Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Voices and Visions: Tatanka Iyatanka




Recently, an old Native Chief has given his image and proud face with full headdress to me several times. Once, while I washed my face, I saw this closing my eyes, appearing in my inner eye like a negative photo. It was a strong vision, but I did not know what to make of it.  

Another time later, I felt four Native people standing at the foot of my bed; one brave, two women and the Chief, again with full headress. I don’t know if I was dreaming or awake, as I was so ill at the time. But it seems it penetrated my dreams later.

Again, while I was showering, this Chief appeared in my mind again. I heard this word, “tatanka” and said it aloud. “Tatanka, tatanka, tatanka,” and it seemed so familiar to me.  

I know the Lakota word, “tatanka” because I have seen the movie Dances with Wolves a handful of times. I tried to dismiss this connection. But the light on the buffalo continued. There is another word the Chief was telling me, but I could not hear it.  

So finally I watched the bull. The Chief gives away his name by showing a light on the Plains: I see a huge bull buffalo ready to rush and charge, kill if necessary. He stands and is pawing at the Earth, nostrils flaring. I see the steam and the great grass around him.

Buffalo Stands Ground. This is his name. He is a Plains Chief, a great man. I do not know what tribe, but he shares with me all his sadness in the loss of his People. Suddenly, I feel the need to read up on the Battle of Wounded Knee...

Upon doing so, I read that there were several Chiefs involved with Wounded Knee... When I saw all the photos of the Chiefs, during that treacherous time, I saw many who did not seem familiar. But then I saw one Chief’s photo, and tears just welled up in my eyes. It was the figure I have been seeing, headdress and all. Strong face, proud mouth, prominent nose. None of the other photos clicked at all, but his did. 

His name: Sitting Bull. I have heard of him, of course, but never have read about, seen a picture, or connected to that name in this way. After doing some inner work, I feel now that he is one of my Guides.

In Lakota, his name is Tatanka Iyotanka. Tatanka is Buffalo, not Bull. After my visions, I was not sure what Iyotanka meant, but I didn’t think the direct translation was "sitting." I got that it was more "standing ground" which was perhaps misinterpreted as "sitting."
More research told me that according to his fellow tribesmen, the name Sitting Bull suggested “an animal possessed of great endurance, his build much admired by the People, and when brought to bay planted immovably on his haunches to fight on to the death.” (Utley, Robert M. Sitting Bull: The Life and Times of an American Patriot. p. 15)

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Christina's World, circa 2008



One weekend afternoon, just recently, I was outside with my dad, who was watering the rock garden in the front yard which contains masses of rosa ragosa, poppies, day lilies and iris. Having walked outside with a cane and needing to sit because my legs were shaking from exhaustion, I laid down onto the hill which is our front yard. It overlooks the Damariscotta River and a very rural road below.

Suddenly I was brought back to the days when my brother and I would roll down the hill just to the stone wall garden that lines the road. We would never be concerned with the grass stains or insects crawling on our bodies. Laying on my stomach, arms supporting me, I smelled the green grass, absorbed the summer sun, and looked up to see my mother on the front porch of the house, which is on the top of the hill. The white house is 180 years old, given to my parents by my mother's parents.

I think it was the position I was laying, stomach down, supported by my arms, looking up the hill at the house which held so many memories for me that I stopped all thoughts.

Every cell in my mind saw Andrew Wyeth's famous painting, Christina's World. I had remembered building a website once and naming it the same name, and linking the painting at the top of the page. This time, I was the same crippled Christina, for the lack of a better word. As far as my life as come, it was one of the more surreal moments so far.

Upon doing research, Christina Olson and myself, Christina D'Amore, have some things in common. Having grown up not too far from Thomaston, ME, which is about an hour from where I live now, Christina Olson dabbled in teaching as well. Although I grew up an hour from Boston, it seems she was also quite the fiesty, determined spirit too.

Christina's World is the most famous work by American painter Andrew Wyeth (who unfortunately passed last year) and one of the best-known American paintings of the 20th century. Painted in 1948, this tempera work is displayed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. It depicts Christina Olson, who had an undiagnosed muscular deterioration that paralyzed her lower body—likely Polio. She was a strong and independent woman who did not let anything stop her from getting what and where she wanted. She looks at her house, dreading the crawl back but eager for the warmth it holds for her. She, her brother, and Wyeth's neighbors are the subjects of a number of paintings of Wyeth.

