Vintage Dahlia – and a Wabi-Sabi Lesson

Vintage Dahlia

Vintage Dahlia © 2013 Bo Mackison

“But when does something’s destiny finally come to fruition? Is the plant complete when it flowers? When it goes to seed? When the seeds sprout? When everything turns into compost?” ~ Leonard Koren, in Wabi-Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers  

It’s been a rough few weeks. Really rough. A double loss in our little family. A long time friend’s liver cancer diagnosis. A co-worker’s college aged child killed in a motorcycle accident. Grief is not an easy emotion at any time, and I am working to cope with grief upon grief upon grief, while discovering the life skills I thought would be helpful are woefully inadequate.

I’ve been asking a million “Why?” questions. And getting no satisfactory answers.

Yes, I know life is cyclical and includes — on various levels — experiences of birthing, living, and dying. And during this time of grief, I tend to ask the question “Why?” An unanswerable question, in most situations like these, but it was becoming an unhelpful mantra for me.

I didn’t realize how pervasive “Why?” questioning was throughout the many parts of my life, however, until a wise mentor kindly brought it to my attention. To fully explore her comment, I began to journal. And I came up with a long list of questions:

  • Why did I create my Desert Wisdom Cards? Why am I creating the Prairie Wisdom Cards? Why?
  • Why am I studying teaching methods and taking creativity coaching training? Why?
  • Why am I drawn to mystical and sacred places? Why?
  • Why do I take photos and make the effort to painstakingly process them and post them and print them? Why?
  • Why do I long to travel, to let new places and experiences and cultures seep into my being? Why?
  • Why can’t I stay one place? Why can’t I concentrate on one project? Why do thing always seem more difficult than expected? Why? Why? Why?

My mentor suggested that I need not answer those persistent whys, that they are a both a distraction and an attachment to outcome that does not serve me in my work.

She suggested I read a small book, The Seven Paths by Christine Baldwin, one she has found of great help in its simplicity, and contemplate several of the paths — “follow your purpose while dealing with surprises,” and “ask for what you need while offering what you have.” And finally, “move gently upon the earth.”

The advice is simple, solid, and had a feel of acceptance, an uplifting quality. It offers a message to quiet the continuous chatter of “why” and substitute the more down to earth and less ego-driven mantra — “Do your work and release it into the world.”

I took these wise words one step further, and applied them to my current life situation. The above quote by Leonard Koren in his book on wabi-sabi gave me a container for my thoughts.

Our destiny, each of our destinies, is individual. We are alone on our journey, yet we walk with companions.

We may set fruit, flower, sprout seeds, or turn to compost.  No need to ask “why?” for it is all good, it is all necessary.

——————-

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.   Her exhibit, Garden Party – A Celebration of Botanical Photography, is at the Alicia Ashman Branch Library Gallery in Madison, Wisconsin and runs through September 5, 2013.

From the Labyrinth – Part II

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Maiden, Mother, Crone – Entrance to the Labyrinth © 2-13 Bo Mackison

I walk again, collect the sticks loosened
from the oaks by yesterday’s storms.

Gather leaves. The first, a shiny narrow leaf,
The second, full with smoothed points, with a leaflet attached to its stem,
The last, a yellowing leaf, splotched with black, its edges withering.

Maiden, mother, crone.

Rows and Rows

Rows and Rows © 2013 Bo Mackison

From the labyrinth, the rows and rows
of sisters’ stones rise on the nearby hill, precise like soldiers’ formations.
The dead, in their final resting places, each marked with a rock and a name.

Once they dedicated their lives in faith, to love and community. Hard work.
What kept their faith alive, those that remained in their vows?

What happened to the mute ones, the angry ones, the hysterical ones?
The unwanted fifth daughter, the child raped by a neighboring farmer,
the daughter who ran from home with the rag and bone man only to return carrying her shame?

What happened to the ones with startling visions,
those who followed a calling they understood only in their hearts,
those who sought a home, any home, as a safe haven?

Did this sacred community quiet the demons that screamed when the women were alone?
Hold their visions in reverence? Embrace them
in their desperation and their joys?
Accept them with their frailties and in their strengths.

I hear their voices as I walk along the grassy paths.

Friends with Magdalene

Friends with Magdalene © 2013 Bo Mackison

One stone draws me, holds my attention. There lies a polished rock on
Mary Magdalene’s stone. “Friends” it declares.

I could be a friend with the ancient one, His Mary Magdalene, I think,
though I know little of her life, only those I learned as a child,
stories of her cryptic life, the sainted penitential prostitute.

I wonder what I do not know.
What of her story was lost in history? Or re-purposed.

Closing the Gate

Closing the Gate © 2013 Bo Mackison

The church tower chimes twelve times, noon
I open the gate, walk out.
Shut it. Firmly. Shake it hard to test its latch. I am shaken, too.
Bury my grief, and theirs, but hold their stories dear.

I carry their stories as I walk the cracked road.
The birds sing in the ancient oaks.
An acorn falls.

—————–

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Recently she has also been pondering labyrinths and journeys.

Labyrinth Visit

Labyrinth

Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

Shrouded in haze, the labyrinth,
in a barren place, air molecules heavy from a passing thunderstorm.
A few raindrops and faraway rumbling, then closer, long and onerous,
like a door sliding closed in the distant skies,
grating, heaving, cloud against cloud.

Turns on a Labyrinth

Turns on a Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

I draw close, hesitate at the labyrinth’s entrance.
I am here, I have yearned for days to travel the hours here, to walk the passage, and now
I stop, uncertain. What am I looking for? An answer? A calming? Reassurance?

