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  • The Artist Messenger: Clairvoyance Made Visible

An Unapologetic Rebel

6/8/2014

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They and Them exist. They are the ones who try to follow rules, the harmless ones, never pushing or exceeding outside of the boundaries established. They don't think for themselves or create themselves in the most authentic ways and resent others who do... perhaps they wish secretly that they could? That they had the nerve? When they take out on us, how do we deal with them?

I have no idea. What I may not necessarily like about myself, I've learned to accept and use to my advantage in art. I am insubordinate and rebellious as hell and tried for years to get rid of it. The first words I used had to do with rebelling. Also, I've been painting, drawing or creating since I was in diapers, my first complete sentence had to do with something about art. The two are as much a part of me as my eye color.

I've been a professional artist for 20 years and know well the "rules" applicable to art-- and CHOOSE to break them and break them often. This doesn't go with their vision of what art should be (a random sampling of safe "Corporate Art" that looks great in libraries, public facilities, hard to decorate hallways or over couches.)

Here's a hint: real art isn't copied from a photo, unless the pic is mixed with other elements to convey something. Real artists who are making the real art also communicate (a concept, mood, social issue, secret wish) with their art, too, or push a limit that has been too-long-enmeshed in our culture. Sad truth is that real artists will have to stifle themselves to be found in outwardly criticizing/inwardly complacent galleries, and will usually be shunned.

We stand out like sore thumbs, which is a good thing. Whats happened to us is that we got so good early in our lives that we got bored and moved on into challenging realms.

If you're not being shunned for something, you're doing it wrong. Whether its your subject matter, how your shadows fall across a wall or how its framed or isn't, get some kind of criticism and then be ballsy enough to either ignore it and/or make art out of the criticism. Its like a ladder: make one thing, take inspiration from their reactions and make another piece. Paint the cool stuff that happens in between, too: there is no such thing as a dry spell or artists' block when you do this.  

Respect. I can't listen to someone I don't respect about a subject that is close to me if they aren't more experienced in the direction in which I want to grow. Talent, I've got. Talent and being good at what you do is the easy part. Being professional is also easy as hell.

Courage. Where this inclination comes from is that I don't believe in authority figures (usually toe-the-line-traditionalists) and the world is full of those who think they are exactly that just because they can follow rules to a T. You've met them, the bossy ones who think they know it all, when in reality they're just talented hobbyists... playing around after retirement with no real blood, sweat, or tears translated into gutsy emotional investment for the world to see. They feel proud to have sold a piece or two without risking a damn thing and have stayed comfortable their whole lives.

I'm interested in the hard stuff that makes me grow; I don't stay safe and would consider myself generally weak minded or insecure if I did. What helps this along from both a very personal and universal concept, this subject hits my rebellious streak where I get much of my best and highest selling pieces of inspiration. A message to "them": Bring it. I've been talented as long as I've had breath, so I'll paint my expressions of the situations you create (that everyone relates to at some point) and then make money off situations your criticism created.

The reality of me not staying safe scares the shit out of traditionalists. I love it. This is how I play. Playing is risk, you have to show vulnerability to play and have fun at what you do. Remember? Lets see what this does, lets see what that does. Just watch a toddler with his mashed potatoes, you'll see. These other people had been harshly criticized for playing and lost the wonder and thrill of sating curiosity in the name of fun, so if their pictures aren't planned from beginning to end, they can't handle it.

Here's both support and permission: Play. Be spontaneous a little. Then a little more. Say something inadequate. Have the hard conversations. Be vulnerable, then suck it up and put it on canvas, sculpture, music, or poetry. Take the consequences afterwards, too. You can handle it and you'll relate to someone who didn't know they wanted to say the exact same thing and they'll probably buy it, too. You just gave the voiceless a megaphone. Now, how good does that feel??

I know this, my toughest pieces to show were the ones sold first time off the chain and the ones who bought them usually cried in relief and happiness.

