Susan Imhoff Bird's Blog, page 3

another opportunity to howl

join me at the Big Mouth Stage on Sunday, June 23rd at 8 pm for a reading/presentation from Howl: of woman and wolf.

the literary arts program and Big Mouth stage at the 2019 Utah Arts Festival focuses on literary readings and performers by local and regional literary talent with an emphasis on underrepresented voices and communities. performers this year come from a variety of literary genres, including poetry, slam poetry, cowboy poetry, fiction, nonfiction, storytellers, hip-hop and spoken word, and scientists. I’ll be the one spinning stories about wolves.

I may howl.

it would be even better if you’d howl with me.

the Utah Arts Festival is the largest outdoor multi-disciplinary arts event in Utah with attendance hovering over 70,000 each summer. having garnered numerous awards internationally, nationally and locally, the event remains one of the premiere events that kicks off the summer in Utah each June.

please explore their website to become a Utah Arts Festival participant—whether as a donor, sponsor, volunteer, artist, performer, or attendee: uaf.org

tickets to the Arts Festival can be purchased ahead of time for $12/day, or at the time of event for $15/day.

muck

if here or there; if somewhere…

 

what landed upon me solidly this morning is the thought, this is not what I want.

what does one do with that?

we’re advised to flow, to embrace radical acceptance of what is, to be grateful for what we have, to not push, to not allow our energy to overwhelm that of others or of the universe.

we’re also told to keep moving, to take right action, to take steps every day toward what it is we do want. to not hold back or stop that natural flow of energy.

how do we balance this? especially when we’re sitting in a situation ~ usually of our own making ~ that does not fulfill us, that isn’t, truly, what we want?

I sometimes feel as though I am walking through muck, my shoes sticking, every lift of foot demanding tremendous effort…the forward progress almost nonexistent.

my soul cries out for something different, perhaps just new experience. perhaps I can assuage it without major upheaval. yet how do I do this when my feet are stuck in a seemingly neverending field of muck?

left, right, left, right.

buddhists chant om mani padme hum, and tell us the meaning of this mantra is nearly impossible to express in mere words, but that it has much to do with compassion and loving kindness, which are more easily understood when we release our fixation on our personal self. aha.

this, apparently, is what I must do, for most obviously, this is my struggle. the simple answer: to release my fixation on my personal self.

 

if here or there; if somewhere…

 

om mani padme hum.

left, right.

left, right.

The True Sound of Truth

(from dharma-haven.org)A devoted meditator, after years concentrating on a particular mantra, had attained enough insight to begin teaching. The student’s humility was far from perfect, but the teachers at the monastery were not worried.

A few years of successful teaching left the meditator with no thoughts about learning from anyone; but upon hearing about a famous hermit living nearby, the opportunity was too exciting to be passed up.

The hermit lived alone on an island at the middle of a lake, so the meditator hired a man with a boat to row across to the island. The meditator was very respectful of the old hermit. As they shared some tea made with herbs the meditator asked him about his spiritual practice. The old man said he had no spiritual practice, except for a mantra which he repeated all the time to himself. The meditator was pleased: the hermit was using the same mantra he used himself — but when the hermit spoke the mantra aloud, the meditator was horrified!

“What’s wrong?” asked the hermit.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your whole life! You are pronouncing the mantra incorrectly!”

“Oh, Dear! That is terrible. How should I say it?”

The meditator gave the correct pronunciation, and the old hermit was very grateful, asking to be left alone so he could get started right away. On the way back across the lake the meditator, now confirmed as an accomplished teacher, was pondering the sad fate of the hermit.

“It’s so fortunate that I came along. At least he will have a little time to practice correctly before he dies.” Just then, the meditator noticed that the boatman was looking quite shocked, and turned to see the hermit standing respectfully on the water, next to the boat.

“Excuse me, please. I hate to bother you, but I’ve forgotten the correct pronunciation again. Would you please repeat it for me?”

“You obviously don’t need it,” stammered the meditator; but the old man persisted in his polite request until the meditator relented and told him again the way he thought the mantra should be pronounced.