Christina Olson was a real person. She was born May 3, 1893 and died January 27, 1968. Except for the last two months of her life, she lived her entire life in the house on the hill in the painting. She lived there with her parents until they died and then lived there with her younger brother, Al until they both had to finally leave the family home in November 1967 because of health reasons. The house is located on a hill at Hathorn Point on the coast of Maine at Cushing. Today, the house is preserved as a tourist attraction. Maybe some
readers have visited the Olson Home.

At age three, Christina was already walking with an odd gait and had difficulty with balance. Her mother wondered if there had been some unknown injury, illness, or undetected birth defect. She encouraged Christina to practice walking straight on the seams of the linoleum on the floor. A few years later, her father took her on a six-hour buggy ride to see a doctor in Rockland, Maine. However, Christina stomped and protested and the doctor was never consulted.

She progressed through school and was able to walk the mile and a half to school despite her stumbling gait. The school only had eight grades. Christina was persuaded to attend an additional year because her teacher noted that she was intelligent and curious. The teacher hoped that Christina might become a teacher herself. Because of her mother's failing health, Christina took over managing the sixteen room family home at age thirteen. She excelled in homemaking skills and was an excellent seamstress. She also was the master of many nautical skills. Still, at age thirteen, her unnatural, stumbling gait was very evident.

Perhaps, the happiest years of her life were between ages 19 and 24. Many families spent summers in the area and in 1912 Christina met and fell in love with a young man who attended Harvard. They exchanged many letters during the winters and spent time together during the summers. In 1917, this young man stopped writing. He had met another young woman and married. In one of his letters to Christina, he had written "She can row a boat, climb a tree, harness a horse, and drive a carriage. She outshines me in everything here at Cushing." The young man was a scholar, and Christina was able to communicate intellectually with him.

Christina's disability progressed as she got older. In her twenties, she began to fall often. Her mother made her kneepads to wear under her long dresses. She would not tolerate anyone referring to her as crippled. She would state that she was just lame and could do most everything that anyone else could do. In 1918 (age 25) she enjoyed a trip to Boston. At age twenty-six, she could walk no more than three steps without grabbing an object, her hands were weakening, and she was experiencing exhaustion after ordinary tasks.

After avoiding doctors all her life, she consented to a medical evaluation and was admitted to Boston City Hospital in March 1919 for an evaluation. The doctors were not able to diagnose her condition and told her to keep doing what she was doing. A team of five doctors, including a specialist saw her. Some form of "electrical" treatment was considered, but not done. She was advised to spend as much time outdoors as possible. Christina was relieved, as she had finally done what her parents had wanted for years. Doctors had examined her.

Christina continued to be a master at dressmaking and was a wonderful aunt to her brothers' children. By 1946 (age 53), she was no longer able to stand, had stopped trying to walk, and resorted to crawling. She resisted the use of a wheelchair despite the fact that her own father had begun using a wheelchair as early as 1922. She had a dear friend who lived in a house eight hundred feet away. She could crawl this distance in less than an hour, but would arrive quite fatigued.

Betsy James, who grew up as a friend of the Olson family, married Andrew Wyeth. Wyeth became a familiar person around the Olson farm and many of his paintings involve Olson farm sites. In 1948 Wyeth sketched Christina as she crawled down the hill to visit her parent's graves. The dress she wears in the painting is one she made and wore a few years earlier at her nephew's wedding. Christina was amused by the fame of the painting. After Christina's death, Betsy Wyeth stated, "She was a great friend who never asked for or expected anything and gave unconditionally."

Staff at the museum in Farnsworth, Maine simply state that Christina Olson's disability is unknown, but that she probably had some type of degenerative disorder. According to the museum, she did not have polio, but this is not known for certain. Currently at the Farnsworth Museum, there is an exhibit of photographs pertaining to the Olson House. Commentary about the photographs includes the following:

"Concerning the 1918 photograph of Christina and her mother, she had made the trip to Boston earlier that year to consult doctors on her increasing disability. She was told that the best cure for her condition was a quiet life in the country. Christina was stricken with what is believed to have been polio as a child."

The description of her symptoms is somewhat suggestive of Charcot-Marie-Tooth Disease, which is a hereditary disorder that involves a bilateral weakness in the muscles of the lower legs. Friedreich's Ataxia is another possibility. Her disorder may have been a mild form of cerebral palsy. Polio still remains a possible explanation. Christina's decline as she grew older is also suggestive of Post-Polio Syndrome, but the same decline might also occur with other neuromuscular disorders.

