Belly dancing, Drumming, fire, wine, children, howling dogs under a full moon Saturday night on South Lamar, courtesy of Lucila’s Dance studio. Lucila is a beautiful women “of a certain age” who teaches belly dancing and sells related exotic clothing and acoutrements in her shop. On the weekend of every full moon, she hosts a drum circle on the lawn outside the strip mall in which her studio is located, and fire dancers, drummers and belly dancers create a gypsy-esque gathering that one might describe as “keeping Austin weird.”

Since my husband became a born-again drummer, he has sought out such gatherings to which, on occasion, I accompany him. I am not shy about grabbing one of Clark’s drums–or the thing I keep calling a cow bell–to join in the rhythm. Nor do I hesitate, when the spirit moves to get up and writhe around alongside the more sophisticated, skillfull and interestingly clad belly dancers. This is a friendly crowd; all are welcome to dance, sing, drum, improvise in expressing ones self in whatever way one chooses. Indeed, what great joy it is, for an evening, to be part of this exotic, colorful full moon tribe, where one meets people by the name of Hawk whose livelihood consists of fire twirling/juggling, and where one can participate in an age old human ritual of gathering around a fire at night, even along a busy South Austin street!
I want to write like Hawk fire dances. I want my calligraphy to be as full and embodied as the belly dancers who move hips and bellies so sensuously, the girth of which by vogue magazine standards would be considered fat. Not in my estimation! They are beautiful, these women, whose example–in both body and spirit–teaches me to stop sucking in my gut and to move it in interesting and sensuous ways as I dance through my days. Like these belly dancer goddesses, I want my art to be rooted in the earth, to arise from the lower chakras, to sway and move with the knowledge and love of all undulating and curved forms.

For several years I have spent time developing a script which was inspired by my love of such forms in nature, including my own female form which I rediscovered an appreciation of in my life drawing classes. My script became one which could best express what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it, in feminine terms. Indeed, seeking to reconcile myself with the masculine Western calligraphy tradition, I even “feminized” Roman Capitals in another script I developed, and use it for words I love:

…O and that awful deep down torrent, O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire….
and I was a flower of the mountain yes…and yes i said yes i will yes
(Molly Bloom in Ulysses by James Joyce)

Inspired by Hawk and the exotic dancers, my husband and his motley band of drummers who come out every full moon just down the street, I root myself in the lower chakras, breathe deeply and freely, and happily continue the dance of my pen, curious and unknowing about where it will lead me next.

The Storm has momentarily abated (both inner and outer) and I see a crack of blue midst all the dark grey thunderclouds. Clark is digging post holes behind the studio and I am in need of a shower after a run/walk around town lake. Foreground among thoughts floating through my Saturday afternoon brain concern two of my favorite topics: food and art. Respectively.

Last night, we ate at Lamberts, a hip, downtown Austin Restaurant which is a wonderful combination of rustic and gourmet. Their food is comfort food, no nonsense to the core, exquisitely prepared and delicious. Our dinner companions (who had just returned from Paris) thought that Lambert’s food was on par with some of their better gastronimical experiences in both Paris and the Netherlands. Ah—the fried blackberry pie and ice cream and the lemon ice box pie and the cornmeal coated deep-fried rock shrimp, to die for. On a previous visit, I had the Fried Green Tomatoes Salad which is in all ways surprisingly exquisite.

And then there is the Hacked Chicken Salad at Mirabelle and Castle Hill, french fries at Hyde Park Bar and Grill, and my daily “bread”, black bean, avocado and mushroom tacos at Taco Deli. On many mornings I go into that little “divey” place, park myself at a counter, swat the flies and write in my journal. Food and art become one there as I use my colored pencils and micron pens to make lists, plan classes and note dreams in the book. My lists become word art, elaborate doodles which I happily color, and I am oblivious to the comings and goings of others around me. Meanwhile, I forget the time, my taco has come and been devoured, I glance at the headlines in the Austin American Statesman, swat another fly and go back home to begin phase II of my day.

Eating out is not just treat or sport here in Austin; it is an inevitability given the array of affordable and delicious options around town. The eateries I name are a few among many fantastic restaurants unique to our city. Famous among downtowners, movie stars, politicans and ordinary folk like myself is Las Manitas, a Congress Avenue landmark where the aforementioned congregate on Saturday mornings to drink cinnamon coffee and eat migas. Las Manitas, Eastside Cafe, Gueros–all are part of the fabric that make this city one I love to live in, places which define what can be described as the “Austin Experience.”

Back in the studio after my morning’sTaco Deli reverie, I am greeted by a number of half-finished canvases. Looking at them I feel excited, purposeful, mindful of my obligation to finish them and let them go out into the world. The most recent canvases are thrilling to me because I am using a newly learned technique: rice paper collage. By Summers’ end there will be enough work to have a show, here or elsewhere. I look forward to presenting this work, the culmination of a year and a half. The exhibit is a way to express to friends, community members–anyone who shows up:”Welcome to my inner world, and here is what I have been doing all this time, hidden away from the hustle and bustle of the outer world.”

Wherever my show will be, I am certain that afterwards my family and friends will celebrate at one of the eateries mentioned above. No doubt I will come away feeling blessed that I make art and eat well in my beloved city.

I know that I don’t know anything. Interesting to keep arriving at this humble place after all the time and effort I have spent trying to master calligraphy. My quest for mastery has waned, somewhat, and has happily been replaced by an insatiable curiousity and spirit of adventure. I simply follow my intuitive muse which leads me in and out of formal writing, painting, drawing. Much of my “work” surprises me–and sometimes even makes me nervous. However, I am heartened by the messages from the Tao Te Ching: “A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent upon arriving. A good artist lets his intuition lead him wherever it wants.” (27) And also,
” True perfection seems imperfect, yet is perfectly itself. True fullness seems empty yet is fully present.” (45)
(Excerpts from Tao Te Ching, New English Translation, by Stephen Mitchell.

