I’m excited and proud to announce that my first, long piece, “Varanasi Sage,” is now available!
This booklet is a collection of lyrical, non-fiction short stories that compliment my art installation Varanasi Sage. It’s my best work to date, and I hope you will read it.
I’m giving it away as a gift of appreciation for donations to my art piece. Your support and readership would mean so much to me. For more information, please visit the Varanasi Sage fundraiser page.
[This story will appear in a collection of shorts for Varanasi Sage, due out July 1, 2019.]
I opened the door, welcomed by early morning light peeking around clouds, caressing the world. Unseen doves proclaimed the day’s arrival in trilling coos. Oaks stretched in wild formations. Brown grasses stood defiantly against their drought deaths. The distant scent of a wood-burning stove — a reminder of recent wildfires that stopped at the next ridge. Deer tracks in the dust said I was not the only one who walked the trail.
They carried a flash, a remembering from my youth, making eye contact with a doe. She led me past trees, through ferns and ivy to her fawn, chestnut with white spots, nestled in the grass. Vulnerable. The doe watched as I knelt beside her baby, as I touched its tiny head, unaware of the danger to its fragile life.
Through oak trees, lichen drooped long from their branches, the filtered sun created irregular, glowing shapes on the forest floor. Branches and leaves formed a tapestry of life, thick with energy, magnifying their essence and intensity. I was just one small organism in the network of life. An enormous oak whose wide-spread branches twisted and turned, defied all patterns and rules. I approached the grand dame in awe of her divine, ancient presence, and when I moved under her furthest reach, the forest suddenly went silent.
A covey of quail (dressed in fancy spots, stripes and bobbling headpieces) whistled as they ran on speeding legs. A crinkling — Towhee kicking up leaves, flying in unison on purring wings when I approached. Acorn Woodpeckers squawked, perched on tree trunks — wearing tuxedos and red caps — drilling holes, stuffing them. Their gleeful chucking like happiness on the wind. I passed a giant oak, split at it’s lowest, thickest branch — down the middle. The top half on the ground, the trunk standing a jagged obelisk, rotted at the split.
Around a bend, a rhythmic cascade, almost like dropping water. I stopped to listen, but couldn’t make out the sound.
Slowly and quietly I walked, listening without seeing the source. At the crest, down the shaded hill, 5 or 6 deer chased each other, leaping between trees. They moved in s-curves, criss-crossing, creating figure eights with narrow hooves, playing like children in the forest. Nearer and nearer, they were so absorbed in their chase they didn’t notice me. Closer and closer, astonished by the sight, as close as I could get on the trail.
Overzealous, I stepped off the path and my human feet crunched leaves. Without showing signs of seeing me, they bounded away in perfect time through the meadow. At the edge of the forest, an antlered male turned back to look at me — knowing me, beckoning me on.
On the other side of the meadow, the deer had left no trace.
A thick oak with a large horizontal branch, an arm reaching, pulled me off the trail. I hoisted myself up, stretched my legs and reclined back. Cradled in her arm, I gazed past the canopy to the sky. Rustling, fluttering, croaking, squeaking, laughing, whistling, chattering, calling. Each voice joined in one abundant song.
I could have lounged for hours, held by the tree and listening; yet, the forest did not sing for me. Symphonies without need for an audience. A true artist: creating for herself.
“Show me the way,” I whispered. “How can I create like you?”
Close your eyes.
Moments passed, my ears opened to subtle layers of the song. Singers unashamed of their sound they received at birth. Each day a new score created without doubt or self-consciousness. Each voice accepted exactly as it was — knowing it had a welcomed part.
During this winter season, I’m making the final push to complete my first book! I’m on track to have it finished in Spring.
In order to prepare the release, I’m taking time off from publishing work here. Check out photos from my current travels on Instagram http://www.instagram.com/glamsient
We cross into Reservation land in Northern Arizona. The desert before us, a desolate beauty with colorful streaks, glows beneath the pink hue of the setting sun.
On the outskirts of town the highway curves past hills. Gathered at their base, shanties and shacks form small a small line. Broken boards, torn roofs, tires, cars and trucks appear abandoned and disregarded. But I see there are children’s toys and someone walking into a shack and others sitting on steps and chairs out front.