The old hermit was saying the mantra very carefully, slowly, over and over, as he walked across the surface of the water back to the island.

the west desert, october

(from a work-in-progress)

 

I walk the desert, thinking of ocean.

anyone who’s spent time at the seashore has witnessed the drawback of water—the exposure of sand and detritus from the last wave, the deep breath of the ocean—before the next wave crashes against the beach’s sandy edge. an empty moment, purposeful, portentous. I imagine this as a metaphor in my life, that I am in the drawback, the removal of what had been in order to cleanse and prepare for what is next. that pause—an interminable dreamlike state that once ended, slips and disappears into folds of memory—which is filled with vision and clarity, the sharp pang of loneliness, self-scrutiny, despair, joy, a sense of dread that perhaps it will never end, and moments of delight painful in their intensity. a pause, an absence. a void that is not in any way a void.

what inspires this thought is a dry wash, a site of former storm run-off that is now a parched channel, cut into a shallow of the hillside. water, gushing, frothing and spilling over the edges; an image familiar yet likely not witnessed here during the past five months. water, precious is this part of the world, a gift from the storm gods. our mountains aren’t formed in a way that allows them to stretch high and poke heavy, moisture-laden clouds, causing them to unleash daily showers, like those in a part of Colorado I once knew. showers in Estes Park, where my grandparents’ cabin sat, were as dependable, each afternoon shortly after lunch, as the warm hug I’d receive from my grandma each morning. those showers enforced downtime, craft time, book time. how would this desert I’m in respond to a daily sprinkle of moisture? cacti may rot, flora might actually flower. dust would give up its rush to fill the air, would instead settle more deeply into companionship with neighbors and colleagues. wild horses would root out more to eat, with less energy expended in doing so. we pray for many things here in Utah, one of the most common being rain. we pray and wait, we sit in that absence.

if I rest in the drawback, take a deep breath, allow it to be, I feel sensation that speaks of both comfort and deep disquiet. fear, this must be fear, the unknown, the unlimited potential for harm. a lack of faith, rooted in what lies behind me, tries to overtake me. I breathe through it, remain in the present, press the toe of my shoe into the crumbling earth of the dry wash. moving my shoe back and forth, I soften the edge, smooth it. I can’t know what lies ahead; the only way to prepare for the unknown is to move deeper into oneself, to center, to ground. breath. footstep followed by footstep. om, mani padme hum.

the incoming wave could devour me; it could be meek and insufficient, leaving me unfulfilled, inducing yet another wandering path.

therapy

[the following is a reprint of a 2011 post on my blog, the tao of cycling, titled the great escape. the only changes I would make are in the second line: “five” now becomes “thirteen,” and to add that I now am with a new therapist who is even more streamlined and responsive than those who came before… ]

here’s a not-so-secret secret:

I have been in intensive therapy for the past almost-five years.

I’ve changed therapists a few times, from a rather heavy, stable, predictable gal to someone a little more streamlined and frosty, to my current therapist, a gal named ruby who is sleek and slender, sharp and responsive, understated yet subtly persuasive, and always ready and available for a session.

the best thing about my therapists is that they all–all–work outdoors. none of this sit-on-a-couch stuff. they’re into movement and nature, and they’ve all been extremely tolerant of less-than-perfect conditions.

they don’t mind getting a little wet.

they don’t mind cloudy skies and temperatures in the 40’s.

they don’t even seem to mind those 100 degree days, though I’m tempted to believe they prefer heading up canyons when the air gets that hot.

I’ve been with ruby for over two years now, and have spent so much time with her you’d think I wouldn’t need her anymore. but the thing with this kind of therapy is that it becomes a regular, almost standing, appointment. it’s more like yoga and meditation: daily practices that heal and soothe, center and relieve one of stress and anxiety.

ruby and her predecessors have helped me learn many things, not the least of which is that I am capable of more than I thought I was.