Personal Investment. Unless someone has the cajones to invest their internal landscape into the one they've portrayed from their self-taken photograph, I won't listen because I know I've got the guts to be real and they don't. Some people are strictly business people who have some talent, but they aren't risking anything. Any monkey can learn to paint a picture, but can they put their personal perspective into it?

Pretty. Sure I do pretty, but I can't respect pretty unless its genuine, and when they paint pretty to hang in the city hall or for your money, its not genuine. Sure, the world is full of pretty, but what are you conveying with it? I'm not saying all pretty art is inauthentic because I also paint beauty when I feel beauty-- but how many of us feel beauty all the time? Not any of us. Art is supposed to reflect life!

Lets get real here, including art, by showing the totality of who we are. Nostalgic, romantic, dark, moody, conceptual, sweet composition pushing design... know thyself, bogus art making money chasers, and then paint the reality of that. Better yet, I'll paint you, at least I've got the guts.

Well, its safe to assume that if told to do something, the answer is generally no. I don't bow to anyone, but will bend when I want to. And right now, I don't :)

Rebels:

Jesus, Ghandi, Monet, Renoir. Everyone that mattered in history had the balls to buck the established system. Think about that. 


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Awareness

2/11/2014

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So much is going on so fast, but I love it. I am happier than I've ever been in my life, I believe to my soul. I'm where I'm supposed to be, about to be doing what I'm supposed to be doing. How many people can say they feel that connection with their calling so strongly? What a blessing when it happens.

I don't know what later brings, but if it gets better, I might just explode.

For one, I know Mom is at peace. Stephen is happy and feeling secure doing that male providing thing, Devyn is on the road to becoming the active and engaged little boy he's supposed to be and he's about to be put into preschool. Everyone is taken care of.

Apparently, the Energy we otherwise call God has blessed me with significant people in my life, essential people :) I suppose, the path has been laid before me to just GO. So, I will.

Some of the most bizarre coincidences have been happening... artworks in my head I may never get to, realizations of past, present and perhaps future have come into clear focus to show a masterpiece in the making.
  

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Read more about whats going on later by clicking "read more" below

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The Story of a Rebirth

10/29/2013

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I can't believe I didn't write the Stag Dream down in this blog. Well, its not like my mind has been clear. But tonight, I have to get the story down so I can go to sleep. 

On September September 12, Stephen and I had the same dream about a White Stag. Here's what I put on facebook: "Y'all know metaphysical isn't unusual for me/us. If you're around me long, you know weird stuff happens, its part of my normal life and always has been. OK, so yesterday morning, I wake up from a weird dream and wonder what it has to do with anything. 

It fades into the daytime and I don't think much about it. Stephen said later: I had a weird dream as I was waking up, but i was awake. We took Mom home where she could "go" and not be in a hospital. We took her to her back porch. A huge stag, a buck was bowing down in front of Mom and he had does around him." 

I cut him off and asked "He was white or really light, too. Did yours have fuzz still on his antlers?" his eyes got big and he said yes. I asked if he was huge, I mean enormous and healthy-- and also welcoming her? He said yes, he was bringing peace. I said... and the antlers were rounded on the tips and there were does and babies around them, too. I know, I had the same dream. Something in the dream told me that it had something to do with Jesus."

I look up stags, white deer and found that they are messengers from the "otherworld" in Celtic tradition and also are symbols for Christ. Other names for the stag is "Hart". Her doctor's name is Hart and the trauma doc is named something like Hartlong. Here's what else we found: "Allegory/Moral
The stag is a symbol for Christ, who tramples and destroys the devil. As the stags crossing a river help each other, so should the Christian crossing from the worldly life to the spiritual life help others who grow weak or tired. As the stag is renewed and sheds its horns after drinking from the spring, so those who drink from the spring of the spirit are renewed and shed their sins." Here:http://bestiary.ca/beasts/beast162.htm

They gave her a breathing tube, a feeding tube and new antibiotics to give her all the resources available to fight this bug. So, lets hope the Stag opens a can of you know what on that devil ♥"


OK. Backstory: It was as if All of nature was welcoming her. The Stag wasn't Christ himself, but a manifestation of Christ Energy. Gosh, that sounds so weird, but thats what it told me. It was Majestic, frightening in the awe it carried. Light eminated around it and we were aware what a treasurable gift this was to experience. . 