Cracked Stones and Dead Weeds

Cracked Stones and Dead Weeds © 2013 Bo Mackison

I stop at the only tree near enough to study,
a crab apple, stunted in the shade of ancient oaks.
search its dead branches, its leaves a premature yellow,
faded, rusted with scab.

But on one branch there is a green twig,
a cluster of three pink leaves unfurling.
Peer at stones at my feet, uneven and broken, to regain my bearings
and a scraggly branch pokes sharply into my shoulder as I pass.
“Listening?” it seems to inquire.

Labyrinth Stones

Labyrinth Stones © 2013 Bo Mackison

The plastic wrist band from an earlier event
gouges my skin, the band a bright cherry red, blood-red.
I pull at it, but the security band has no give.
I read its black print, ignored earlier in the press of a crowd.

“Void if detached!” Void?
I am void if I choose to detach from this path I follow?
This walk, exhilarating yet difficult.
This path that questions me as I form questions to ask of it?

Ancient Oak

Ancient Oak © 2013 Bo Mackison

Nothing in the labyrinth appears alive,
shriveled brown weeds, crumbles of oak leaves,
worn stones, chipped and cracked.

The ancient oak sentry is dying.
There are no other’s footprints, only the circular
indentations of raindrops from last night’s storm.

A fleeting thought, the impulse to flee the necessity of loss.

Acorn Oil Lamp, Rusted

Acorn Oil Lamp, Rusted © 2013 Bo Mackison

Thoughts tumble in my mind. Who will reclaim this labyrinth?
Shine the rusted acorns oil lamps, trim their wicks?
These oil lamps, like rusty upturned breasts, no longer of use,
their offer of light in these shadows forgotten.

I walk the path. Towards the center. Wait and listen. Retrace the path.
Relinquish control so I can hear the whispering answers, accept guidance.
I walk the labyrinth three times. I wait.

Winding Road

Winding Road © 2013 Bo Mackison

Void if detached? I choose to not detach.
I am not alone. A few ants, a brown moth in camouflage.
I pick up a tiny white and black feather, a half walnut-shell.

I am in the labyrinth. Alive. Me.
I glance at a squared stone as I ready to leave. Clinging to its surface,
a bit of heart-shaped moss, bright green.

Alive.

—————-

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Recently she has also been pondering labyrinths and  journeys.

Desert Heat

Dixie's Final Resting Place

Dixie’s Final Resting Place ©2013 Bo Mackison

a·ban·don

1 [uh-ban-duhn]

verb

1. to leave completely and finally; forsake utterly; desert.

2. to cast away, leave, or desert, as property or a child.

 

Abandoned in the Desert

Abandoned in the Desert ©2013 Bo Mackison

de·sert

 [dih-zurt]

verb

1. to leave (a person, place, etc.) without intending to return, especially in violation of a duty or promise. Synonyms: abandon, leave, quit; forsake.

 

Desert Heat

Desert Heat ©2013 Bo Mackison

des·ert

1 [dez-ert]

noun

1. a region so arid because of little rainfall that it supports only sparse and widely spaced vegetation or no vegetation at all.

2. any area in which few forms of life can exist because of lack of water, permanent frost, or absence of soil.

 

 

Abandoned Stove in the Desert

Abandoned Range in the Desert ©2013 Bo Mackison

range

[rnj]
noun

1. The act of wandering or roaming over a large area.

2. A stove with spaces for cooking a number of things at the same time.
Hot Stove in the Desert

Hot Stove in the Desert ©2013 Bo Mackison

 

heat

[heet]

noun

1. the state of a body perceived as having or generating a relatively high degree of warmth.

2. the condition or quality of being hot: the heat of an oven.

3. the degree of hotness; temperature

verb
4. to become hot or warm

 

I first photographed these abandoned ranges/ovens/stoves scattered about the grounds of the Post Picket House, a historical but unmaintained property that’s part of the Boyce Thompson Arboretum near Globe, Arizona. Ovens abandoned in the desert. Really, who needs an oven in the desert?

The good folks in the Southwest describe their temperature highs with the disclaimer that it’s a dry heat, as if that negates the fact that is it nearly as hot as Hades. In my mind, when heat is described as “dry as an oven” it is still hot. Really, no matter what words you use, lingering temps over 100˚F deserve the descriptor HOT. If you’re not convinced, you could always poke  your head in a hot oven for a second or two — not advised though.

So…is the interior temperature of an oven abandoned in a desert as accurate as an oven abandoned elsewhere? I would presume so, considering age and condition of said abandoned ovens.

Disclaimer: Obviously, the prolonged high humidity and temperatures in the Midwest — though NOT dry like an oven — is responsible for the lucidity of this post. A week with temps over 90˚ and brains begin to soften around the edges…

~~~~~~~~

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.   She is awaiting a break in the weather. Or not.

 

Garden Party – Emerging Coneflower

Coneflower, Emerging

Coneflower, Emerging ©2013 Bo Mackison

“To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour.” ~ William Blake

 

And here
is the flower
not yet unfurled

petals not yet drooping
on the edge of a breeze
like the flutter of a heartbeat

a spark emerges from the depths
and disappears in the heated haze
on a sun-drenched July morn.

~~~~~~~~~

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.   Her exhibit, Garden Party – A Celebration of Botanical Photography, is at the Alicia Ashman Branch Library Gallery in Madison, Wisconsin and runs through September 5, 2013.