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.

 

Gazing Upwards – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

Looking Upwards

Gazing Upwards © 2011 Bo Mackison

“Reach high, for stars lie hidden in your soul. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.” ~ Pamela Vaull Starr

I love the barrier in the photograph. At first glance it’s all about bricks and hidden doors and windows.

There’s a street address scrawled on a mural. Hinges and the door’s outline give little hint at what might be beyond the threshold. And yet, a photographic print of a woman’s face covers the windows and door. Her eyes are lifted upwards and outwards.

A solid barrier. Yet, the distance from behind the barrier and into the beyond is never further than a gaze upwards and outwards.

The barrier might be limiting thoughts. If I gaze beyond those thoughts, I can see dreams unfold into plans that achieve goals. Step by step, baby steps. Many tiny steps forward and suddenly I’ve walked a mile.

I’ve reached what once I believed was an impossible goal.

“Ideals are like stars: you will not succeed in touching them with your hands, but like the seafaring man on the desert of waters, you choose them as your guides, and following them you reach your destiny.” ~ Carl Schurz

The sky is always visible. The Universe, expanding beyond us in distances of time and space our human minds can barely grasp, is beyond our naked-eye capabilities, but it is there. We know it  exists.

When I get bogged down in present day happenings and turn my focus squarely, perhaps even unkindly, on myself, this photograph reminds me to move beyond — beyond what my mind can easily grasp, beyond what I can see clearly.

Listen to the messages from my heart and spirit. Be kind. Choose my guides. Move beyond my comfort zone.

“The lesson which life repeats and constantly enforces is ‘look under foot.’ You are always nearer the divine and the true sources of your power than you think. The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are. Do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is the center of the world.” ~ John Burroughs

Once I gaze at the stars and moon, or the sunlit sky, even the cloudy gray skies, once I have connected with the divine, then I return to my space and my time.

I ground myself in this moment, the place where I stand, the place that grounds me in the here and now.

I find the strength and the courage to set my goals for the day or the month or for a life time. I move forward.

Possibility exists. I hold on to hope.

The sky is visible to all. And as the Burroughs’ quote reminds us, we each have a place under the stars. We each have a place in the world.

Opportunity is under our feet, even as we look to the sky and grasp for the stars.

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This post is the tenth in a series of eleven posts I first published in January 2103 — the intimate exploration of PTSD, art and healing.

Beyond the Wall, The World – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

Defaced Wall II

Beyond, The World © 2012 Bo Mackison

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.”
~ Hermann Hesse

When I started my photography business, my life became more meaningful.

Initially, photography gave me a reason to get up in the morning, leave my house, look at my world, and finally create something that I loved and was proud of. It was a deep healing process, my love of creative photography.

Several years later I learned how to work with my photographs on a deeper level.

When I photographed this wall, I was documenting an old mission and grounds. When I discovered this wall, I was taken aback by its defaced surface. I framed a shot so I could focus on the wall and the grove of trees in the distance. Months later, as I was going through photo catalogs on my computer, I noticed this particular photo again and it took on a new meaning.

For me, certain photographs are like other people’s dreams.

They provide symbols, metaphors, and hints of meaning. They are open for interpretation, not on a literal base, but intuitively.

In this photo, I visualized the wall as a barrier in my life.

The wall prevented me from entering the green grove of trees, a place I longed to enter for sustenance and revival. Beyond the wall, the world was a sacred space of color and life, a place where nature could heal and provide strength for body, mind and spirit. I wanted to be in that grove of trees.

I visualized different scenarios in response to my quest. How could I reach that sacred space? How could I get over the wall?

  • I could scrounge for scrub wood and strong grasses, build a make-shift ladder, and climb up and over the wall.
  • I could walk along the wall until I came upon a gate or doorway, a portal into the world of greens and blues.
  • Or…I could I look at the height and thickness of the wall, and walk away, accepting defeat before I even began.

The process of visualizing my options provided much food for thought.