Allright, so here it is October 28 and so much has gone on since then. If you continue reading FB (or this blog, lol), you'll see that there were ups and downs, denial, contradictions, declines, changing diapers- adult and a baby's, doling out morphine, dilaudid, atavan, a weeks worth of diarrhea diapers and MEDS that didn't touch it, nausea, throwing up, itching, with trial and error. I had told her over and over it was OK to go, we would be allright. She was so weak. 

She had such a hard time letting go, and this may be why: My Mom's life story

Now, this is what happened last night and today: 

Here is the actual link of what I wrote on facebook but below is copied and pasted. 
"This past weekend was spent telling Mom all I wanted her to know. We listened to CCR and Janis Joplin yesterday. I danced for her with Bun, made her comfortable and talked with her some more. I asked her, when she does go, please send me some vision to know that she is OK. Mom hung on and hung on.
 
Last night, from seeing her so pitiful for so long, I "nagged" her... "Mom, I love you so much and will miss you so much, but you've got so much more waiting for you that is beautiful beyond description- you've got Aunt Betty, Uncle Milford, Aunt Patty, Grandma and Dad waiting for you. There is so much joy and love waiting for you...PLEASE don't hang on to this little sick body that is too small for you. Don't think this is the best you're going to have. God has so much more for you, please accept it with open arms. But you're going to have to let go, first. Now, I'm going to sleep with you all night, and when I wake up, although I love you, please don't be in this little body anymore. Good night, Mommy, I love you." 

At 6 am, Stephen woke up, come in and checked on us. I was in the bed with her and could feel her heartbeat through the mattress. I went back to sleep. Sometime before 8 am, I heard a soft voice say: "She looks just like she did when she was alive." I thought it was Stephen, so I woke up and patted her... and she was gone. I don't know who that was, but it was a soft voice. 

So, I go tell Stephen. He comes into the kitchen and sees a Mama Deer and two older babies...... walking right up Mom's steps. Just like our shared dream in September. I cried and told Stephen "I told you they'd come for her. I guess The White Stag had showed up earlier." Stag is the symbol for Christ. Right now, I am so humbled that God, our Shared Source, saw fit to share this experience not only with me, but with him, too. No one would believe this. I am brought to my knees in the awe of this experience and validation. 

We are a part of All that Is and It is magnificent."

Medieval Bestiary : Stag
bestiary.caThe stag is the enemy of the snake. When the stag discovers a snake, it spits water into the hole where the snake hides, draws the snake out with its breath, and tramples it to death. If the stag is ill or old, it draws the snake out 
of hiding and swallows it. The stag then finds water and drinks la...

Occasionally, waves of sadness hit me so hard that it feels like someone is kicking in my throat. We had the most incredible journey with my Mom... filled with laughter, sadness, fear, anger and numbness. For her, the journey may have ended, but for me, it still goes on. 

And so will this relationship, I just know it. But those waves are a kicker. It will level you in a heartbeat-- and it doesn't care if you're in Walmart, church, a business meeting or dancing on the moon. When it hits, you don't have control over it. Just go with it and allow it to move through you... anything else is to block it and make loving and opening more difficult for you later. 

Thank you Mom for being the instrument for making me. You've touched the lives of so many and I am so honored to have you in my life. I love you. 

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We knew they would be coming for her. They never went up the steps to our knowledge before this... she'd been gone for months and we'd been back 10 days, so why do they go up the steps this particular day? To be the validation they knew about the safe passage. God bless.
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If you listen, God really does carry on a conversation with you.

