The Lady, The Unicorn, The Drop

iris 2001, acrylic on canvas 26"x8"

Iris detail 2001, acrylic on canvas 26"x8"

Drop - a poem August 2004
Aphrodite's Mustang- a poem August 2005

I love Iris. She is the spirit of Dawn, butterflies and transformation. Here she is found comforting the mythical unicorn (or mustang with horn).

This painting was very difficult for me to complete. I began painting it in the summer of 2001. It took me two re-designs and nearly three more years before I felt finished enough, to finish, and I'm not yet certain if I am really and truly done.

At first, she was wearing a butterfly mask, had purple, green and blue hair and was striding across the landscape of moutain and water that I love so much. Her hands were positioned in the act of pouring, I was to add the colours of dawn, spilling across the canvas, but never got around to it. The painting was too busy, too colourful, too confusing. It wasn't what I had in mind.

Eventually, with the aid of gesso and blue-grey paint, I repaired the broken background and against my grain, added the mythical beast.

I say against my grain, because I had no interest in painting unicorns, or faeries, or sweet sublime landscapes. Yet, out it came anyway. "No!" I hollard at my hands as they spread the tell tale spiral, "No! This is a serious piece, not cutesy, not fluffy! Serious I say!"

I had imagined I would repaint the unicorn, to make him more beastly, more mythical, darker. But I never did. I pulled the canvas out a few times, even made preliminary attempts by dragging a water filled brush over the dry canvas, just to imagine how it might look. I scanned the painting into photoshop, my digital studio, and still, no dice. So I left it.

There was a time when I collected unicorns, crystal ones, porcelain ones, stuffed ones, books, bumper stickers, you know the whole merchandising kit and kaboodal.

There was a time before that where I drew the unicorn, over and over and over again. I drew the unicorn, I painted the unicorn, I spent hours perfecting my techniques in pencil, pen and paint. Then I became old enough to work. With my earnings, I began to collect.

Then, I stopped completely.

My therapist had noticed a strange phenomena regarding children who've been sexually abused; A majority of her patients, such as myself, also collected unicorns.

I add this detail only to expound on my relationship to the unicorn, to art and to my search for well being, and this particular piece.

I suspect my refusal to continue collecting and painting unicorns at that time in my life, was linked to my refusal to accept or recognise the abuse I had suffered as a child. I couldn't face it, I couldn't bear it. I was still too young and fragile to deal with concepts unthinkable to a child. Identifying as a lover of unicorns lost its appeal once I recognised that very identification also illuminated me as a survivor of exploitation.

Iris, is an example product of flow. I stopped the process several times, and tried to intellectually control its compostion. Those efforts I finally deduced, were interrupting the "flow", and ruining the compostion. Once I stopped struggling with my distaste of the subject and surrendered to the process, I was left with a perplexing, but lovely image.

Perplexing enough to engage my mind in a question and answer game about hidden motives and the personal language of symbols each of us uses in creating our various and respective worlds.

The search for the unicorn, is a search for purity, chastity, beauty. The tale told is that only the innocent can ever hope to meet, see touch or otherwise commune with the magical beast of Eden.

This, I think is crucial to the compulsion of children such as myself, to collect and draw and dream of the unicorn.

The search for the Unicorn, is the search to validate ones existance as a spiritual, magical being. It is a search to invalidate the damge and hurt inflicted by the "wicked" against the "innocent".

I wrote the poem Drop around the time I last worked on Iris. At first I didn't see any connection between the two pieces. I had composed Drop, during a free flow moment while journaling. I had been reading a book called Singing the soul back home: shamanic wisdom for every day, by Caitlin Matthews.

In Chapter 8, Healing (pg 219) she discusses the Shamanic World view of soul loss. The shamanic view is that an individual soul is held up by a scaffolding of power. Personal power. When this scafolding becomes damaged, through trauma, loss, accident, abuse etc. the soul becomes vulnerable to fragmentation, these fragments can then split off from the individual soul, can be lost or stolen.

