Angels Surround

The evenings in the late summer garden are intoxicating with the scent of the Angel's Trumpet swirling in through the window's on the night breeze.

I am saying thank you to All That Is for the ability to look back using the art form of the memoir. It allows a space for the gaze into what was without being pulled away from the preciousness of the moment. I love reading, writing and taking classes in memoir.

Here then is a short Afterward to the Memoir in Two Chapters that ran between June 8 and September 11.


AFTERWORD


I was raised to believe in Guardian Angels. And believe in them I did. I had a trust in life, a naivete' that caused one person important in my life to refer to me as "unassuming".

Mother always said, "Give them the benefit of the doubt." and this particularly odd one "You'll catch more flies with honey than you will with vinegar."


I was house sitting in 1982 and I read an essay in my host's college journal that was titled 'Rape as a Spiritual Experience'. I was enraged and outraged. I became 'beside myself' the same way I did when I took rape crisis training and learned of the documented post traumatic stress (PTS) syndrome that is no different than that visited upon veterans of war.


It took me years to realize that the Hells Angels were, for me, 'The Angel's from Hell'. These Angels took be into the Underworld and showed me a cavernous dark.

Like any demons worth their salt will do they tried to make me small and of no use.

Like any monsters, dragons or strange beliefs that we invite in either consciously or unconsciously they tried to strip me of all dignity and worth.

Like any demon they brutally lay in ambush.

They preyed upon my Innocent state of being. And from them I learned that when brought face to face with what we believe we cannot endure we do indeed. We do indeed. We endure. And more than that, much more than that, we rise above...individually and collectively...our true spirit, beyond the Beyond, lifts us away from danger. We float with effortless ease above the battlefield. The body may be battered upon return, or we may not return at all (transcending the body), yet our sweet strong empowered creative spirit lives on.


This is a Big ol' School called Earth. I learned that at 19. I wouldn't have been able to comprehend that or assimilate that without a model. Immediately Life sent me that model, my mentor, my guide...my guardian Angel in Alice. She offered me an example of what Life could be. She demonstrated a life of lightness of being employing yoga, art making, gardens, gentleness, laughter and balance in all ways...even in the midst of her own severe loss and heart break.


I could address these issues at length and ad infinitum but I prefer to recognize that the 'Angel's from Hell' made me a life member of what Clarissa Pinkola Estes brilliantly refers to as 'the scar clan'.


Like my friend Indigo Girl decided, I hope that you will pull Estes' work off the shelf and read again this concept. You'll find the treasure of her wisdom on page 374 of Women Who Run With the Wolves.

You too may discover that we are each indeed much stronger, far wiser and certainly more capable than much of the mass consciousness cultural out picture would have any of us believe or subscribe to currently.

Notice the manner in which you have faced your demons and faced them down. Celebrate your ability and your capacity to thrive rather than survive.


This Life is all so temporary and precious.


Rumi says it so well: Let the beauty you love be the work that you do there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

Thank You Alice

I immediately write a letter to thank Alice for all that I have gained as her guest.

A week later the mailman delivers a large manilla envelope to my parent's home. There I find five pages of her poems, four sheets of her small abstract watercolor paintings, and the most enraptured letter that I will ever receive in my entire life. It marks the first of twenty-six years of delightful ongoing correspondence and visits.

This first hand written letter reads so beautifully and is so deeply inspirational that it feeds my soul for all of my days. In part Alice states "...you will never leave the farm...and wherever you walk, I'll be with you...my strength is vast and comes from Beyond...so take from me what you will...I know that you will use it wisely...please let me know where your special star leads."
That letter is dated August 21, 1968.

Years later Alice and Larry sell their Ohio farm and settle on the banks of the Rio Chama in Abiqui, New Mexico, just minutes away from the home and studio of Georgia O'Keeffe.

Larry builds Alice a simple artist home that hugs the earth. He continues his woodworking and Alice her painting. On my last visit I camp on the bank of the river. Alice comes to sit at my campfire. The flames leap turbulently into the brilliant star lit sky on this crisp October night. We sit quietly staring into the thick bed of hot coals. After a time she shares her deepest story. Twenty three years earlier, in March of 1968, her eighteen year old daughter died in a car crash. Six months later I arrive frail from my own trauma. We instantly bond as surrogates unaware of the other's recent injury. It is enough to hold her story. I don't ever tell her mine.