6/30/2013

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How and when do you feel God's presence? How and when do you feel the most connected to Universal Energy?

So, every now and then, I get to have art time alone here at home. I watch tv, do art, sometimes blare music. Today was a TV day due to the warm weather and feeling compassion towards my neighbors :)

So, I'm often insecure that I'm doing what I need to be and have doubts about whether or not I'm contributing in favor, and honoring, the many faces and names of God. Because our collective Father doesn't really manifest and pat us on the back, I imagine this feeling is common among us.

Being a spirit experiencing humanity doesn't help. Just because you're spiritual and connected to God consciously doesn't mean that you don't have days when things are on your nerves in the worst way and that you aren't at your best. It doesn't inoculate you against sometimes being the not-so-wonderful part of yourself, what it does- however- is contrast that experience sharply. It is not who you are, it is a reaction to what is going on and we do forget that. Its only in the quiet spaces are we left with the ability to realize our connectedness and see the core of who we are in separation from our reactions.

So, I let my gut guide me to what I need to hear and see today. I put on something I've taped and its a Super Soul Sunday show and here is the conversation between Nate Berkus and Oprah about whether or not Design is spiritual:

"There really is no difference between Art and Prayer.... and when you're creating Design, it really is an offering. Its a gift. In order to do it well, you have to be in alignment with That which is the Creator."

I was left speechless and grateful, touched and humbled by the validation from our Creator.

That is all I ever wanted and want every day. To be in alignment with That which is the Creator. I believe I got the answer that I am.
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Eavesdropping on Angels' Conversations: Nope, its no secret that artists are weird

5/21/2013

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I really think I dreamed about the Oklahoma City tornado last night before it happened. Proof, I even posted about it here on facebook before it happened. Yes, call me a kook, but I do believe in paranormal perception, 6th senses, esp, whatever you want to call it.  I think its one of God's gifts that we all have to some degree. Read about brain wave activity and what is linked to psychic things here.

I watch Theresa Caputo on Long Island Medium and she's helped me so much to realize and guide whats going on sometimes, much more than when this stuff was hush-hush. She's incredibly gifted and I wish I knew how to "let it go". I translate too much. I need to just describe and shut up about it.

Anyway, I had a terrible dream last night/this morning or so. It was so vivid and here is what was in it:

There was some huge cataclysmic event in which people were grabbing other people's kids and "hiding them" because they knew "it" was coming. It seemed important that I know that they knew "it" was going to happen.

The thing that was happening was so bad that sheltering really didn't matter. What was coming, I didn't know. (I do lucid dreaming in which I can actually "think" in my dream and I thought it was a world war, a volcano or an asteroid because people were running to bunker-type bomb shelters.) I've never lived in tornado prone areas, so basements and bomb shelters are foreign to me.

The devastation was going to be so huge that most wouldn't survive, and the ones who did survive were walking around in disbelief that they did. All these people were just walking around, looking at familiar objects like.. zombies or something.

I kept hearing, or being infused with the knowledge that "There were two storms before this one".

Anyway people were trying to hide children so they would be safe.
We, this couple,  weren't "supposed" to be able to survive, but the children were because they were in this other area (we were separated and I didn't know why).

I then turned into one of the children at a school (I somehow turn into all characters in my dreams and see their perspectives) and I was a child, one among many, in a room with cinder-block walls. Water was coming in and I got hit from behind by what I thought was a wave, but all I knew was I was catapulted toward the wall and remember thinking, "Please God, let me go through that one window to the high left because I don't want to go straight through that cinder block wall.

These children were there in that space (it felt like "on purpose") so they would go quickly. I didn't know why they should go quickly... my brain made up some excuse why in that they didn't want them to suffer. I don't even know who they are. 

I turned into another adult who couldn't figure out why people had their hands in the air and dry dirt was puffing and flying around in the air (again, I thought this meant an eruption of some sort, after all, ash is dirt and we live on the west coast.) I saw a black wedge shaped thing that I thought was smoke or an ash cloud.