I then created a set of cards, each with a photograph and a word. Now I use the cards during my morning practice, focusing on the photograph and using it as inspiration for meditation and reflection. I also use the photo and the cards as prompts for journal writing, or a springboard for art projects.

I discovered in the process a vehicle that provided not only a way for me to use my art for healing, but a system that also promoted problem solving and goal setting. These cards still provide me with a framework in which to consider choices, make plans, and instigate changes in my life — the self discovery and healing process of in-depth creative photography.

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This is a re-post from the 11-part series I ran in January 2013 on PTSD, art and healing.

Putting Out Fires – “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

Fire Escapes

Fire Escapes © 2012 Bo Mackison

“Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising every time we fall.” ~ Confucius

(This post is the eighth in a series of my story, an exploration PTSD, art and healing.)

So the greatest glory is not in never failing; it is in rising again.

This was a hard lesson to learn, when time after time, I made the same mistakes.

A little voice in my head often tempted me:

Oh, go ahead. You’re doing great. You don’t need to watch what you eat – it’s a holiday. Enjoy. You don’t need that tiny pill any more – nah, don’t check with your doc. And just maybe you don’t need to see that therapist any longer. Nah, you’re doing fine.Just fine.”

Now that I’m in a better space, I nix those crazy ideas immediately. Those ideas are the crazy ideas. They send out red alerts for me. Only a few years ago, I’d get caught in the trap again. I’d believe them. I’d eat poorly balanced meals, or stop eating altogether. I wouldn’t listen to my body signals, all those SOS alerts. Eventually I’d crash and then wonder why.

“Every day, think as you wake up today I am fortunate to be alive.
I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it.” ~ Dalai Lama

One of the ways I learned to not waste even one precious day is to follow a regimen of extreme self-care.

Taking care of my body, my mind and my spirit is my first priority. Like the attendant who reminds all flight passengers to put their oxygen mask on first, I take care of myself so I am in a position to do my work, create art, help others.

Some days are easier than others, but each day is a gift.

Each morning is an opportunity to watch the sun rise and give thanks for another day.

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This is a re-post the 11-part series I ran in January 2013 on PTSD, art and healing. I believe the story too important to not be retold, in the hope that my experiences will inspire others on their journeys.

A Riot of Art – from “The Barrier Series” on Art and Healing

Riot Art © 2011 Bo Mackison

Riot of Art © 2011 Bo Mackison

“What art offers is a space — a certain breathing room for the spirit. ~ John Updike

(This post is the seventh in a series of my story, an intimate exploration of art and healing.)

Once I earned off unit privileges, I worked in the art room every day, often twice a day.

The art I created was not beautiful, not appropriate to hang over a living room couch. It was dark, often difficult to create, but always meaningful. My art helped me communicate with the emotions bubbling to the surface so that I did not have to use words to explain  what I did not yet understand.

Working through emotions too raw to verbalize, my art did the speaking – through my paintings, sculpture, and mixed media work.

“Where something becomes extremely difficult and unbearable,
there we also stand already quite near its transformation.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Surprising to me, I was drawn to the woodworking room. It was a small room, once a storage room, and now divided from the open studio area always crowded with other patients and therapists.

There was a center work table, tools hung from pegs and hooks on the wall, and bins of building materials. I had no goal in mind when I began, but I felt driven to create. Linda, in her wisdom, always stayed near while I did the work that needed to be done. She’d perch on a stool in the corner of the room, balancing a pile of paperwork on a lap board. She managed to simultaneously ignore me and still keep watch. She answered questions and found supplies for me, but otherwise she let me create.

Many of the clients chose to work on projects they could give to friends and relatives, diversional projects which certainly fulfilled a need to create. However I was driven to create in a totally different way, letting my spirit speak through my hands.

My first project was a sculpture of many layers; its creation was a turning point in my recovery.

I began with several pieces of wood, a saw and hammer, and a box of nails. With intense determination, I cut the wood into varying lengths. The sawing stage was short-lived. I was anxious to begin using the hammer and nails. Once I began pounding nails into the pieces of wood, the form took on a life of its own.