Whatever the disorder, Christina's adjustment and denial of her disability are similar to that of many polio children who have grown to adulthood. Her bright mind, her unwillingness to accept help from others, her dislike of assistive devices, and her determination to be normal is very much like the resolve exemplified by polio survivors. In your lifetime since polio, how do you see your world?

"Christina's World" possesses such a haunting quality that it is understandable why so many people know of it and are touched by it. It is immediately discernable in the painting, that Christina is not simply in repose. With her frail legs peeking out from her pink gown and her torso twisted ever so strangely, it is obvious that she is on a mission. Wisps of hair have come loose from her ponytail and float gently in the breeze.

Many of the small details imply determination and courage in Christina's character. It is speculated that she is crawling across her property to visit the graves of her parents. She refused to use a wheelchair and preferred to crawl. Once a sickly child himself, perhaps Wyeth related to Christina on some hidden level. Wyeth contracted whooping cough at a young age, which left him with bronchial problems that made him prone to colds. After completing the third grade, Wyeth's parents took him out of school and home-schooled him until the age of eighteen. Wyeth later indicated that because of his home-schooling and recurrent illnesses, he was left alone a lot of the time. There exits a solitary, yet courageous quality to this painting that perhaps Wyeth needed to impart.

The melancholy and fierce resolve that emanates from this work is intensely mesmerizing and people were and still are drawn to it. The fame of "Christina's World" rose from the mystery that the painting created. Christina's face is not visible, and therefore the viewer is not privy to any emotion that her facial expression would have provided. However, through Andrew Wyeth's mastery with the paintbrush, the painting emanates perseverance and silent strength, and instills in the viewer a desire to learn more about its history and its creator. "Christina's World" captivates your attention and does not let go. In my mind, if I could call out to Christina in the painting, I imagine her turning her head and responding with a smile.


Sources:

http://www.ott.zynet.co.uk/polio/lincolnshire/library/drhenry/christinasworld.html

http://www.ezilon.com/articles/articles/4741/1/Captivated-by-Christinas-World

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

The Orchis











The Orchis

Delicate and graceful
the orchid once stood
to expose the purity of white blossoms
and lively verdant leaves 




But then came the tainted
bitterness of winter,
and the yellow sunspots from a summer
of dizzy heat and southern exposure.

Now
the tropical promise sits silently
watching over a gray city from a window
tempered with warm sunny afternoons
and cool evenings.
Suddenly, the offering of
a new leaf
Her blossoms still hidden,
she brings forth a sign
she has been dormant only -
but never without Life.

The Paradoxical Commandments

The Paradoxical Commandments



People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.

If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Do good anyway.

If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.

Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.

The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.
Think big anyway.

People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.
Fight for a few underdogs anyway.

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.

People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.
Help people anyway.

Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you have anyway.


by Kent M. Keith




Dimly Lit Room

Dimly Lit Room


Bodies enraptured

striving to capture

stories remolding

bodies unfolding

passion that Bloomed

in that dimly lit room


it began by a giggle

tickle by tickle

then a groping touch

a moan quite Hushed


Ecstasy unsatisfied

Two hungers exercised

as oceans met rivers

caresses and quivers

and discrete Whispers

and slowly

She stirred


From that Dimly lit room

true Love did bloom

by morning unveiling

eyes Azure by bed railing


Smooth cheek unblushed

his eyelashes rise

emotions realize

a small grin so pure

full lips that cure


Lifted spirits bound

One new path found


Bugs

Bugs
I lay beneath the ceiling fan
tiny gnats penetrate my bedroom screens
Following the fans spinning propeller
with my eyes
I think nothing
I am nauseated with suffocating summer night heat
Beetles, having broken and entered,
find no escape
Clicking and bouncing off the hot light bulb
Imagined shapes in stucco finish of the eternally white ceiling
the light stares
I close my eyes
fluorescent shapes haunt behind black eyelids
Can't move
Don't want to
Thoughts are too heavy to cross my mind
Nothing to do
in the heavy, moist air
I cannot sleep
Silence -
except the hypnotizing tick of the clock
the whirl of the fan above
and bouncing,
Frustrated
Bugs.