We pass at 60 miles per hour. The extreme poverty fades into the rear-view mirror.
We stop at a gas station just after dusk. A man walks to the car parked next to me. He is, perhaps, ten years older than me. Our eyes meet on opposite sides of the window. A thought flashes into my mind — were his parents or grandparents among the stolen children, forced into Christian boarding schools in an attempt to decimate their culture?
The lineage of oppressors claim me as their citizen.
***
Early in the morning, a jewelry maker sits in a long line of artisans in Santa Fe’s town square; they’ve rolled out their wares and tell the tourists passing by, “feel free to handle.” The jewelry maker looks like he is sleeping, with eyes closed and arms folded around the large yellow “G” on his green sweatshirt. His porcupine quill jewelry has caught my eye, and I kneel down to look.
Amongst his jewelry, I find a feather pendant that is perfect for my niece.
“Excuse me,” I say.
His eyes open.
“Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother,” he smiles.
“How much is this one?”
He tells me the price. I say I’d like to purchase it and hand it to him.
An older white man stands above us and jokes that he would never buy from a Packers fan. “At least you’re not for the Cowboy’s,” the older man says as he continues down the block.
“Never a Cowboy’s fan,” the artisan jokes back as he places the necklace on a card, carefully stringing the chain through notches that will hold it in place. “Although my mother is probably smacking me right now for saying that.”
But the older man is too far to hear him.
“Your mother likes the Cowboys?” I ask, still kneeling, admiring the porcupine quills dangling from silver earrings.
“Oh yes,” he said. “All her life. Now she has passed and I’m sure she is angry with me for saying anything bad about them.”
Our eyes meet.
“I’m sorry you’ve lost your mom. I can only imagine what that feels like.”
He sighs. “She died on the fourth of July. It’s what she wanted. She was on dialysis for twelve years. My sisters convinced her to get the treatments when she first got sick. After twelve years she was tired. Every time she came home she was like this —” he rolled his eyes back, put his arms out, and swayed his chest like he was off-balance.
“That’s a long time to endure so much pain.”
“Yes, I understand her choice,” he says. He holds the little package containing the necklace in his right hand.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I say, looking up at him.
“I miss her. I think I will miss her for the rest of my life.”
I take in what he has said. “I miss my Gramma more now than I did two years ago when she passed.”
He nods and I ask about the porcupine quills.
We drove in after dark. Large shadows, looming in the night like masked phantoms, lay in wait.
Half an hour before first light, wind shook the camper van. Rain urged us to stay under covers with tinny percussions. But we had come with one purpose: to witness dawn unmask the monuments.
I put on my warmest clothes with a sense of defeat and doubt. We wouldn’t have much of a sunrise in a storm.
When I stepped outside, as if on cue, the rain eased to a drizzle, merging the space between earth and sky, wrapping us in mist. Lightning flashed in the distance — dancing in bold streaks — thunder clapped to proclaim the illumination.
I sat patiently for the show. At first she was only a fleck below the clouds, but soon, a sliver of pinkish orange light at the horizon split the sky.
Black against the night sky, the monuments began to emerge, to take clearer shape, to reveal their red rock, to show they surround us near and far, to claim their land. Castles, cathedrals, ancient architecture shaped by the Artist’s hand, etched and chiseled into towers, walls, cliffs, and colorful layers.
When dawn captured the sky, we stepped through red sand in the direction of the three closest monuments, the only ones on the early morning trail. The smell of rain rose from the earth, but it was dry and quiet. Passing clouds, their softness, an ever-changing background, emphasized the stoic rocks.
Walking below, standing at their feet, staring up at their grandeur, I felt the knowing of the One far greater than I. Ancient energy, with the power to lift its own monuments and hold them in its hand as if to say, “This — is my Creation.”
Rain continued its pilgrimage to earth as we finished the trail. I looked to the monuments, a rainbow appeared momentarily, as if to say, “So are You.”
