Class Announcement: I will be teaching a 6-week course for cultivating your creative practice, Charming Your Muse, part of the Fall term of the online School for Sacred Storytelling, Tuesdays 5-7pm Pacific time, Oct 10 - Nov 14. You can watch an intro class here: Playing with the Power of Words
I’m very excited about sharing this work on refining our relationship with the spirit of art-making, and I hope you’ll join us.
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~ Liminal If self were an object, solid, solitary, we would be blocks of game ordered by hands not our own into structures for gain, unaware, even, of our missing agency. If we are made whole once and only ever once, we would not long for connection or notice separation. The triumph of our species is adaptability, an evolutionary ability that requires intimate permeability. Edges both stable and fluid hold delicate tension between self and creation. We grow in relation to the dynamic, ever-changing, always-touching others around and within us. Evidence of the porosity of identity, and the emergence of self as constellation in an endless darkness of teeming life. We change, not an action a state of being, ever fluctuating. We are frequency, we frequent currency returning constantly to the moving center of the current. We are orchestra, not exactly conductor, not mindless drone, instruments in a music beyond our comprehension. the sound of a struck harp string only hits a precise note periodically it oscillates, resonates in rhythmic response to other strings, wooden frame, the player, the room reverberating to the furthest reaches of listening cosmos. How do slime molds pass on memory with no brains? What anguish, to seek salvation in permanent individuation of a concrete self. We are mutations in a continuum. Perfection is illusion, isolation means death, all that grows is messy. These limbs listen, slow but not still still not stalled but stirring surrendering to the inevitable. edges soft. unity remembers. Already and always, it is our perception that must expand beyond subject, object to abide in the fecund, murky confluence. Where we are made anew with each rainfall and backwashed tide. Where all our parts only, ever, and always fit, in an endless darkness of teeming life.
