Thirty-One Thresholds – A Break in the Clouds, Today That is Enough

A Break in the Clouds

A Break in the Clouds © 2014 Bo Mackison

I should have expected this kind of day to happen, even planned for it.

When I created the Thirty-One Thresholds Project to encourage me to get out of the house and provide inspiration for getting involved in a daily activity, it sounded doable.

There are many places to visit in the Madison area. It is reasonable to expect that I could find a place to go every day. (Though I might have thought a bit more about the effects of weather and choosing outside vs. inside spaces…that is another technical glitch for me to explore another day)

I visited the National Mustard Museum the first day (with the admission that it made the top of the list because of its proximity to my home). One Threshold checked off the list.

Yesterday I managed a cross town trip to Olbrich Botanical Gardens, tempted by the thought of sitting in the tropical conservatory and luxuriating in the green and the warmth. The tropical appeal was enough of a carrot stick. Two Thresholds checked off the list.

Today. Today, though it wasn’t my initial plan, the threshold I crossed was the door of my house as I took Gracie for a pre-sunrise winter walk through the neighborhood. And then the return home after admiring a break in the clouds and momentary glimpse of sunlight.

I did run an errand, so I could have taken a photograph of the double doors of a neighborhood convenience store, but I previously decided that the thresholds of stores, while important, were not going to be a part of the Thirty-One Thresholds. There was also the threshold of the door to the laundry room. Doing laundry is important, too, especially since I needed traveling clothes for the weekend. But again, not a part of the Threshold Project.

So, it was a slower than hoped for day. And since I am boarding an airplane tomorrow morning for a very important weekend visit, I gave myself permission to indulge in self-care. And that is a threshold in itself — knowing when the practice of self-care takes priority.

Thirty-One Thresholds – A Tropical Pause in the Bolz Conservatory

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Bolz Conservatory © 2014 Bo Mackison

There is a place on the other side of town that always offers a magical experience when I cross its threshold.

No matter the weather outside, when I step through the heavy double doors into the Bolz Conservatory at Madison’s Olbrich Botanical Gardens, I enter a tropical paradise — exotic plants, orchids, koi ponds, meandering paths through thick greenery, rushing waterfalls, birds in flight.

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Walking Tree © 2014 Bo Mackison

A recipe for rejuvenation.

I find a bench. Take in my surroundings. Take in lots and lots of deep breaths. And relax.

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Koi Pond © 2014 Bo Mackison

The Conservatory has over 650 plants from the tropics and sub-tropics found throughout the world.

Once I am inside the 50 foot high glass pyramid, I get a reprieve from December’s cold and snow. Inside it is a balmy 80˚F today and the humidity is high, high enough to repeatedly fog my camera glass.

No worries.

I take a few photos, but mostly I sit and take in the warmth.

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Greenery © 2014 Bo Mackison

I spend most of my time simply absorbing the experience.

Truly, what pleasure there’s to be found in watching drops of moisture fall from wide green umbrella plants, in studying the camouflaged quail as they scuttle from one plant to the next, in noticing how brilliantly the orange koi glide through the rushing waters.

I re-discover the calming effects of studying just a few leaves, letting my eyes trace the pronounced veins on this deep green plant, noticing the puckered textures, droplets of water beading on the waxy surfaces.

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Orchid © 2014 Bo Mackison

What a great threshold to cross, what a great space to pause and rest.

It is mid-day and mid-week, and I am alone in the tropics for much of my visit. The gardens are typically a busy place teeming with visitors of all ages, all looking for a warm place, a break from wintry weather.

I consider myself especially fortunate as I sit amidst the plants and absorb the energy from the tropical space in solitude.

Threshold Two of my Thirty-One Thresholds Project is hugely rewarding.

 

Thirty-One Thresholds – Discoveries at the National Mustard Museum? Indeed!

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Mustard Suit © 2014 Bo Mackison

Yesterday I created  Thirty-One Thresholds, a self-challenge to “cross the thresholds” of area museums, galleries, gardens, etc. — in an attempt to convince my brain that activity is good for what ails me.

Then I visited the National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin, just a few miles from my home.

The Mustard Museum was my first threshold I crossed on my Thirty-One Thresholds challenge. It wasn’t the most exciting choice on my list nor the most cultural nor even the tastiest place to explore. (I don’t even like mustard!) But it was one of my more successful forays into the outside world after weeks of struggling to get out of the house.