I made a base, then angled pieces of wood to construct a teepee-shaped form. I hammered hundreds of nails into five or six pieces of wood, pounding some of the nails so hard, only the nail head was visible surrounded by hundreds of hammer-head imprints. Nails protruded from the edges. Nails bent; I pounded them into the wood until no sharp edges were exposed.

Nothing I created felt wrong; it felt right and empowering. There were no rules, except those for safety’s sake.

Never one to follow rules, I understood the sanctity of the safety rules. I wore safety goggles and a canvas apron. I knew that any misuse of tools or equipment would be grounds for not using the workroom. It was good practice for learning how to express emotions safely. I honored the space, the rules, the tools. And myself.

I managed my emotions within a set of boundaries. And I kept creating.

“Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror.
Just keep going, no feeling is final.” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

After the hammer and nails stage, I moved into the plaster of Paris stage.

The plaster was my sculpting material. I mixed bowls full of the thick, pasty stuff. Then I applied it to my wood structure. Layers and layers of white, amassed in globs and streaks. There was nothing considered in its application – just the urge to hide the wood and the nails under a volcanic-shaped mass of white.

I added small human figures which I fashioned from bits of clay.

I pushed the figures deep into the sculpture. I rolled clay into snakes with open mouths. I pushed them deep into the sculpture. Linda  continued to quietly observe from the sidelines. Occasionally another patient would wander into the woodworking room to use tools for a leather project, but for the most part I worked alone in silence.

The sculpture of wood and nails and plaster became a container for my anger, my pain, my wounded self.

I asked Linda for paint. I wanted “buckets of black and red paint.” She left the room, returned with two large bottles of tempera paints – one primary red, one black.

Using a brush more suitable for house painting, I slashed streaks of red and black over the white. Again, I worked in layers. Paint over paint over paint. I worked quietly, yet in a self-directed, controlled frenzy.

A controlled frenzy? That is what it was. I could not stop. I did not act out in rage or anger or despair, although those emotions were simmering on the surface. But I could not stop creating. I had to make this wood-nail-plaster-clay figure-paint structure.

Once I completed the painting part, I went in the woodworking room and sat with my sculpture.

Studied it. Examined it. Stared at it.

Eventually Linda handed me a notebook and markers – red and black – and asked me if I wanted to write about the experience. Thirty pages later, I stopped.

We are product of our past but we don’t have to be prisoners of it. ~ Rick Warren

“I’d like to destroy it, the whole thing,” I said to Linda.

“And how would you do that?” she asked.

I knew that to destroy my art would require a safety plan. There were limits, there were rules, and there was the safety of Linda, the other patients, and me to consider.

“What if I did it when there aren’t people around? It will be loud, the noise and all. I could put a big piece of plastic on the table so there isn’t a mess. And wear the safety goggles and my apron.” I answered. “I really want to smash it.”

Linda nodded her permission. “How about Saturday afternoon, after we close the room for the weekend?”

And that is what I did.

I spent several hours on a cold January afternoon destroying my sculpture which, to me, symbolized man’s inhumanity towards others.

I hammered it into a pile of plaster dust and mangled wood and bent nails. When I was weary of  hammering, I hung the tool on its hook and smiled. A very small smile. Then I broke down, sobbing hard.

Linda helped me to a chair, lightly put her arm around my shoulder, and sat next to me. We sat for a long time. Finally I stopped crying, found tissues, and wiped at my eyes.

Linda looked out the window. “It’s beginning to snow. If you get your coat, we could walk outside for awhile.”

We walked around the hospital grounds. The new snow covered the piles of gray snow in the parking lot. The air was cold and fresh and very clean. It was good to breath the fresh air.

I learned a life long lesson while working with the sculpture over those several weeks.

Art heals.

Not overnight. Not in a week.

But art, practiced over a lifetime, offers the spirit a path towards healing.

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This is a re-post the 11-part series I ran in January 2013 on PTSD, art and healing. I believe the story too important to not be retold, in the hope that my experiences will inspire others on their journeys.