Anyway, I switched back into the child in the cinder block building area. Water came into where we were and I was trying to hold the hand of another child. That "chapter" of the dream ended abruptly and I was another character. I didn't get anything else out of that, no last moments, no nothing.

Onward, I turned into a parent (myself?) and saw fire, something on the ground was hot and coming "up"(gas lines?) and cars crumpled and mangled and abandoned. My vehicle was gone, nothing worked and I couldn't figure out how to get my child. Everything was obliterated. I saw a car that was in shape to perhaps drive, noticed that the seatbelt had been ripped and there was blood on it.

I felt the seatbelt and then started screaming with the realization that someone had been strapped in it when it was torn apart and knew that it had to be an immense force that could rip that kind of material. I thought that the person wasn't in one piece because the chances were good that he or she ripped before the belt material. It was obvious that the person wasn't alive anymore.

I turned into another child who managed to hide in a cage-like area with other children at another school. He was warning other children to not go "out there". I don't think this one had a shelter or they managed to get out of the group. They weren't supposed to survive, but they did. They were in a small, enclosed space, forgotten storage behind the school.

I saw wood panels, something that looked like boxes or wooden crates and chicken wire. It was perhaps part of the school, perhaps not but so close it could be an outbuilding. Dogs came... they were afraid of the dogs and didn't want to say anything. Some dogs didn't seem tame. One had black inside his mouth as he was barking at me.

We were afraid of how we would survive AFTER having survived the initial onslaught. They thought their parents were dead and that the dogs would bite them, so they remained hidden and quiet. (I hope there are no children who are hiding, afraid of the rescue dogs out there. I never thought of them being big and scary to kids before.)

I then turned into that other person who had seen the seatbelt. I started screaming to find my child, that I had to get "where" he was because I knew the people who had him would keep him safe, but I just couldn't get there. 

Somehow, then Moss Point popped in the dream??? And then something about the importance of the survival of the children under the age of five. (I guess that would mean preschool kids, who WEREN'T in school would be ok.) Then I was running through New Orleans and people, survivors, were sleeping outside because it was hot and they had no electricity.

I heard Devyn running upstairs and I woke up.

Two storms before this one. Two storms before this one. What keeps getting me is that there really WERE two storms that took this path, almost exactly, before this one. One in 1999 and the other in 2003.
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Learning and Applying

5/5/2013

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Here's the dry part of art that does exist, even for me, the lofty, hippy goob.

After uploading the latest paintings, I've decided to paint the stories that make up my life, one. Lil' Dood was so wonderful to paint and remember, he was such a character.

Two, I need to do more big shapes with color to bring the viewer to the painting and then spend the time doing detail that sucks in the viewer further. This latest landscape is big, yet will really work well in a small space-- because its mainly made up of nothing but detail. Its gorgeous, but the contrast and shapes in the second tree from the left is the real star of the show-- and that teaches a lot.

Three, I LOVE contrast and trumped up color, and that fits with all the happenings in this life and in this body. Seems that is what this path is about, no matter how I want to steer it down a quiet road, someone comes with a bullhorn and shocks me back to... reality?? Is there any such thing. Reminds me of Tesla's
Heaven's Trail (No Way Out) lyrics.


Rude awakenings, ha ha. Remember this post?? All I want is two or three months (ok, I'm pushing it now) of *nothing* happening but forward movement (you know, people getting sick, houses falling apart, computers smoking... but then there comes a kick in the balls. (Well, powers that be, now I'm expecting it, so I got a sports cup and I'm gonna paint about it. Its fodder now.)

I'll take a lesson from Frida Kahlo, and those others wiser and greater than me, sure. Muse. A-muse. There ya go. God, I'm not taunting You--- just what that thing in fate is that keeps kicking me as soon as I try to get back up. Fine, I'll make money from it.   