The Mustard Museum did have two things going for it. One, it was the closest place to home. And two, it was indoors, important because my thermometer was blinking a chilly 6˚F.

Truth be told, I added the Mustard Museum to my list of places to visit because it was so close and I feared I would lose all motivation one day and not want to go out. Turns out, it was a good plan to get me started.

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Keen’s Mustard Display

Once I arrived, I was rather taken with the place. I still wasn’t sure what my “discovery” might be, but I enjoyed exploring the two-floor museum and mustard store.

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Arizona Mustards at Mustard Museum © 2014 Bo Mackison

In the basement museum, there are over 5400 kinds of mustard from 79 countries, mustard costumes, a “Mustard Piece Theatre” showing mustard documentaries, old photographs of mustard factories, exhibits on the history of mustard, mustard “art” posters and artifacts.

Plus more…so much more.

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Hot Dog Boy at National Mustard Museum © 2014 Bo Mackison

There was much kitsch and mustard-themed comics and puns where ever I looked, I grinned in spite of myself. So, maybe a visit to the mustard museum was just the place to provide some laughs.

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Hot Dog Sculpture © 2014 Bo Mackison

Then I read an article about the museum’s owner, Barry Levenson, a former assistant Wisconsin attorney general (who once argued a case in front of the U. S. Supreme Court and Justices Felix Frankfurter and Warren Burger.)

And I discovered THE discovery, a quote about Levenson and his unusual museum from a local newspaper, the Journal Times:

“…why leave a successful law practice to collect mustard, with a business card that calls him a curator and Chief Mustard Officer? It all started with baseball when the Red Sox blew the 1986 World Series.

“Depressed beyond words and unable to sleep,” Levinson said, “I walked the aisles of an all-night grocery store, searching for the meaning of life.”

He figured he needed a hobby to distract him…he insists that he heard a voice from the mustard aisle saying: “If you collect us, they will come.””

Levenson began collecting mustard and mustard memorabilia. His collection eventually became the museum part of the National Mustard Museum. Apparently he followed his bliss, which ended up being mustard.

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National Mustard Museum © 2014 Bo Mackison

Hmmm. I don’t think I’ll walk the aisles of the 24/7 grocery store looking for the answer to the meaning of life. But I certainly appreciated his message.

Crossing the first threshold proved more interesting than anticipated. (lesson #1 – Just try it. You might like it.)

I discovered some unusual mustard philosophy in the condiment aisle. (lesson #2 – Follow your passion.)

And a little humor, no matter how little, is good for a laugh. (lesson #3 – Laugh out loud.)

Thirty-One Thresholds – An Art Project to Discover Just What I Need!

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Art Works – Threshold © 2014 Bo Mackison

I am starting a new project. It is called Thirty-One Thresholds.

I’ve done similar projects before, turning to art for expression and healing often when I feel mired in a big black space.

I suspect most of us have those black periods sneak up on us at one time or another. It feels like falling into a very dark hole, and then realizing the way out isn’t visible. No matter how frantic the struggle to emerge, no matter the intelligent discourse, or the pleading, or the “just-pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps” conversations I would frequently have with myself back, I remained in the black hole. One particularly bad time was in 2007.

There were situational happenings in my life that made day-to-day living feel a bit a lot crazy-making. Yet, in my not-so-clear thinking, I was unable to extend myself the grace I needed to be kind to myself and to create a much-needed space for extreme self-care.

I tried to fight my way out of the hole, but that only exhausted and angered me, and frustrated the people who cared most. Eventually I asked for/received the help I needed from wise friends, family and health care providers. With plans and medications in order, glimmers of light appeared ever so slowly.

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Dark Hole © 2014 Bo Mackison

But the real, flood-light change had to come, not from without, but from within.

So in a rather haphazard attempt I latched onto a creative project that both held my attention and was within my temporary limited abilities. (I think that may be how much creative work is born – haphazardly and from great need).  I decided I would take a photograph each day for a year and post it on my recently created blog.

Looking back, this was actually a huge undertaking.  I was a novice with a DSLR camera, but it seemed doable. My only rule was to take a photograph and post it. Every day. For one year. I figured that in a year I would likely be in a totally different and great space.

It was a new to me idea then — I know 365 projects are common photo practices now, but I thought I was inventing…oh..the wheel or something equally unique!

