After my husband died and the silence of dying was replaced by the silence of living, I took all of the money we had and bought paintings to fill my house. They still watch over me and speak words of peace into my sadness.
Later in life I would learn that I am in the 99th percentile for being able to visualize a thing in space. But in the fourth or fifth grade art class I sat in a corner with a big lump of clay and I began to shape it. I then saw a bear emerging. I somehow knew what he looked like from all angles and how deeply his paw was stuck in the honey jar. I loved that bear and that triumphant moment. And when I got home the person I wanted to share it with was my grandmother. She was stability in my house. Silent gray trust worthy. I gave it to her freely with an open heart full of gratitude for my grandma. It was a rare moment of safety connection and love. I recently named my car “Grandma.”
During 2020, I wrote an 85,000-word memoir that remains in a folder on my laptop, unpublished. The book changed in the writing and changed ME in the writing. It allowed me to see and internalize my part in things. It allowed me to see and release my attachment to "being the victim" and "being right." It allowed me to truly forgive and to heal my relationship with my ageing parents and with my ex-husband (who is now, once more, my husband).
This "work of art" changed my past, present, and future. It also changed the past, present, and future of others. No literary agent or book deal required.
Poetry has created a world for me that’s simple and potent. Not like the world that’s riddled with complexity and requires endless interpretation. The art of distilling words into their most basic element has supported my mental health in a way no amount of talking ever has. Thank you for this wonderful prompt and reflection 🙏🏼
Music music music - so many examples but will share (2): The Brooklyn Museum - free Saturday night - Afro Cuban band - got the whole world dancing together. Central Park - concert celebrating the centennial of the Statue of Liberty - Jesse Norman singing "He's got the whole world in his hands" accapella - made the whole world stop and listen except the wind which sang with her -
My late husband and I shared poems we had written on our first date and it was clear we were kindred souls. I was 62, he was 68.... there was no time to lose! We had nine sweet years together, he passed 8 months ago. Through the the joy and the loss, I keep writing.
"And my vagina / is not / your Passage to India." This was the last line of a poem read by a poet whose name I cannot remember or locate, but the visceral response I experienced upon hearing this poem, ending with that line, I can so clearly remember! It was the early 90s. I was a college student at the time, at a very, very progressive/lefty college in Olympia, Washington, that was also very, very, very white. It was the kind of place where white folks seemed to want to be Native American, or Indian - or at least dress the part. I had become an outspoken activist on campus, and had drawn the attention of a number of, well, white men, who expressed their desire for me. As someone who mostly grew up a very, very white Judeo-Christian town, not at all progressive, where I felt ashamed of my Indian background, of my grandmother wearing a sari to attend Grandparents Day in elementary school... where I was made fun of for "doing voodoo" (i.e., burning incense. Imagine now, those same folks buying it in bulk! at Costco!!)... where I experienced unrequited crushes on white boys on the regular, and felt like a brown blemish in a sea of vanilla... Now, being at this college, where folks "looooved" Indian clothes, Indian music, jewelry... suddenly being an object of desire by these "same" (not same) white men, led to such a mix of feelings. Part of me liked it. (who doesn't like to be desired?). And yet part of me had a sense - something doesn't feel right here. Do they even know me? So.. traveling to Toronto to attend Desh Pardesh - a progressive South Asian arts festival celebrating the voices of underrepresented communities within the South Asian diaspora -queer-positive, feminist, anti-racist, anti-colonialist, anti-classists, anti-casteist - and hearing this poem, ending with this line, and then the joyful roar of "I-get-you-my-sister!" applause that followed... created a space inside me. A space for what? Even as I returned to my radical-and-nurturing-and-i-am-so-grateful-i-went-there-and-also-super-white college, that line from that poem, so impactful that I am remembering it now nearly 30 years later (thank you Pádraig for bringing me back to this time!), created space for this experience to exist too - and space for this community to exist within me. This poem created a bridge to a part of myself - as poetry and all art really does, or can do - that needed to be acknowledged, seen, heard, winked at, high fived... and having that live in me, changed my field in a way that said, "yes. this too." Eventually, when I chose to share that poem with others, well.... those are other stories! Pádraig - thank you as always for the beauty you share so generously, what you bring to life in me and so many. That Alexander Posey poem and podcast was breathtaking!