I’ve also learned:

no matter how long the road before you, the only way to shorten it is to move forward.
one’s mind will opt out long before one’s body will.
the only way to get up a hill is to start pedaling, and keep doing so until you reach the top.
the less baggage you carry, the easier it is to move forward.
some baggage is necessary for self-care along the way. it’s okay to carry a little. it makes you who you are.
rewards you earn are more enjoyable than those just given to you.
we all need an escape at times.
what hurts for a little while will ultimately make you a stronger person.
it doesn’t matter whether those rivulets running down your cheek are tears, sweat, or a result of wind-irritated eyes. it’s all good.
before you can go anywhere, you have to be where you are.

and then there is this:

all the training in the world won’t get you anywhere unless you possess and exercise some courage.

the initial investment in my therapy made me gulp, and changing therapists can be expensive, too. but the daily expenditure is minimal, and mental health is truly priceless.

left click

most times we left-click it’s routine, part of a process: editing, deleting, completing a form, maneuvering around the internet.

but every so often we pause before we click, take a deep breath, check with ourself to make sure we’re sure . . . and only then do we click and send our commitment on its way.

yesterday morning I had one of those experiences. today: no regret, no excessive excitement. just a contentedness. I did it. and now, what will be will be.

residencies are a thing that exist in the world of creative arts. time away from home/school/employment, often in a more rural or natural setting, with space and unscheduled opportunity to embrace whatever creative pursuit one has been awarded the time to embrace. some residencies include meals, some include gathering with other resident artists, all include–at a minimum–a place to sleep and work.

popular and often prestigious, all require a formal application. vitals, CV, proposed project, samples of one’s work, references. proper grammar. capitals and periods.

I’ve completed two of these applications in the past ten weeks: one with time slots this coming spring, and the other, next fall.

in 2015 I applied for a residency and crossed my fingers, hoped, worked to let it go . . . when I received word that I’d been awarded a two-week slot as artist in residence, I was shocked.

this time? radical acceptance: I gave my best to the applications, and what will be will be. I actually have tried to keep the goal forefront, but find myself just letting go and moving into that let it be place.

which isn’t to say I don’t want to be awarded a residency. I just am less attached to outcomes in my writing career these days. the writing world in its current form is subjective, confused, and nothing I can predict or control. a “yes” is an amazing gift, a “no” is just that my proposal didn’t click with those in power. I can’t let that stop me from doing me.

so I may be in northern cal this spring, or I may be in oregon next fall. or I may be here typing away on my computer in my own lovely office. or I might create my own residency somewhere, find a space in a place that suits me.

it’s possible I finally have a sense of how to keep moving along with my river, noting spots I’d like to visit, but not becoming anxious when the current doesn’t seem to be within my power . . . trusting that my little raft will take me where I am supposed to go.

a garden within a garden

 

although pleased by beauty and grace, I am delighted by the unexpected, by that which surprises and beguiles. that which catches me off guard, or might poke fun at my expectations. it is the balance between the two that I find exquisitely satisfying, as when I am walking a trail and notice an strangely shaped branch that forms a recognizable letter or design, or a collection of rocks that somehow extends a message. nature’s seeming chaos, just as it is, fills my soul–but that quirky branch sends me to an even deeper level of appreciation.

is this what we seek?

delight in the unexpected? to be enthralled, enticed to greater imagination, captivated? to look through the superficial and into what lies beneath?

my friend speaks of the garden within the garden, the house within the house. she speaks of a story by henry james, the figure in the carpet. I am curious; my tendency to respond literally to my world holds up its hands in resistance. I wish to understand, yet how can any of these things be? what does a garden within a garden look like? what exactly is this figure in the carpet, and what does it tell us about anything? how does one imagine this, let alone describe it to another?

as a writer, I take this as a challenge to be more obscure, to write in layers upon layers, to lead the reader down a complex yet ultimately satisfying path filled with demands that ignite curiosity, a desire to explore… and I sit here shaking my head in bewilderment: I simply don’t know how. a writing mentor tells me to dig deeper; this I can do, I just don’t know how to veil that depth while only gradually hinting at pieces of it.

and this must be my work, to learn something I don’t think I can learn. just as we all must seek to understand our own path, to not grow complacent, to keep challenging ourselves ~ this is the why of life.