There actually was no easy way. There were no Instagram apps or smart phones in those days, so my commitment required a string of details that challenged me repeatedly, each and every day — take a photograph, download, post-process, upload, write a few words, post to blog, sigh, deep breath. (This meant I also had to get my depressed being out of bed, dressed, etc., etc., etc…)

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Reaching Out © 2014 Bo Mackison

Persistence paid off. I posted 365 photos in 365 days.

I learned a helluva lot about photography, but I also learned that I could set a long-term goal way out of my comfort zone and succeed.

And it was in the doing that success was realized.

I felt better about myself. I developed new skills. I met new people. I engaged with living again. Eventually I established a small business, Seeded Earth Studio LLC, featuring my photography and more recently my book art.

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Reaching Towards the Threshold © 2014 Bo Mackison

Why am I writing about something that happened almost eight years ago?

Because, once again, I find myself wandering in this dark space. Or to be more exact, stuck in a black space that feels like a wet bed of concrete. I am this barely aware, heavy-booted wanderer trying to maneuver through a mucky, concrete maze.

Again there is struggle.

Again there are life situations which have disrupted my equilibrium – medical issues, family responsibilities. Again there are my particular (to me) crazy-making responses and one of my responses is to want to go fall back into that familiar black hole. Seasonal Affective Disorder has taken its toll despite all the compensatory aids in place. Depression sneaks in. And, as it has been for the last four years, my winter stay in sun drenched Arizona is not in the near future.

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The Creation – Threshold © 2014 Bo Mackison

I am not really wanting to spend a lot of my precious time in black holes this time around. And so I needed a plan.

As I have done many times in the last eight years, I enlisted my go-to heavy hitters as my assistants — my camera and a new project!

And by declaring my intentions and posting it on my blog, I exposed a certain amount of accountability.

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ART © 2014 Bo Mackison

The new project, entitled Thirty One Thresholds, is quite basic.

The project requires me, first, to leave my house — apparently one of my coping mechanisms is to turn into a hermit, not such a wise thing to do long-term…

Then I go somewhere in the Madison area, camera in hand, and cross over a threshold. 

It could be the threshold of doors of an art gallery or museum, a historical building, a library. Or on milder, sunny days I might venture through the threshold of gates to a park or garden, or the entrance to a local attraction…

And I truly believe, though I’m not sure what nuggets of wisdom I’ll discover as I cross these various thresholds, or exactly what it is I’m looking for…

I’m willing to believe I will find it (or it will find me) and it will be just what I need!

You Can Sit Here With Us – A Presentation at Patti Digh’s Life is a Verb Camp 2014

Speaking during ‘You Can Sit Here With Me”. Photo by Gale Oliphant

You Can Sit Here With Us is an arts-based project on bullying. And stepping up. And offering hope. And being kind. You Can Sit Here With Us transforms the negative energy of bullying into the positive energy of inclusion and respect through story, art, and community involvement. It’s about the bullies. The bullied. The bystanders. And, the heroes. This performance presentation on bullying, You Can Sit Here With Us, is a collection of stories, a series of monologues.

Kim Joris (see her You Can Sit Here With Us website) moderated the presentation during Patti Digh’s Life is a Verb Camp 2014 in early November. Five women told their stories about bullying – stories about friends and families and co-workers. The stories were sometimes difficult to hear, sometimes heartwarming, always memorable.

I wrote a personal story of bullying and submitted it to the project earlier this year. Then Kim asked if I would tell my story.

Own my story. A chance to speak and be heard.

And so I did. And now I share it here, in hopes that by sharing the negative impact of bullying, people will consider its impact, and practice inclusion and respect.

“Speaking my Truth” Photo by Lynn Walsh

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” ~ Plato

I survived my childhood. But just barely.

It wasn’t the frequent threat of physical and emotional abuse that nearly caused me to take my life just past my thirteenth birthday.

It was an act of taunting and teasing, and a small act of cruelty nearly beyond my endurance, that pushed me close to the black edge of despair and giving up.

That was all? Teasing? Unkind words? Being shamed by girls I thought were my friends?  A cruel gag gift disguised as a birthday present? Yes. That was all. But it was enough for me to want to end my life.

It is impossible to know when an act of unkindness, or teasing or bullying, will be the kerosene that finally ignites the hidden kindling and flares it into a life threatening inferno.

In this case, the spark was a package of extra-large rubber pants for infants, the kind once commonly worn to cover baby diapers.

That’s all? A package of rubber baby pants?

Yes.