I'll also do the great stories, too, the ones that are quiet and sweet. The last several days HAVE been quiet, thank God. If you don't count Devyn's trip to the ER and then doctor for impaction and the issues after that... or the possible cold he's getting now. Phew. I'm just grateful thats over! Best advice I've read this past week is: Life is not an emergency. My hair has been set on fire so often recently that I'm waking up automatically, patting myself on the head. If you get some serenity, thank God and keep it as long as you can. Nothing lasts forever, joy nor suffering.

But its been so beautiful. Sunshine. Oh, breathing in the sunshine. Getting outside to do something as mundane as washing the truck was a joy--- and seeing Stephen run after Devyn who was bookin it down our street. No one was on the verge of dying again, no one was needing an ER :) and being aware of it. Meeting Abbey and Justin across the street and Holly, Michelle's friend from New Orleans- about kudzu, voodoo, hummingbirds, labels, conservatism, liberalism, beer, clemato-beer (lol, it is good), listening to music that brought back memories of Tbone stealing cassette tapes for Susie Harrison and I :)

Bun and I going to the Women's Conference to meet a therapist who supported me in starting up art groups again. I would so love that, had given up on it due to not having  any credentials. Its so important and integral for me to do this. 

For the first time in forever, I was aware of walking into a place without self consciousness, without feeling intimidated by the business people there. Without feeling out of place. Thank you, God. Fourty is kinda cool.
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Physical details of "The Good Man"

5/2/2013

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Its so hard to photograph one of these kinds of paintings! The glare is from all the transparent glass-like sheen, a killer to photo, but thats why I like it. OK, at the top left going clockwise, is his little brown hen's portrait. She was always on his mind, like the Elvis song, and is therefore over his head, and is always held to the highest like in her life. Her background is Mona Lisa's background. The image in front of The Good Man is also his hen, showing how he sings his love song "Unchained Melody", probably one of the most danced-to songs ever, and is probably what he felt after she passed away before he did. (Yes, animals do grieve.) He wraps her in his song. Above her head is written "She knows she's loved." This might be about her, but its more about me :) When you find a "good man", you know you're loved.

The music goes into his chest and becomes part of him because he makes it--- a creator cannot make something that isn't of him/herself, you cannot give what you don't have, as they say.

The lower right image is his bright, strong, stout legs that defended nests, dug food and showed both boundaries and kindness. In person, you can see the various shades of green at different levels of depth through the clear resin. The barbed wire is the barbed wire I wish we'd had when the neighbor's dogs had gotten loose.

The last image, the lower left, shows me really trying to capture all the colors in his feathers at once, capturing time in one glance. The only thing I could think of that held that many colors simultaneously is glitter. His feathers dangled down like earrings sometimes, like leaves and fruit from a branch, hence that odd looking decorative deely-bob on his tail.

His feathers are also referenced in the interference and iridescent colors used in the resin-glass pieces. If you look at it head on, you can see green, move to the left and you don’t see that one, but a purple sheen showing up somewhere else. The song wraps and creates both of them.

All in all, the entire color scheme is a suggestion of the time of year in which energy picks up: spring! Early spring has the chilly, frosty mornings and sunlight afternoons. Lil’ Dood was so happy around this time of year, full of himself and doing more dances and running around chanting “butter butt”.

The only thing I regret not doing was adding the chicks, but I suppose early spring is not the chick-time, so it can be overlooked. I may put a chick or two in there somewhere later.

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"The Good Man": A supernatural chicken story painting

5/2/2013

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Meet Lil' Dood. We weren't supposed to have him, but he didn't care. And neither did we.

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New Painting update! Meet Lil’ Dood, "The Good Man". He is the subject behind a true story and Candie Tallquist’s inspiration. Candie needed something for the Great Northwest Glass Quest here in Stanwood/Camano Island, and since I needed something glass-like, I experimented with various layers of resin. The paint and objects between the layers of resin symbolizes the iridescent colors in his plumage.