as a therapist, I work with clients who face, at times, great challenges. this morning, as I reflected upon one of those clients, the phrase that came to mind was never ever ever give up. while I do believe a decision to give up is, given certain times and situations, beneficial or even vital, tenacity most often results in empowering outcomes. thus I’d better get to work. figuring out how to enthrall, delight, and enchant. so that I can create the kind of book I would like to read, taking readers down a path I, myself, would want to wander.

rain chain

while driving an unfamiliar road last spring, I passed a house, well-kept and orderly, covered in neat gray siding, that was anchored by two slender rain chains, one on either side of house’s facade.

ah, a rain chain. I had first seen one  perhaps two decades earlier, on a house being built in an exclusive neighborhood near my previous home. I’d loved the idea back then, described to me as a Japanese rain gutter, and had filed it away under “luxurious things wealthy people might own.” sighting rain chains on this lovely, but not of mansion status, home, freed me to consider a rain chain something I, myself, might be able to acquire.

image seared in my mind, I began researching “rain chains,” and discovered that the cost wasn’t exorbitant, in fact, it was even quite reasonable. especially if one decides to treat oneself to things of beauty that makes his or her heart soar. it’s nearly impossible to put a price on joy.

I ordered a rain chain, and I ordered a copper basin to attach at the bottom to collect the rain. I’d read the installation instructions, and felt capable.

giddiness erupted when the package was delivered. I unwrapped the stunning, shiny copper chain and basin, heart on fire. an hour later, my gorgeous new rain chain ran from gutter to ground, shouting to the world my owner loves herself. 

over the months the copper has adopted a patina, as sun and moisture have draped themselves over the chain. and not two months into the chain’s life as part of my home, it gained a mate, now firmly attached to the other end of my home’s eastern frontage. they bring me joy. they emanate a lovely sound as rain pours through; they hold ice in graceful patterns. they add a whimsical note to my staid brick house.

joy is a word on my 2019 list, one of eleven words that serve as guideposts on this year’s journey. I find joy in hundreds of small things, and yet at times, forget how very much those things matter to me. my prayer to the universe is that I continuously remember to acknowledge and live the joy that surrounds me. as do those rain chains.

those of like mind

“did you see last night’s moon?” he asked.

this was enough. it reignited the waning friendship; it lit the wedge-shaped segment of my heart that belonged to him, and to all those who speak of their enamoredness with la luna.

at the beginning of this year, I listed eleven words to guide my journey through 2019:  adventure, intuition, confidence, joy, love, peace, writing, retreat, partnership, healthy, engaged. each of these have deeper, expanded meaning, which I will delve into at other times, but my friend’s comment on the moon leads me to a focus on “love” and “engaged,” both of which speak to this shared space within and between human beings, this sacred space from which fuel and focality are birthed.

we humans are complex, yet stunningly simple: when something external touches a similar internal chord, we instantly connect and bond. on one end of the continuum might be a shared interest in classical music, toward the middle could be a love of vivaldi’s work, and on the other end might be a common rapture experienced when each plays their vivaldi on his or her cello. we feel heard and understood. we believe someone else knows our internal experience; we feel validated. we are completely engaged with the experience, and we flood with oxytocin, with dopamine, with serotonin, the body’s “feel good” responses to connection, achievement, happiness, and thoughts of loving kindness.

thus we search for opportunities to experience this again and again. we associate and attach to others with whom we share interests. we blossom when with those of like mind. most of us find ourselves resonating with others in myriad ways: some with whom we share physical interests, those with whom we celebrate spiritual beliefs, some with whom we love to discuss politics or history or creative pursuits. many of us could create a venn diagram depicting our overlapping connections, and others of us have bubbles of interests that may not touch at all.

my writing friends are spread across the land; my yoga community exists in a building down the street. family reaches across state lines; cycling friends all live within miles of each other. most good friends live within miles, as well, and my spiritual world encompasses all that is seen and unseen . . . and within each of these communities at different moments I find powerful connection and resonance, flames that ignite in my soul.

this is not to say that one must keep to what is known: it is through expanding our awareness, through inviting adventure and curiosity, through stepping outside our comfort zone, that we discover we are more than what we’d believed. it is by meeting with those who may not be of like mind that we discover our mind to be more expansive than we thought possible. and within each breath of expansion, lies opportunity for one more glimmer, one more flicker, one more burning moment of pure, connective, delight.