Chapter 8 helps a person identify the symptoms of soul loss by symptom (depression, loss of will, inability to care for oneself, development of addictions as a compulsion to fill up the empty space, or void left by the vacating soul fragment, etc) and goes on to describe ways of soul retrieval. Rather than revealing the whole chapter, it is sufficient to say the word recovery, is much more integral to the process of healing I had ever considered before.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes Phd, author of Women who run with wolves discusses the root of the word reclaim. "The word is derived from the old French word reclaimer, meaning ‘to call back the hawk which has been let fly’."

These two jewels, found in two different books, read at two different times, collided in my mind, stricking a chord. The result was my poem Drop, my attempt at calling back my lost part, my drop of golden love light, a fragment of my own soul.
I remember thinking at the time, "Hhmmm, now why did I chose the foal/horse imagery?"

That mystery was recently solved, when on Drop's first year anniversary (or thereabouts) I penned a poem called "Aphrodites Mustang".

It only took me a couple of days to recognise the connection between these three pieces, Iris, Drop, and Aphrodites Mustang.

My work on my root chakra produced the poem "Instinct" which in turn prompted my own realizations of personal power, and the need to stand apart from the messages my "tribe" instilled in me, so that I may manifest my own special individuality.

The painting Iris, heralded my arrival at my second chakra issues, those of personal power, sexuality and the application of Will.

One of the symbols of the second level chakra, happens to be a horse. Wild and powerful, I often imagine the white horse of salisbury plains when I internally envision my second chakra during meditative practices.

So there I finally have it. The part of myself that has been reclaimed, my injured spirit and all the memories contained within, is integral to the machinations of that very special part of me, a part we all have, a part that enables a person to shine their spirit into the world, that very special, divinely decreed gift called Personal Will.

I rejected that part, my foal, my budding self because I was terrified of who I was, what I was, what I was capable of manifesting.

I felt that there was something about me, some big, blinking neon sign I couldn't see that was apparent to everyone else, that I was a perfect mark. I even began to believe that the people who hurt me were really, very decent people, and that if I were just a better person, a good girl, if I could just locate that blinking sign and turn it off, I could escape all unwanted attention. I felt responsible for other people's actions, so much so I had no room left over to be responsible for my own actions, or lack of action, whichever the case may have been.

I identified my sexual abuse as a part of me, instead of something that happend to me, and as a result, I distanced myself, I disconnected from the girl "it" had happend to, and later, when confronted with sexual situations beyond my abilities to negotiate, I dissasociated, further fragmenting my injured spirit.

Aphrodite's Mustang indicates my call to my soul was heard, and headed. Aphrodites Mustang returned to me full grown, wild, perfect, beautiful and powerful despite the fact Ishe had been so lost, so long ago. When she was "just a foal".

I have reclaimed my will to be.

Drop

Drop of golden Love-Light;
I heard about your fall.

I stormed the gates,
I chased the lakes,
I lit the fires
of the darkest place.

Come to me, come to me;
Come back to me,
My Foal.

Aphrodites Mustang

A whirlwind rises,
as mist from the sea

A Mustang kissed
by Aphrodite

Out of the depths
With leaps and bounds

Out of the depths
With harps and hounds

A new world rises
As shimmer from heat

Paradise
Given new pair of feet

Out of the depths
With joyful sounds

Out of the depths
With treasure found

A whirlwind rises,
As mist from the sea.

Transcending Tribal Values

Finally I realize I do have a choice, I may have climbed this genetic ladder of DNA to enter the world, but now that I am here, is it really necesary to cling to the ladder?
No I say it's time to loosen the white knuckle grip on the line I barely know, and jump, full force into the unknown, into the wild and wide landscape of World, and leave the suckling blind mice behind.

Eat my Dust!

Instinct and 1st chakra wounding

Instinct

I wrote the poem Instinct after doing a series of journalling excersizes exploring my 1st chakra issues.

I used Dr. Christine Northrupt's book, "Women's Bodies, Women's Wisdom", as a guide.

Among many topics, Dr. Christine Northrup speaks about healing chakra wounds. She helped me identify which of my chakra's were out of whack by taking stock of my emotional and physical issues. The book makes it very easy because of the lists and diagrams provided, cross referencing symptoms and their chakra origins.
I began to work on chakra number one, ( aka the root chakra) .