Jun 4, 2023·edited Jun 4, 2023Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
Very interesting and inspiring. As someone who does music and words also it is the silence between the notes - that dynamic tension - which creates the spark. Rarely achieved but worth every part of the process.
Thank you for the prompt, Pádraig; that impromptu music/poetry coming together must have been fabulous!
I am thankful that both my grandma and my mom appreciated and took part in art, and gave me the time and resources to learn and appreciate it, too. And I have continued to share art in my family, and also with the folks who come to this space.
I am fortunate that art is woven into my life through listening to or playing music, singing, dancing, lettering, photography, mosaics, knitting, and now poetry. In fact what I write here was impacted by today’s piece and by comments of those who also read and thought about this way that art comes into our lives and changes it.
My daughter was always so brave and confident with her art - drawing, painting, fashion, singing, playing the piano, double bass, etc. In a 5th grade drawing exercise, they drew a line drawing of one hand with the other while keeping eyes on the hand. They weren’t allowed to look down at the paper. The result was astonishing... their hand, the unique positioning of their slender, small fingers with angles and folds and creases and perspective, unmistakably theirs, floating in the space of white paper. I finally had it framed and hung it last week where I can see it everyday. I never tire of looking at it, studying it, tracing the sure lines and curves of their purpose. Something of their sight, their essence, is in that simple drawing. This little drawing gave me a window into their essence. It is very precious to me.
A dear friend asked me to listen to the piano pieces she was going to play for her portion of a family Passover Seder. I stood in my yard, phone pressed to my ear, as she began a Bartok -dark and slow with notes of hope. And Mozart, its tone and bounce redolent of freedom and Spring. Suddenly I noticed the notes. Every one, I realized, had been heard, caressed, placed carefully under her fingers - wholes and eighths of equal merit - quiet basses no less precious than dancing trebles. A group of notes had been transformed, each one lit from within for having been so carefully witnessed. A blessed community. Guided by her skilled, obedient hands, her presence and her practice, they soared into a moment of transcendence.
Thank you for sharing that scene with us. Such an artistic “trust fall” and I love it.
What immediately comes to mind with this prompt is when I am able to bring poetry into my work as a consultant. For a long time, even though I work with arts organizations, I kept my business and artistic pursuits somewhat separate. A couple of years ago, I was working with a client on change management and they were struggling to articulate the story of what they were experiencing, so I brought in John O’Donohue’s wonderful “Blessing for the Interim Time” as a catalyst of contemplation and sharing. It was unexpected and it really helped. I know that poetry moves me and that it can move others, and it was wonderful to see it resonate in this business context—though I have to remind myself it is all in the context of being human. Any separation between personal and business is artificial, I tend to think. In any event, thank you for the prompt, and perhaps some poetry will be just what I need to tackle this day, which is far too full for a Sunday! Sending all best wishes to everyone.
I remember standing among many others at a VanGogh immersive experience, his artwork moving over the ceiling, floor and walls. Something deep within me surfaced, and I was transported to a different space in my spirit...the creative space, and I felt set free, enlarged and lifted up, enlivened. It is the same space in which I create word art, and I cherish it!
I think the writing I’m doing now is making me a more whole person. In my Sunday post this morning, I write about how revisiting our stories can heal us, lead to better health and change our lives. I truly think writing about some of my struggles with intrusive thought OCD and anxiety and just general struggles of not living up to my expectations of myself, is liberating for me. Writing is leading to more wellness in my life.
After my husband died and the silence of dying was replaced by the silence of living, I took all of the money we had and bought paintings to fill my house. They still watch over me and speak words of peace into my sadness.