“yes,” I replied, “I saw it.”

before, after

I don’t remember learning to ride a bicycle. Not who taught me, how long I used training wheels, the color of my bike, nor how many times I fell before I caught on. Before my body discovered the sweet balance spot, to use momentum to my benefit, to assess, as I slowed, at which exact moment I should place my foot upon the ground.

I pedaled to and from school, Rexall’s drug store, and friends’ homes in Midland, Michigan, and continued when we moved to South Bend, Indiana, although there I added trips to the zoo and to the swimming pool. At eleven, my family settled in Utah, plunking me in a mountainous community where I continued to ride–and push uphill–my bike.

Then a hiatus: no bicycling in college.

At twenty-five I bought a mountain bike, which I rode scant times over the next fifteen years as I married, raised children, juggled work and home, while again living high on the foothills of Salt Lake City.

After my divorce, I started to again ride a bike. To get exercise. To clear my head. To escape one thing or another. To gain, again, balance.

For the past eleven or so years, I’ve pedaled indoors throughout each winter. The course I take is intended to keep cyclists fit while snow and cold temperatures keep us from riding outdoors. Each year there are a few “tests” given to assess our fitness level. Similar to a time trial, it is a maximum effort sustained for anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five minutes. These are never easy, as we work to balance breath, exertion, and commitment. I struggle, each time, with the part of me that urges me to just stop, chiding me with both the silliness of it all and my right to self-determination. I’ve been doing these for years: I know I am capable. Yet each time I host an internal debate, and sometimes the winner is not my best self.

Yesterday I fought back, and completed the damn thing. I needed that victory, since I had bailed early on the previous three tests. I needed to prove to myself that I could bear it, that my physical body could withstand the mental chatter and prevail. That I could do what I didn’t want to do.

I spent years of my life doing what I didn’t want to do. And of course, like everyone, I continue to frequently do what I don’t want to do. Like recalcitrant children, our hedonistic selves must often be reined in, redirected, buckled to different tasks. The reward? Not great glory, but instead a sense of competence. Not necessarily wealth, but instead, greater self-esteem. Not material prizes, but the spiritual one of depth and capacity.

I am the same human being I was two days ago, and yet I’m not.

the emperor’s new clothes

a while back, my publisher mentioned that I  never hold back my criticism of well-established authors.  I blanched a bit, then acknowledged the veracity of that statement.

in my defense, however, I stated “it’s only when I feel something they’ve put out there doesn’t live up to the incredible work I’ve fallen in love with, that doesn’t resonate with me in the same way as other works I’ve loved.”

I’m not critical of the authors themselves–these are not personal attacks;  I am simply vocal in my assessment of work that doesn’t touch me as other things they’ve written have done.  I could behave differently; I could gush and just say “I love everything so-and-so’s ever written,” but it often isn’t the truth.  my critiques are very personal: they are only about me and my reaction to the work.  and this is, I’m certain, where I myself am going to have to work on developing my own self-protective shell.  not everyone likes what I write, and not everyone will like what I put out there.  some people may like one piece and not another, and some people will dislike everything I write.  as such, I–like every artist–need to build and buttress my own shell.

it is healthy–and the only way to be genuine in this world–to speak your truth about experience with art, be it written or composed or visual. our visceral reactions are unique; they are responses from deep within, formed by a mysterious interplay of nature, temperament, nurture, life experience–soulful stuff. we are drawn to the inexplicable at times, and the more we heed this call, the more authentic (and fulfilled) we are. certain designs, rhythms, and patterns please a majority of us, but it serves no one when a person pretends what doesn’t please him or her actually does.

like what you like. love what you love. admit when you don’t. and when you perceive a naked emperor, speak your truth.