Carolyn Myss calls this the tribal chakra, and is quoted in WB,WW as stating:

"Tribel consciousness is not a high level, highly evolved consciousness.
Yet we all share it to some degree.
It is primarily a collective brain that seeks to hold onto its own and fight for its own survival in the world.
The tribal mind is concerned with loyalty, not love, kindness, or tenderness."

I picture the tribal chakra as a bucket of crabs. As one tribe member attempts to pull out to freedom, the rest frantically pull him back in with their big red claws. Odd phenomenon. Ever hear K-os's "Crabbuckit?" The chorus illustrates this image beautifully.

Chorus:
No time to get down 'cause I'm moving up
No time to get down 'cause I'm moving up
No time to get down 'cause I'm moving up, ah-ahhhh
Take out the crabs in the bucket
(repeat)

I find humming this little ditty makes it impossible to sit around. It gets into my head, travels down my spine, makes the tips of my fingers twitch, and my legs kick. Next thing I know, I'm moving. Even if I'm just doing the dishes, or washing the floor, I feel like I'm getting through, getting done, moving up, getting on, and those are the very things I want to feel more of.

Dr. Northrup lists 3 main stages for healing a chakra wound:

1. Witnessing - this is very important***
"Lower chakra wounds don't heal until they are witnessed, along with a woman's own acknowledgement of her wounding and her need for healing.
see my poem "There She Was", on the subject of witnessing.

2. The Naming Stage
"The woman must then investigate how those wounds affected her life->->->-> This dissolves denial! Instinct was a product of naming my 1st chakra wounds.

3. Final Stage-Realease
Release the power of the wound to control her life, forgiveness is now required, for herself and others. Work in progress

This is whatI wrote in my 3d journal last year about my1st chakra wounding in response to the excercises examined in the book by Dr. Christine Northrupt.

My #1 Chakra Wounds:

1. Saftey in the world, personal security
2. Knowing when to / not to trust
3. Dependance vs. independance

Saftey/Security: it is hard for me to feel safe in the world as a brown-skinned woman, just look around if you wonder why.

Knowing when to trust: see above

Dependance vs. independance: feeling unable to affect my own future or control my circumstances or environment. At the mercy of others.

Early messages from my tribe regarding my skin:
Here was a really, really long list of racial slurs and attacks, one of which ended up as the poem Instinct.

I'm able to wrap it all up with these few words:

Growing up, I was often shocked at how cruel adults could be. Well, to be fair how cruel white adults could be, the whiter and more religous, the meaner. I felt rather than an individual human being, in their eyes I was simply the object of fear and hate, and therefore the magnet of theirs.

yucky words stuck in my root chakra:

ABOMINATION, ILLIGITIMATE, NIGGER, WHORE. EXTERMINATE, GARBAGE


What I've learned through the examination of these memories, and residual feelings is that my anger at being treated as some kind of second class citizen by my native countrymen and women, and painfully, by my very own family is well earned

These hurts and slurs and full out attacks have not been misunderstandings as some well meaning friends may suggest. To suggest so enforces deniability, and deniability affords apathy and apathy affords non-action, and non-action affords oppressive attitudes to flourish unchecked.

To the old cliche; "Bad things happen when good people stand by and do nothing." I would like to add, "Worse things happen when good people not only do nothing, but stand around convincing others it isn't their place to do anything either."

This poem commemorates the day I realised that I had the power to defend my own borders, (my personal boundaries) and that there was no one else I could rely on to keep me safe, not even my big brother.

In absence of external hero's, I listend to the little voice in my heart, the one that 'roused me from my drugged out stupor' just in time to see a looming figure over my bed. I had to rely solely on instinct and action to survive that experience, and survive I did, thanks to no one and nobody, but me, and that little heart sent voice.

Instinct, Intuition, Adrenaline, Endorphines, these four things are related, and these four things are incorporated into the human machine, it is no mystery, no e.s.p., its the genetic blueprint for survival that has kept us intact (so far) as a sentient race, and has elevated us (so far) to the top of the food chain.