We chose not to look at the map and found what we believed was a path. As we walked, the forest seemed to hold us while birds sang its melody. We passed elk tracks preserved in dry mud and saw a tree that had been used as an antler scratching post. I wished I could walk without knowing our destination.
Upon hearing human voices speaking languages from all over the world, we knew we were close — and suddenly — the forest opened.
A magnetic pull from my heart led me to the canyon rim as though I were under enchantment. My body shook with adrenaline. Before me, a chasm ripped the earth and rocky, layered peaks formed colorful monuments, temples, pyramids, and fortresses. Spires and pillars rose from the ground like giants. Greater and larger than Stonehenge, than Chichen Itza, than man could ever be.
Nature’s chisel wielded by the Great Artist etched walls with shadowy crags and adornement. Creation coalescing into wonder from nearly two billion years of both violent and gradual evolution written in the rock. Lava and mud spreading and widening the canyon carved by wind and water, plateaus rising, glaciers melting, the continent crashing into volcanoes and making mountains. Erosion — pushing, pulling, forming megaliths and smiles that become wings of expanded freedom. A testament to my limited, human experience.
The river deepens the canyon as she moves to the sea — her former grandeur evidenced in decorated cliffs — she is now a mere trickle of what she must have been before dams and reservoirs closed her veins like tourniquets.
The Artist exhibits the freedom to transform, to shift — to evolve into beauty, into living inspiration.
Even with their loud voices, the other tourists don’t bother me. The vastness is large enough for us all. So large that I sense I can give all the heaviness of my heart to the canyon. All the pain of memories and attachments can release. And my heart will become expansive; my heart and the canyon will merge into one, magnetized like the continent and crashing into volcanoes. If I let it fall, it will tumble into the river and be swept away to the ocean. I can let it go — I can give it all to the One who is capable of transfiguration.
I hear the wind before I feel her. She comes up from the canyon depths and brushes my face. I feel the coolness of her touch. She is a whispering echo saying, “hush.”
Crows fly with feathers straight and light in the space between earth and sky. Above the canyon, below stars. Small, yet fearless. As we must be.
Glamsient living brings gloriously beautiful highs like last week’s spontaneous adventure to Carmel Valley for a bourgeois picnic with Linney.
Yet with all the fun times, perpetual travel can be tough; insecurity, loneliness, doubt, and fear can all creep in at a moment’s notice. Even when I’m with friends and family, without the comfort of my own bed and my own home night after night, glamsient living can be (and has been!) emotionally exhausting.
Last month, for example, I stayed at a cabin for a week, which was fantastic; however, I thought I would be there much longer and was ready to be stationary for a spell. I brought little things to make me feel at home: crystals, crafts, magnets, stationary and extra books. I felt so happy to decorate and enjoy the place with my special little things. Then, unexpectedly, when I was packing up to leave, I stopped as I took the magnets from the fridge. I burst into tears. In that moment, the magnets became a symbol of home, and taking them down made me feel displaced, like I didn’t belong anywhere.
To meet and transmute these negative emotions I have to return, over and over, to the present moment — and let me tell you, it is the perfect antidote to what ails me. As zen master Thich Nhat Hahn writes: “Your true home is in the here and the now. It is not limited by time, space, nationality, or race. Your true home is not an abstract idea; it is something you can touch and live in every moment. With mindfulness and concentration, the energies of the Buddha, you can find your true home in the full relaxation of your mind and body in the present moment.”
When I quiet and calm my body and mind, when I move into the present moment, I feel my heart opening to my true home that is always available. It provides the greatest comfort.
In my experience, glamsienting requires presence of mind. I practice meditation consistently to return home over and over again no matter where I am located. Of course, I still feel a wide range of emotions and sometimes I get swept away by them, but meditation is — hands down — the best way I can take care of myself. It is a practice I will take into every season of my life whether or not it includes glamsience.
And therein lies the silver lining. Ultimately, the benefits I get from practicing meditation everyday to remain happy makes me happier (go figure!) and more peaceful; it also gives meaning and value to difficult emotions when they arise.
Coming home to the present moment has opened the door to the sweetest, most wonderful home I’ve ever had, and better still, it goes with me wherever I go!
glamsient.me 