I was in the eighth grade, two weeks shy of my thirteenth birthday. I attended a Catholic grade school. The nun taught a combined seventh/eighth grade class and was also school principal. She had over 50 students. She was overworked and I suspect, often overwhelmed.

Sister C. spent much of her day acting as disciplinarian or administrator, not as an involved or hands-on teacher. Copying from the blackboard, rote memorization and test taking were her most used educational tools.

But even under these less than ideal learning conditions, I was happy in school. I was a good student. Obedient. I seldom drew attention to myself. And I had a few friends.

There was little that could keep me from attending school and so on a sunny October morning, even though I didn’t feel well, I never considered staying home from school. But during class, I had the urge to use the bathroom repeatedly, and by 11 am, I’d asked for a bathroom pass a half-dozen times.

I raised my hand again an hour before the lunch break, but this time Sister C. reprimanded me for “being disruptive” and denied me permission to leave the room. After an another half hour of discomfort and agonizing fear, I wet my clothes.

Perhaps if I hadn’t been wearing a dark green cotton uniform, I could have hidden my embarrassment. But the lunch hour bell rang and so we assembled in line for lunch. My shame easily became evident.

I was teased through out lunch, during recess, and after school. Chants of “Betsy Wetsy” and worse echoed in my ears as I walked home from school that afternoon, alone and ignored by my peers.

I dreaded going to school the next day, but surprisingly, nothing was said, and so I believed that my friends had forgiven me. I was overcome with relief and gratitude.

“Join Me? You are Welcome! says Ellie” Photo by Basia Kruszewska

Two weeks later, I turned thirteen. I brought the traditional cookies to school, everyone sang Happy Birthday at the end of the day, and I left the building with a smile on my face.

Typically when the school bell rang for dismissal there was an overall state of frenzy as the eighth grade girls split off to walk home. Questions lingered until the last moment. Who would walk home together? Would I walk home with a friend or walk home alone?

If I was lucky, I walked home with Lara or Anna. We lived only a few blocks from each other. Perhaps I would walk half way home with Kate or Marie. Sometimes I walked alone.

But on my birthday, I was incredibly delighted. Not only did both Lara and Anna ask me to walk with them, but Kate and Marie said they were heading my way. We walked as a group of five.

Even more unbelievable, Kate carried a small shopping bag. I glimpsed a wrapped box inside.

We walked the thirteen blocks to the corner where we split to walk the different streets to our homes. I was laughing, talking animatedly, nearly skipping with delight. When we arrived at the corner, my friends made a circle around me.

“We have a present for you,” one of them sang out. They laughed and cheered.

I was so happy, thrilled by this unexpected generosity.

Eagerly I untied the ribbon, tore off the wrapping paper, opened the box.

Inside was a three pair package of baby-sized rubber pants.

They all laughed. I joined in the laughter, too, hiding my horror. It was better than crying like a baby, and further proving that I deserved their shaming. I walked home the last blocks, barely able to breathe.

Perhaps this was something most thirteen-year-olds could have brushed off or ignored. Just a gag gift. Teasing done in the spirit of a joke.

But it wasn’t something I could ignore.

I was already living on the throes of depression.

I couldn’t bear to think that school would no longer be my safe haven.

I stopped talking to my friends and family. When I came home from school, I sat for hours at a time on the back porch, rocking in an old rocker. Lost and feeling alone, I started thinking obsessively about suicide.

But I was one of the lucky ones.

“Patti Digh and Kim Joris, You Can Sit with Me” Photo by Laura Magane Goyer

I lived with my extended family and my grandmother noticed the changes in my behavior. She asked if there was anything I wanted to talk about. When I refused with vehemence, she still offered her presence and her acceptance.

My grandma didn’t ask again if there was a problem, but every afternoon she watched for me to come home. When I headed to the porch, she offered to join me. I loved my grandmother dearly. I nodded, barely.

Then she’d gather a sewing project to work on or the afternoon newspaper, and come out to sit with me. She’d offer me a slice of bread with strawberry jam, even though I usually refused to taste it. Occasionally she would reach out and rest her hand on my arm, or brush my long hair from my eyes. Her way of saying, I see you, I know you are troubled, I am here.

Eventually, after much silence and much porch swinging, the shame lessened. I chose living.

Do you think this sounds like melodrama? A girl just crossing the threshold to teenager, suicidal because of a joke gift, because of teasing?

Think again.

“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” ~ Plato