I believe the human mind is naturally wired for survival, and relatedly so, is also wired for healing. Look at the way skin closes over a wound and naturaly knits together. Did you know your skin developed in utero at the same time as your brain? Before anything else, your brain, and skin came into being, together and are made of the very same stuff.

Every part of our biological /spiritual/mental componants reflect the same tendancy as our elasticised skin.

Each piece of us contains DNA, our genetic blueprint, each "piece" of us contains an image of the "whole" of us, and encoded in every part of us (I feel) is a longing to be complete.

This is why abstract states such as Instinct, Intuition, Fright, Flight, Love, Disgust are paramount to our well being. They are the internal urges rising from within the center of our being, prodding us onward through the journey of our life.

These are the things that, if listend to deeply, intently can lead us up and out of the most perilous situations, into the bright sunshine of freedom and hope.

This is why, it is so important for me, and others like me, who have experienced a disconnect between heart, mind and body to learn how to reconnect those parts, in order to support their spirits, the center from which all else of them, hangs and flows into the world.

For me, I have discovered my OWN creative drives and compulsions are the key to unlocking these internal wise messengers such as "Instinct" explores.

My heart is a juicy fruit

My Heart,
is a juicy fruit

pink and red and throbbing.

My Heart,
has a warm soft spot

where I found a Phoenix Sobbing.

I sat down
on the ground
and set myself to ponder,

"Whats this then?"
I asked her again
and scratched my head in wonder.

She raised her face
full of grace
and spoke with voice of thunder.

I woke right then,
to my chagrin

and lumbered off to the bathroom.

The Wild Ride

For fun, I placed my micro poem, "The Wild Ride" with its group of sketches into a flip book from Dynamic Drive. If you've come to this post indirectly and missed the home page you can find it here...


I originaly wrote this poem as a description of an OBE, or out of body experience.

A hall mark of surviving trauma, is developing the ability to disasociate. In many ways, I have found that OBE's and disasociation have a number of similarities, and I suspect may even be linked in some mysteriously biological way.

As I began doing sketches for this poem, I found the imagery to be highly erotic. At first, this disturbed me. I wanted to show the beauty of bodily escape, not to produce a seductive image.

As the image continued to emerge, I found myself oddly enchanted, and slightly embarassed to recognise the character is in the process of pleasuring herself!

I spent a long while sitting 'round, pondering, what to do, what to do? What will people think?

So I revisted my goal, my purpose, my experiment into creative healing.

That's when I realized that the imagery had to stay. One of the biggest obstacles to healing has been a certain self loathing that I think, is common to many survivors such as myself. My particular self hatered has manifested in my life in various ways, the most damaging ways involved smoking (slowly killing myself with poison), self deprivation, anorexia, binge drinking, self isolation, the list goes on. Happily, I've kicked the butt, or at least I've stopped buying cigarettes, but do indulge in an occassional cigar. I havn't missed a day of eating in several years, and no longer drink save special occassions or the odd crystal cold beer during the hot summer months. I'm doing good.

I'm doing good because I have finally been able to get the poison out, you know the anger, the disapointment, the rage over the absolute betrayal of my young self at the hands of those who were supossed to care for me.

To say I am completely out of anger would be a dangerous lie. Dangerous I say, because for decades I repressed my anger, afraid of what would happen should I let it show, hell, afraid of what would happen if I even let myself feel it. Hence, disasociation and the slow disconnect between my mind, my heart, and my body the real reason behind my anorexia. This bodily disconnect allowed me to go days without even feeling the need to eat.

To say my anger is magically gone, would be to fatefully tempt that illusionist, that magician called Psyche, to once again close the shutters of my eyes and lull me back into a sense of complacency and denial I can't afford.

I decided to stay with the erotic image because of the healing power of self love. And what better illustration of loving yourself is there? In my particular experience, it was my sexuality that was attacked, exploited, controlled, and to some extent, damaged, and so, after careful deliberation, I decided this is the perfect image for what I am trying to do here, learning to Love my Self.