How often I want to lead my students, to tell them what to do when they look at me pleadingly and ask me for help. Instead, I choose to honor their ability to discover for themselves what moves and engages them and thus try to stay out of their Way. This is not always comfortable, but seems most respectful and honorable. Also, who am I to presume to know what a student must learn? I can offer specific techniques, guidance, road-maps, inspiration, and the rest is up to them. Regarding teaching, again I turn to the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching: “The ancient Masters didn’t try to educate the people, but kindly taught them to not-know. When they think that they know the answers, people are difficult to guide. When they know that they don’t know, people can find their own way.” (65)
To all my students I try to offer the trust and reassurance that “Maybe you’ll find direction around some corner where it’s been waiting to meet you.” (Grateful Dead, “Box of Rain,” song).

I just pulled several books off of my shelves, one of which is a favorite bedside companion: “Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind.” A simple paragraph about calligraphy rings true for me. Richard Baker writes in the introduction:

” The Zen way of calligraphy is to write in the most straightforward, simple way, as if you were a beginner, not trying to make something skillful or beautiful, but simply writing with full attention as if you were discovering what you were writing for the first time; then your full nature will be in your writing. This is the way of practice moment after moment.”

Off I go into the rest of the day with so much more on my mind, and in the spirit of Zen, I will try to simply BE HERE NOW.

I just finished May Sarton’s book “At Seventy.” I was in search of her book “A Journal of a Solitude,” at the Notre Dame bookstore (more on that in a moment), but “Seventy” was the only one on the shelf by this author. What a surprise and a delight this book has been, one in a series of Sarton’s journals. To enter into this woman’s world, to experience her observations and impressions of ordinary things like red squirrels in the cellar, romps near the wild ocean with her dog Tamas and cat Bramble was like a breath of Spring air. Like May Sarton, I daily revel in the extraordinarily ordinary things: my cats’ behavior, critters running around near my studio including armadillos, possums and a multitude of squirrels. Or, seeing a brilliant red cardinal pop in my path as I run on Town Lake is as exciting as it gets in my estimation!

I loved how May openly discusses her struggles with writing–even after obtaining success as a poet and novelist. She seems to affirm that no matter what level of experience, the artists’ life is one of constant challenge. I am also touched by her reverence toward the extraordinary “ordinary” people in her life: neighbors, friends, wannabe writers for whom she would take the time to read their manuscripts and offer commentary. She befriended so many and helped others in small and large ways: financially, emotionally and professionally. It was hard to put the book down because she opened up a world of inner and outer experience which I am drawn to. And of course, for those who know me, I am pretty passionate about journals and ones’ personal experiences.

It seemed perfect to discover May Sarton in South Bend, Indiana. I was priveledged with an invitation to teach for the Michiana scribes this Spring, and was doubly blessed by a beautiful botanical garden venue, a host of gifted (some returnees) students, and a lovely–in body and spirit–hostess who is now a dear friend. Indeed, it was altogether perfect that Anna met me at the airport after i had just finished Sue Monk Kidd’s book while the plane landed. Stepping off the plane, steeped in THE FEMININE, I had spontaneously uttured, “Our Lady”–and there she was, shining and bright in the guise of a wonderful artist and human being. We discovered almost immediately that we are kindred spirits and spent the weekend in a non-stop conversation of all the important things: love, life, spirituality, relationships, children, books. BOOKS. Anna has all the ones I have read and many more. I spent several evenings happily ensconced in her cozy guest bedroom, tucked into the most comfortable bed, with several of Anna’s books. It was here I began to read “Journal of a Solitude” and vowed to promptly go out and buy a copy. The perfect opportunity arose when we took a tour of the Notre Dame campus (which is absolutely stunning) and ended up at the bookstore the following day. Alas,” Journal…” was not available, but I came away with “At Seventy”, which proved to be a delightful companion on my journey home.

Teaching has led me to amazing places and people. Calligraphers are a special lot–generous, caring, deep, and gifted. My own community of scribes here in Austin are among the finest: dedicated,multi-talented and with hearts the size of Texas. It is wonderful to be a part of such a special tribe…..

May is a hopeful month. The days are green and filled with the promise of Summer ahead, and the Winter with its long dark nights is gone. I like these rich and heavily scented days, the blooming part of the year. I bloom inwardly. Outwardly? Different story. Looking at myself in the mirror I find my challenge is to welcome the signs of having lived, the signs of aging. I think of Wabi Sabi, the beauty of rustic things–of things rusted over, wrinkled and worn. No comfort to me at all. My instinct is to run to a plastic surgeon and say “erase all of it: the tired eye bags, the crows’ feet, the sagging neck.” Feeling more empowered than ever, I want to look the part; I want strength and loveliness, not tired worry lines, evidence of many past tears and stress.

I turn to art and work out my struggles on canvas, with collage and images, words and brush strokes. Here I can “put on my best face,” which, interestingly, isn’t ever China Shop Pretty. My art, like my outward appearance,shows definite signs of life. My calligraphy is not typographically perfect–not even close. And I don’t much care. I seek a line of writing–a script which is visually powerful and evocative, feminine and mysterious–which best expresses ME. My words, my life, my experience. Perhaps, then, my approach to calligraphy will help me reconcile myself with what I perceive to be my outward physical imperfections. I can rename them as interesting punctuation marks, as living lines, as LIFE that is being lived inside and out.