"What is La Loba? ...she is the female soul. Yet she is more: she is the source of the feminine. She is all that is of instinct. Of the worlds both seen and hidden she is the basis. We each receive from her a glowing cell which contains all the instincts and knowings needed in our lives." Clarissa Pinkola Estes

On January 30, 1994 a large manilla envelope arrives. It echoes the first from the summer of 1968...a handwritten letter, four watercolor paintings. In part she states "Feels like much is happening planet wise. No doubt it is. Would like to block it, sometimes I can, sometimes no. We have no TV, no radio, no newspapers, no magazines. Quiet here. Serene. It's good. we send much love.
The letter is dated January 27, 1994.

As I finish reading her words the phone rings. A friend is calling from New Mexico to tell me that on the evening of January 28, on an unlit back road, Alice was killed instantly when Larry's truck hits a rock and overturns.

Later that day I write into my journal...Thank you Alice for your natural beauty of spirit and your love of the artist life. You gently and joyfully passed these gifts to my heart when I was a very young woman. I have nurtured, nourished and shared the legacy you passed to me. I pledge to continue to do so all the rest of my days.


This artist memoir is dedicated to Alice Boucher Twitchell November 4, 1917 - January 28, 1994

'She who we love and lose is no longer where she was before. She is now wherever we are.'

This closes two chapters of an artist's memoir. A brief look back in the 60th year.

Leaving the Farm

After a week on the road with the band and my two transcendent weeks with Alice my travel companion mildly twists her ankle. We must depart.

I dissociate.

It is unfathomable to imagine not being in the company of Alice. She has folded me under her wing. She has wrapped me in a quiet and calm acceptance.

We are driven back to the bus station. I wear the sandals made by Sam, and carry his gift of the Tao Te Ching. Invisible to all, my spirit and my soul have been stamped with the imprint of Alice, the natural earth mother/artist.


The sky high corn stalks create an impenetrable corridor. The car crunches gravel and throws up a veil blocking any backward look. It weaves down the narrow canyon of a driveway. I stick my hand out the window so the large slender leaves can slap against my palms in an extended mournful goodbye. As the flashes of cool green chant their rhythmic farewell I make a silent promise that I will attempt to walk in the footsteps of Alice, my model of sanity, to the best of my ability, for the rest of my days.

As we move on down the road I randomly open the treasure of the Tao:

6
The breath of life moves through a slender valley
Of mysterious motherhood
Which conceives and bears the universal seed,
The seeming of a world never to end,
Breath for men to draw from as they will:
And the more they take of it, the more remains.



An artist's memoir in 2 chapters
Graphic done using Sumo

My Earth Angel

On my way to the long low poultry houses I pass the large fenced vegetable garden. It feels like a sacred space, far more private than the rest of the surroundings, and so out of respect I have skirted it...until today. Now I unhook the rusted latch on the slatted wooden gate and enter.

Life is burgeoning. Bees and butterflies are at work in profusion. My inner senses dance among the variety of shapes and colors and textures. I realize immediately that in order to be whole again I need a garden in my life.

Something catches my eye and as I squint through the oversized foliage of a summer squash. I see, perhaps two hundred feet up the slope, lying snug against the earth, the main residence, a low single story contemporary designed home. There is a natural pond outside the back door.

I stare.

The sun is reflecting off the surface of the water.. Through the brilliant light I think I see an apparition. I watch as a graceful nude figure emerges, rising up and out of the pond with ease.

There's fluidity to her movement and dignity in her posture as she wraps herself in a flowing white garment. She stands in the sun and idly creates a long single braid in her pure white hair before the shadows absorb her into the house.

I am entranced.


This artist memoir celebrates the 60th year.
This graphic created in SUMO

The Farm

Following a week on the road the bus brings us back to the farm. Ths 300 acre Twitchell Farm is my opportunity to discover that something serene exists in the world beyond the chaos.

For the first few days I wander. I hike the land until tired and then find a tree to lean against. I sit for hours watching whatever happens by...a snail, spider, butterfly, rabbit, hawk or doe.

Morning and evening are linked by my work of collecting a portion of the eggs laid by a flock of 1500 Rhode Island Reds.

