On Friday, April 19, 2019, two lines of possibility crossed over out of the nowhere into the Now Here: my friend Merrill offered me the chance to join an emerging group which would be a women writers support group.
I was tempted, but then within a couple hours, I got a text from another friend, Sandy O’Brien, inviting me to join an on-going Heroine’s Journey Mandala Class.
This is a completed mandala by my workshop leader, Sandi O’Brien. Every detail has a story, a dream, a memory or reflection behind it. I particularly love the central iris image.
I have done mandala and shield work before, but nothing as in-depth as this promises to be. I said yes to this opportunity because it can include writing but focuses on, as Jung says, “memories, dreams, reflections.”
I arranged to meet Sandi, and on the way, I saw I was following a car with the license “OBrien” on it.
The license plate that only flashed before my eyes for a few seconds, appearing then disappearing out of the chaos of traffic, seemed to me an exclamation point that I had chosen the correct path of the two that had appeared to me.
Gouache. Personal Mandala made in a Heroine’s Journey Class by Sue Teutschell Davis.The process begins with the outer circle, which is called “The Fire Ring.” If you compare the Fire Ring on all of the mandalas, you can see the wide variety of possibility with just this one element.
On Saturday, I met with Sandi O’Brien in her beautiful, art-filled home in Creswell. Oregon, and got to know her and the class materials better.
The physical object to be created is a mandala like the ones by Sandi O’Brien shown here. The process is long–she says up to eighteen months or two years.
Each ring and sub-section of rings is a separate meditation or inward reflection or dream recorded, considered, discussed,distilled to its essence and added to the piece.
Each mandala is a journey by the artist through a period in her life where she is looking back, looking into the Dreamtime, looking forward and drawing all the threads of her life together.
At our first meeting, she and I split a large sheet of Arches watercolor paper. If you mingle blood and take an oath, two people become “blood brothers.” The two Sandies have split a piece of paper to make our mandalas on; we are “mandala sisters.” The two halves of the paper will continue to speak to each other over time.
The very last element to be added to the mandala is the centering image, which is called forth in meditation or dream by the artist at the end of the long process of bringing the piece into being. Gouache mandala by Sandi O’Brien.
For every change in my life, I have stood on a threshold, momentarily paused in my forward action. Birth is the first threshold, and death is the last. In between are a thousand moments of transition where I stepped from into a new stage, times when I left an old habit behind, or moved beyond old ways of understanding, experienced new gowth, or achievement.
I wanted to do a series of photos inspired by these threshold emotions. I knew I wanted some dreamlike effects, so I chose a lens that would be variably sharp and blurry (Lensbaby Sweet 80 on Olympus OMDEM 5 mio 4/3rds).
I also wasn’t up for any self-portraiture, so as I often do, I turned to my doll collection to see who wanted to stand in for me: a very old Apache woman with a dark, dried apple face stepped forward, as did my small carving of Dzonoqua, the Wild Woman of the Woods, my muse and mythic persona.
On a day when I was very tired, after a long drive home after Spring Break, I took dolls and camera out into the back yard. I had some ideas, but both the camera effects and the dolls themselves took over the shoot. Here’s what happened.
Inside every child is the full grown adult on the threshold of birth. (Detail of a painting by my husband Peter Jensen on the side of our house called The Anasazi Grill.)
She stands on the threshold of the Longhouse waiting to enter the Winter Dances, the Realm of Heightened Power.
After a long winter hibernation, she stands on the threshold of spring. She is stunned by the light, her mind still swimming in the shadows of dreams.
We are as children to the gods, and we caper on the threshold of Dream/Not-Dream (Image: Detail of house painting by Peter Jensen)
She is Very Old Age and waits on the threshold of the future. She has no face because the Very Old are not seen. Their faces have changed so much, they often don’t see anything of themselves in that murky mirror, behind which waits Death, that patient Black Dog.
This one is my favorite because she is most like me right now. She stands, as I do, on the threshold between the last spring snow and the adventure ahead. She is old yet still strong and eager for what is to come.
Artist and urban chicken farmer Janet Barocco lives in Santa Rosa, California. She submitted this delightful image and haiku as a celebration of early spring.
“Lady Chicken Under the Almond Tree,” Prismacolor on black art paper by Janet Barocco
It is not unusual for me to see full blown images behind my eyelids just as I wake up in the morning.
I am not sure if this has to do with the strong light that comes through my window, filtered by our Broad Leaf Maple. Maybe it has to do with an overactive imagination wanting to get to the colored pencils. Are these images teasers to push me toward my black pages and my idea book?
Black Pears
I do not know, but Salvador Dali said that he would not mind solitary confinement because he could spend his life painting the images behind his eyeballs. We share this odd phenomena.
“Acid Green and Manganese Blue” appeared to me as a fabric or woven disc, backlit with brilliant blue. Black Pears hearkens back 15 years to my “black things” series. Art has an uncanny life of its own, and it am amazed when it asserts itself. “Paint Me! Paint me now!!”
Cheryl and I took a year-long hiatus from the Mysterious Night Vision Field Journal art, blog, and classes, but now we’re back.
Starting Jan. 2, 2018, Cheryl will teach a two week class The Mysterious Night Vision Field Journal. It is a two week online course in drawing memories, dreams, and reflections on black paper using gel pens or Prismacolor pencils.
In love with vivid color, we pursue the soul’s uncensored purpose.
To get back in the groove, we are each returning to our black journals and sharpening up our Prismacolors.
Sandy got started this morning with a drawing that began with a dream and then went from there. She wrote a poem that “explains” each step of the drawing.
“A Return to the Mysterious Night Vision Field Journal” Derwent InkTense Pencils. Sandy Brown Jensen
Listen to hear Sandy read her poem "Return to the Mysterious Night Vision Field Journal"
(This poem is about my unusual muse, who is a ten foot tall hominid who survived the Ice Age and still roams the Pacific Northwest. She is not to be confused with Sasquatch of urban legend fame or Dzonoquah of the sacred Kwakwakawak tribal pantheon except that in Dreamtime, she is both of those. I am working on a book of poems called Giantess.)
My body is ghostly, hardly touching. The missing breast is both wounded and healing. What is left is my white skin and the stretch marks from nursing like a gift I get to keep, after all. The diagonal blue scar in all its ugliness still seems like a clock. It is mending and it is ticking. My life is on hold for now, but it will need tending.
Nude with Blue Birds by Cheryl Renee Long
Grief is like a filmy gray scarf, just brushing me lightly. The blue birds are actually black and wild, and they tend me as I rest. They offer me blue, and I think of the bluebird of happiness. They know I need blue, but I need their wildness too, like medicine.
I am resting, I am quiet. The clock ticks and wait for the day when I fly.
Today is February 26, 2017. Thirteen days ago I had a mastectomy of the right breast. I am healing but it seems like a very long process. Some days I hurt enough to take pain medication, some days I think I can clean the entire house. Well I cannot, it doesn’t matter who is coming over to see me. The house has to wait.
Healing Spirits
Sadness darts in and out of my consciousness. The clouds outside are wet and dark. Then I look closely at my blue glazed China pots, and spring is in full swing. All of the bulbs I planted last November are banging out of the ground. The early crocus are blooming yellow and purple. The incorrigible fruit trees are blooming. Pussy willows.
I go outdoors no matter what. My golden dog approves. My paints beckon me. Who cares if my body is shaky – I might get an interesting effect. Who knows?
It is just about spring and slowly day by day my creative life sort of reels me in. My cancer free future comes into focus, fades a bit, focuses again.
There is no way to hurry this natural healing process. “Healing has its own schedule,” says my mother.