Frozen Walk

Frozen Walk

Icy shining trees in the park
glistening this noon.
Earth crunching
Everything
protected with an icy shield
A mild relief no more cold can filter.
Sparkling, transparent
frozen gel
Freeze shielding the freeze
Clinging to arms
outstretched to the unforgiving sky
Opaque white treetops
Await the melting heart
of afternoon sunbeams that
Neglect the day
Icicles dangling
from this historic city 
everywhere
frozen in time
Like the iced statues in the Boston Garden
On a summers day, fragrant roses sweeten the breeze
Only my crunching feet now.
It seems to explain the immobility -
Living in an abstract painting
Shown to dismissing eyes.

Sweet Toothed Adelaide


Sweet-Toothed Adelaide

There was once a girl named Adelaide
Who loved sweet foods like marmalade.
Orange and sticky,
Spread on toast thickly,
Each day, after she played,
She always craved that marmalade.
One day, her front tooth wiggled.
Its that marmalade, said her Dad with a giggle,
It will rot your teeth.
They'll all fall out, leaving gums underneath!
Will not, replied Adelaide,
And I'll never stop eating marmalade!
Suit yourself, shrugged her Dad.
But brushing your teeth isn't all bad.
Adelaide smiled so brightly
Then her front tooth fell and bounced lightly.
Oh, no! did she scream.
This must be a horrible dream!
My mouth may need a Band-Aid,
But must I stop eating marmalade?
You've lost your sweet tooth! Daddy teased.
He smirked, laughed, and then he wheezed.
Its not funny, pouted his little girl,
My marmalade's my entire world.
Daddy preached, Losing your tooth is not that scary
Maybe you'll get a visit from the Tooth Fairy!
You mean, my worlds not lost,
Asked Adelaide, except my tooth, which has a COST?
Adelaide flashed her gummy grin,
Skipped to the fridge and peered in.
Hey, at least my sweet tooth has stayed,
As she tasted more of that sweet, sticky marmalade.

Hot Cocoa


Hot Cocoa


Hot cocoa
cradles my lips in
steamy sweetness.
A hill of fluff
floats like a white raft
atop the chocolate waves.
Floating like the clouds in '78
that brought the blizzard snow
I played in many years ago
when I returned home
cold and wet and 
hot cocoa
cradled my lips in
steamy sweetness.

Sunflower



Sunflower

 

I recall sprinkling
moist, fertile seeds
as I strolled barefoot
in dewy grass.

A large vine attached
the top-heavy sunflower face -
Bigger than my head and
shining upon me
below.
I sprinkled her seeds.
I wonder if you will
see my apparition
when those new blooms
begin to smile.
How I did yearn to
see that
Resurrection.

Gentleman Caller


Gentleman Caller


My doormat -
a regal seat for a princely creature
of guinea pig size.
Luminous green skin
lime glow and tender eyes
Cognizant staring
A cautious study
Puffing a translucent chin and throat
We are to the other
alien and undiscovered
In one silent moment
I crouch, extend my arm
His throat stops bubbling
Eyes widen
a low foghorn echoes
Bleeerrrrrrp!
a sudden three-foot
vault propelled by
amazing,
unexpected legs
extend from an airborne body
Smacking green flippers against concrete
His leap just out of reach -
Into the darkness.
Our interchange is complete.

Bidding Shadow and Resistance

I. The Bidding

It is time again
wail your way if you must
step, step back
to that dreaded side

Familiar and feared
Tainted like a Halloween moon
with unanswered echoes - 
and flashes from your past
that you dare not utter
Whispering passes your ear
in disguised tones

Follow Me
to that trunk of tattered and musty remnants -
They delight in throwing apparitions
Into your sweating dreams.

II. The Resistance

I command you to release me
from my mind's eye
All fragments of you
For you are only my Shadow
You serve a purpose
But I will not feed you

I will resist, bathing in the release
From the prison of your pelt
and the jail of your Judgment

I sundance in this second's solace
Like a sparked engine revving
My mind races away
to a beautiful, distant nothingness

Glipse after glipse,
a labyrinth of
Captured colors and popping bubbles
appear at the touch of this moment

I am nothing but this moment
Which is Everything and Bliss

I am a curled chrysalis~
When radiant wings emerge
Will dry like powerful new arms

Remembering trickling dimensions
like a magnet, I am
Pulled back to my Freedom

City Dove


City Dove
The mauve pigeon roosts
like a discerning sibyl of the city
below her bridge
veiling her dove eyes,
suppressing
her mauveness.