even afraid to see them. But I wanted to thank them, would thank them for going forward, hoped they would forgive me for all the years before, accept my apologies. Even as I talked, got teary, I knew it wasn't an issue for them. "They'll come anyway," Janice had said. "They just like to be asked." I knew they weren't harboring resentment for my ingratitude all these years the way I would have, if I hadn't stopped helping all together. But I was glad to be setting things right. Restoring our angel seemed symbolic, my gratitude incarnated, my belated acknowledgement made real.

Once I recognized the angel project as my first new thing, I realized my patio "extension" I'd been planning would also qualify, and it would be the perfect complement to working on her. I spent hours that afternoon going back and forth between them, gluing on her new kinked hair, painting layer after layer of bright red over her old faded blue dress. I left her little black paint dots of eyes alone. That seemed important. While she dried I'd shift to the bricks, scraping and digging, squatting and planting them, standing to ease my back, admire my progress. I was sitting at the patio table painting a clear coat of Liquitex on her hair when the earthquake began. I stilled, the angel in my left hand and the paintbrush frozen midstroke in my right. I was waiting to see if it was going to continue, took in where my beasts were--Sofia was sprawled near my feet in the catnip and weeds, Sable only paces behind me stretched out on the couch inside. The earthquake kept going, grew stronger, so I set the angel and the paintbrush down and stood.




















"Boo." My voice a command, short, not panicked. He sprang through the doorway, joined Sofia near the catnip. I sank to my knees, my forearms flush to the patio, the long rolling waves of the world moving beneath us. I was so grateful for the ease of it, my cats attentive but not alarmed, all three of us outside, safe, together, my worst fears allayed. I cried, my tears wet spots on the concrete, grateful and relieved, laughing, too, thanking the goddess, the gods, the powers that be. And, thanks to Janice and her steady urgings, grateful to the angels, too, who'd no doubt helped this be what it was and not what I'd feared. It felt all of a piece, the angel I'd been restoring when the world began to roll, my cats within arms reach, not needing to worry about trying to gather them or deciding whether or not to go outside, sinking without thought to the ground, connecting to the earth. And the world rolled on and on beneath us, all smooth edges and watery waves. It was the longest, smoothest, most rolling earthquake I remember. My adrenaline never fully spiked, my relief and gratitude taking precedence, I think, cutting through any urge to panic.

I'd had an angel in my hand when the earthquake began. And yet, I was the one being held.

Sunday, April 18

Exorcising Demons

People have begun asking me about new posts, so I've decided to add another while folks await my first "official" post, my first new thing. It seems this endeavor has riled my demons. If you'd asked me three weeks ago whether or not I ever struggled with my writing, had to wrestle with my critic, I think I would have told you I had learned to slip past her, learned to "enter in" to my writing at will.

But my beginning efforts toward my new things have been startling, my critic harsh and relentless, my resistance even stronger. I have four drafts now for my first three new things, had hoped to have them posted. I am in week three, and my fears of having this goal pile up on me in undone new things or unwritten posts are growing even as I sit here typing. The doves are fluttering and the house sparrows chirping, their sounds coming in the open door with the hot April almost dusk. I remember to breath, note my cats, the one gray shape, one black, both lying alert in the courtyard. I am thirsty and sleepy and think it's unlikely I'll return to revising my drafts this evening. But I will allow for the possibility.

I have theories about why I'm having such a hard time. I am not a journalist, hadn't thought of what it might be like to try to "report" each new thing. I've told myself I don't need to report at all, can touch on the thing and then wander away from it. I have tried freewriting and then revising, decided focusing more intentionally might be better, tried that too with even less satisfaction in the results. I can write this post here, can post it unrevised, think I may resort to that for the new things, avoid being too critical. But I wanted to practice polishing short pieces. That was part of my muti-layered hopes for this blog. Do I abandon that? Do I change the blog entirely, do the new things as well but write about something else? Are my expectations too high? Is my fear of going public thwarting me? Are the planets running amok, ruining my words? ;-)

Two days ago I thought I understood the troubles I'd had with my writing earlier in the week. I reminded myself one of my goals for doing this was to learn more about my writing process. Wrestling with my demons was an answer to prayer, a chance to learn and grow. I thought about how much better this would help me understand when my students struggle. Two days ago I made the mistake of thinking I had already come out on the other side of this one. Now as the light leaves the day I know I am still in the midst of it. But I am not sitting silent, not altogether. And I'm not despairing. So please, do stay tuned.