A beautiful Buddhist chant I recently listened, learned, and sang out in chorus with sangha:
Resting, resting deeply,
I return my life
to the one who listens deeply
to the sounds of the world
The art of listening belongs to all equally, no matter age, occupation, cultural background, greater or lessor achievements.
Listening to one another, to all of nature, goes to the heart of things braiding us together as if we had known each other for a long time.
Later in life I would learn that I am in the 99th percentile for being able to visualize a thing in space. But in the fourth or fifth grade art class I sat in a corner with a big lump of clay and I began to shape it. I then saw a bear emerging. I somehow knew what he looked like from all angles and how deeply his paw was stuck in the honey jar. I loved that bear and that triumphant moment. And when I got home the person I wanted to share it with was my grandmother. She was stability in my house. Silent gray trust worthy. I gave it to her freely with an open heart full of gratitude for my grandma. It was a rare moment of safety connection and love. I recently named my car “Grandma.”
During 2020, I wrote an 85,000-word memoir that remains in a folder on my laptop, unpublished. The book changed in the writing and changed ME in the writing. It allowed me to see and internalize my part in things. It allowed me to see and release my attachment to "being the victim" and "being right." It allowed me to truly forgive and to heal my relationship with my ageing parents and with my ex-husband (who is now, once more, my husband).
This "work of art" changed my past, present, and future. It also changed the past, present, and future of others. No literary agent or book deal required.
Poetry has created a world for me that’s simple and potent. Not like the world that’s riddled with complexity and requires endless interpretation. The art of distilling words into their most basic element has supported my mental health in a way no amount of talking ever has. Thank you for this wonderful prompt and reflection 🙏🏼
Music music music - so many examples but will share (2): The Brooklyn Museum - free Saturday night - Afro Cuban band - got the whole world dancing together. Central Park - concert celebrating the centennial of the Statue of Liberty - Jesse Norman singing "He's got the whole world in his hands" accapella - made the whole world stop and listen except the wind which sang with her -
My late husband and I shared poems we had written on our first date and it was clear we were kindred souls. I was 62, he was 68.... there was no time to lose! We had nine sweet years together, he passed 8 months ago. Through the the joy and the loss, I keep writing.
"And my vagina / is not / your Passage to India." This was the last line of a poem read by a poet whose name I cannot remember or locate, but the visceral response I experienced upon hearing this poem, ending with that line, I can so clearly remember! It was the early 90s. I was a college student at the time, at a very, very progressive/lefty college in Olympia, Washington, that was also very, very, very white. It was the kind of place where white folks seemed to want to be Native American, or Indian - or at least dress the part. I had become an outspoken activist on campus, and had drawn the attention of a number of, well, white men, who expressed their desire for me. As someone who mostly grew up a very, very white Judeo-Christian town, not at all progressive, where I felt ashamed of my Indian background, of my grandmother wearing a sari to attend Grandparents Day in elementary school... where I was made fun of for "doing voodoo" (i.e., burning incense. Imagine now, those same folks buying it in bulk! at Costco!!)... where I experienced unrequited crushes on white boys on the regular, and felt like a brown blemish in a sea of vanilla... Now, being at this college, where folks "looooved" Indian clothes, Indian music, jewelry... suddenly being an object of desire by these "same" (not same) white men, led to such a mix of feelings. Part of me liked it. (who doesn't like to be desired?). And yet part of me had a sense - something doesn't feel right here. Do they even know me? So.. traveling to Toronto to attend Desh Pardesh - a progressive South Asian arts festival celebrating the voices of underrepresented communities within the South Asian diaspora -queer-positive, feminist, anti-racist, anti-colonialist, anti-classists, anti-casteist - and hearing this poem, ending with this line, and then the joyful roar of "I-get-you-my-sister!" applause that followed... created a space inside me. A space for what? Even as I returned to my radical-and-nurturing-and-i-am-so-grateful-i-went-there-and-also-super-white college, that line from that poem, so impactful that I am remembering it now nearly 30 years later (thank you Pádraig for bringing me back to this time!), created space for this experience to exist too - and space for this community to exist within me. This poem created a bridge to a part of myself - as poetry and all art really does, or can do - that needed to be acknowledged, seen, heard, winked at, high fived... and having that live in me, changed my field in a way that said, "yes. this too." Eventually, when I chose to share that poem with others, well.... those are other stories! Pádraig - thank you as always for the beauty you share so generously, what you bring to life in me and so many. That Alexander Posey poem and podcast was breathtaking!