Days flow with a nourishing rhythm.

This is an artist's memoir chapter 2
The graphic's done using Sumo

Traveling

I was invited to climb aboard the bus. The band was ready to travel for a week of playing clubs.

Sam who was older and more settled than the other guys in the group gave me a paperback book to read. I became entranced as we moved on down the road. Titled The Way of Life according to Lao Tzu, this book had a similar affect on my mind as the sugar cube...it made a huge space.

I don't recall much of the week on the road, but the book, also know as the Tao Te Ching, has stayed with me for all the years since.

From Wonder into Wonder

Being in the altered state of the sugar cube has its merit.

48 hours later I remain insulated and blissfully unaware of recent events. My mind is spacious and soft. I have been gently placed into a world of nature and wonder.

In the farmhouse I meet the group of rock musicians. My traveling companion dances around her boyfriend. The mood is festive. There is a lot of cheer. One of their tunes is played repeatedly on the radio.

The next morning, out on the front porch, Sam, who is from Hawaii, silently fashions me a pair of sandals from leather scraps...they lace up past my ankles. On the wooden step beside him the fluteplayer sends a silky sound drifting out over the cool grasses like smoke.

The old school bus outside the front door is being packed with sound systems and band equipment. They are readying to depart to the next string of performances.

This is chapter 2 of my memoir on early art influences...a sweet turn.

Quick graphics created using Sumo

I Remember

Eventually he turns left onto a dirt path that winds back and back and back through the blackness. Not so much as a firefly glow pierces the dark.
Dense walls formed by fields of corn rise up on either side of the path. We all laugh. The leaves are slapping against the car doors and coming in through the open windows as we pass.

I'm directed to a flannel sleeping bag already rolled out on the wide plank floor.

In the morning I step outdoors onto the front porch of this ancient farm house.

I see lush open meadows, gently rolling fields surrounded by forest in all directions. I'm standing in the middle of a huge natural bowl. A large flock of sheep wanders close enough that I can hear the sound of the grass being ripped away from the earth as they graze. Listen.

A new sound. A new world....


...to be continued.


This memoir began with the June 8 post and chronicles early influences in this 'Art Life'...that is loved so dearly.

This closes the chapter on a particular rite of passage.
Thank you for your kind emails and inquiries. The three 'Angels from Hell' (as I came to think of them) were killed in the coming year. Two of them by police during a raid the other in a gang fight.

After Midnight

We arrive at a bus station. Stepping off the Greyhound I notice a country store and a place for horses to be tied to a rail in front of it.

A little car is waiting.

A fellow, very friendly and happy to see us, drives us into the deep dark countryside.


This is a memoir tracing early art influences. The quick graphics are done using Sumo.
On August 21 this chapter will close.

My First Trip

We travel into the night.

No Where to Run to

As the day winds down I realize I have nowhere to go. No home to return to. No sense of direction.

On the beach I see a familiar face. A girl that I know from the clubs still lingering at the shore.

We talk for a while and we agree that I will accompany her.

She's getting a ride downtown to the Greyhound Bus station.

Everything Returns to the Sea

Inner Space travel takes place throughout the night. As morning approaches I am still oozing and melding and merging with the micro and the macro. We are one.

At the predawn I pull the natural world across the yard as I make my way to my parents's house. I want to listen to music. I need to hear Jefferson Airplane. I lean my ear against the built-in speaker of the Hi-Fi with the volume set at 1. Like a whisper I hear, "One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small..."

Now while mother is making breakfast sister Lori looks at me and exclaims, "Donna, what's the matter with your eyes?! Mom look at Donna's eyes!!"

Mother can no longer look at me. I am lost to her. Gone.

I find a ride to the beach with a long breakwall that juts out into the Great Lake Erie.

My battered body rocks backward and forward and side to side as the frothing waters crash over me and the boulders. We becoming one with the seaweed and the waves. We/one.

With Diamonds

Half way across town the highway begins to swirl and shift. Reflections shimmer in bright neon. Patterns everywhere. Nothing solid. Street lamps arch to the pavement and where they touch the ground fireworks of color explode in all directions.

I make it back to my parent's driveway. I park my mother's car. It's still Sunday. Just barely. The houses are dark.

I am out of my body in an altogether unfathomable way. I am melting into the summer landscape. The most astounding beauty pulses through my cells. The magnificence of it all oozes out onto the dew damp lawn. The grass appears waist high and it's symphonic. A stereophonic chorus of night insect sounds turn my ears into speakers. I am broadcasting the event. Earth's vibration snake up through my legs and blast out the top of my head like the colored ribbon's of Aurora Borealis. Brightly pigmented trees and street lamps undulate wildly dipping toward the ground. A firefly's flash is a sunburst. Again and again and again in all directions. Asphalt rises and falls in cresting waves lapping my feet and swirling into them.


I am aware of the need to be perfectly silent as I meld and flow into the neighbor's house. I become the stairs, my hand passes through the wood door as I move toward the little bed in the corner of the tiny room they let me use. Sliding down to make contact with the white sheets I sink into and disappear into a marshmellow of softness.


This quick graphic done using Sumo
This memoir began with the June 8 post and this chapter will conclude by August 21.

Lucy in the Sky

He can tell immediately that I am in trouble; injured. Traumatized.

He is kind. Places his arm about me.

There is no concept of time.

He helps me.

I clean myself up.

After a while he opens a briefcase that he placed inside the door when he entered. He finds what he's looking for and extends his hand offering me a cube of sugar.

I am exhausted and scared.

He says, "This will help you to forget everything."

I ask, "What is it?"

He says, "Trust me, it will help."

He smiles softly and says, "Take it. You have two hours before you'll feel the wave. You will be so grateful to me."

The sweetness dissolves into my swollen, burning tongue.

Further Down the Rabbit Hole

This is a brief memoir about early art's education/influences:

Time has no meaning.

Eventually I make my way slowly down the two dark flights of stairs.

I turn to the left at the bottom moving into the silent kitchen.

I ease down onto the long wooden bench at the kitchen/picnic table.

My eye is drawn upward.

Huge wet black letters fill the ceiling space. The three have left their calling card: Circus, Bouncer, Chains.


This quick sketch done using Sumo.
This memoir chapter that started with the June 8 post will conclude on August 21.

I'm no angel

Being raised Catholic I now know that I will be burning in hellfire for all eternity.

I am clearly no angel. I have been dragged into the bowels of darkness and am lying in the aftermath.

Deeply damaged.

Changed in all ways.

It's still Sunday.

There are no sounds rising up from the floors below.

It seems I am alone.

This quick graphic done using Sumo.

This memoir began June 8 and this chapter will conclude August 21.

Seeing in the Dark

You know when you're exhausted and you pass out and when you wake up you're disoriented... not sure what day it is or what time of day it is?

It was like that with a lot of burning. Pain.

I lay still. Listening.

There is no sound.



this graphic done using Sumo.
This memoir began with the June 8 post and this chapter will conclude August 21.

When the Birds Sing

I can use encouragement.

While I'm a child mom's sweet voice often sings me awake.
Her voice rises up through the heating column that runs next to the stove and culminates in my attic bedroom.

Her favorite wake up call is:
When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin' Along:

When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' along, along
There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' his old sweet song

Wake up, wake up you sleepy head
Get up, get out of bed
Cheer up, cheer up the sun is red
Live, love, laugh and be happy

What if I were blue, now I'm walking through fields of flowers
Rain may glisten but still I listen for hours and hours

I'm just a kid again doing what I did again, singing a song
When the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbin' along

Funny how at the oddest times (when I most need mothering I guess) this melody and message filters up out of the ethers.

This graphic done using Sumo
This memoir started with the June 8 post. This chapter will conclude August 21.

This Little Light of Mine...

Angel's Surround

Mother calls me angel. I am her angel baby. She protects me. She worries for me. We cry together when my baby boy is given to Catholic Charities on June 9. Her first grand. My one and only.

Life is changing rapidly and it's still Sunday afternoon. I don't know the date. I don't know the time. It's sunny. It's bright. Summer. July.

The coin is tossed by three large demons wearing leather. They turn and maneuver up and down the attic stairs. Large embroidered patches on their broad leathered backs read HELLS ANGEL.

Dragged bodily into the underworld the soul of what matters floats out into the trees and beyond the beyond.

This quick graphic drawn using Sumo

This memoir began rising up spontaneously with the June 8 post.