Very interesting and inspiring. As someone who does music and words also it is the silence between the notes - that dynamic tension - which creates the spark. Rarely achieved but worth every part of the process.
Thank you for the prompt, Pádraig; that impromptu music/poetry coming together must have been fabulous!
I am thankful that both my grandma and my mom appreciated and took part in art, and gave me the time and resources to learn and appreciate it, too. And I have continued to share art in my family, and also with the folks who come to this space.
I am fortunate that art is woven into my life through listening to or playing music, singing, dancing, lettering, photography, mosaics, knitting, and now poetry. In fact what I write here was impacted by today’s piece and by comments of those who also read and thought about this way that art comes into our lives and changes it.
My daughter was always so brave and confident with her art - drawing, painting, fashion, singing, playing the piano, double bass, etc. In a 5th grade drawing exercise, they drew a line drawing of one hand with the other while keeping eyes on the hand. They weren’t allowed to look down at the paper. The result was astonishing... their hand, the unique positioning of their slender, small fingers with angles and folds and creases and perspective, unmistakably theirs, floating in the space of white paper. I finally had it framed and hung it last week where I can see it everyday. I never tire of looking at it, studying it, tracing the sure lines and curves of their purpose. Something of their sight, their essence, is in that simple drawing. This little drawing gave me a window into their essence. It is very precious to me.
A dear friend asked me to listen to the piano pieces she was going to play for her portion of a family Passover Seder. I stood in my yard, phone pressed to my ear, as she began a Bartok -dark and slow with notes of hope. And Mozart, its tone and bounce redolent of freedom and Spring. Suddenly I noticed the notes. Every one, I realized, had been heard, caressed, placed carefully under her fingers - wholes and eighths of equal merit - quiet basses no less precious than dancing trebles. A group of notes had been transformed, each one lit from within for having been so carefully witnessed. A blessed community. Guided by her skilled, obedient hands, her presence and her practice, they soared into a moment of transcendence.
Thank you for sharing that scene with us. Such an artistic “trust fall” and I love it.
What immediately comes to mind with this prompt is when I am able to bring poetry into my work as a consultant. For a long time, even though I work with arts organizations, I kept my business and artistic pursuits somewhat separate. A couple of years ago, I was working with a client on change management and they were struggling to articulate the story of what they were experiencing, so I brought in John O’Donohue’s wonderful “Blessing for the Interim Time” as a catalyst of contemplation and sharing. It was unexpected and it really helped. I know that poetry moves me and that it can move others, and it was wonderful to see it resonate in this business context—though I have to remind myself it is all in the context of being human. Any separation between personal and business is artificial, I tend to think. In any event, thank you for the prompt, and perhaps some poetry will be just what I need to tackle this day, which is far too full for a Sunday! Sending all best wishes to everyone.
I remember standing among many others at a VanGogh immersive experience, his artwork moving over the ceiling, floor and walls. Something deep within me surfaced, and I was transported to a different space in my spirit...the creative space, and I felt set free, enlarged and lifted up, enlivened. It is the same space in which I create word art, and I cherish it!
Art--various genres and forms of high art and low art and all of the in between art--has saved my life in so many ways. Art has helped me stay alive.
I think the writing I’m doing now is making me a more whole person. In my Sunday post this morning, I write about how revisiting our stories can heal us, lead to better health and change our lives. I truly think writing about some of my struggles with intrusive thought OCD and anxiety and just general struggles of not living up to my expectations of myself, is liberating for me. Writing is leading to more wellness in my life.