Candie's need was the first inspiration, this supernatural story is the second. My Dad passed away March 19, 2006… a few months after Katrina and a week after my 33rd birthday.

On the anniversary of his death several years after he passed away, I was standing outside thinking about him and the wisteria plant he had given Stephen and I. My thoughts wandered to how he had this oddball love for bantam chickens and how he appreciated the spirited little things. I thought it was funny because they were supposed to be cross and territorial.

That afternoon, I kid you not, my Mom called and said that a chicken was walking around her apartment complex parking lot and asked if I wanted it. It’s a residential neighborhood and NO ONE kept chickens. (I didn’t know Moss Point, Jackson County, MS had laws against owning chickens, so I said “Sure”.)

So, here she comes, bringing this small bag- like the ones tree huggers like us use instead of plastic grocery bags. I asked “Well, where is it?” and she said, "In this bag". So, she takes this little skinny thing out and it walks around the kitchen. We didn’t know for sure if it was a chicken because it looked scrawny, like a roadrunner… but the minute “it” saw our pet Duck, he “bowed up” making the gender and message quite clear. I complained, “Oh, no, it’s a little dude!” because they are notorious for being mean-spirited. Great, I thought, now we have this little thing to kick our butts all the time. I can't not love any animal, so, he had a home and his new name, Lil’ Dood, stuck.

We kept this little guy, crowing and all, a secret. He didn't beat us up. He did dances when we clapped our hands and sang, but he was so lonely. He followed anyone and everything around the yard, mumbling “butter butt” to us, cats, other birds and the grumpy duck. He had even gotten to the point where we could pet him and he’d let us pick him up. This doesn’t sound anything like the mean, feisty little bantams I’ve heard from old timers’ stories.

So, we get him a hen. While she was being acclimated to the yard in a separate pen, Lil Dood tried to show his appreciation for her beauty—to which, she tried to open a can of whoop-ass on him. Good for him there was at least a barrier to save his physical feelings. His emotional ones? Not so much.

She continued to whoop him at every opportunity, so we got him another one. This one must be THE one :) It was love at first sight.  Pretty soon, he was scratching the ground and offering her food. What?! This is the mean little cranky breed everyone talks about?

Later, came the chicks. He was an even “better” father than he was “husband”. During the “pregnancy”, he was a wonderful husband and doted on the hen whenever she came out and, often, scratched and danced inside the nest box at her. Just about the only time he was cantankerous was when she bumped into him while he was asleep.

After the bantamlets hatched, he would scratch and point out bugs and food, not eating it himself- instead, offering his finds to the chicks. One grew up to be another “Lil’ Dood” who often tested his boundaries, yet Lil’ Dood, Sr. never pecked him, although he did put him in his place.

I can’t remember what happened to the little hen, but he was sad and lonely after she passed. He had a good life, although one without a mate, afterwards. Eventually, loose neighborhood dogs snuck into our fenced-in yard and that was the end of Lil’ Dood and a few of our other pets. I miss him and he continues to live on in a story I love to tell.

What makes Lil’ Dood supernatural?

First, the way and day we got him, exactly on the anniversary of my Dad’s passing, on a day when random, wistful thoughts turned into a funky walking reality. This tells me that God (whatever name anyone chooses to call “It”) has both a sense of timing and humor. Secondly, in relation to my Dad, I suppose this little bantam embodied the characteristics that he wished he could have been in his life: gentle, doting and vigilant. In my Dad’s sober times, this is what we had (on occasion). I suppose this is why we mourned his alcoholism so much.

Either way, we appreciate the time we spent with such a comic relief that was Lil’ Dood, and we know we gave him a good life while he was here. Just like my Dad.

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Art and People: Part 2 of The Ultimate in Soul Work; The Culmination of All Experiences 

3/18/2013

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How do we learn to fear being vulnerable? When do we learn to hide our feelings? One of the first times I remember something like that happening, I was playing with little neighbor kids. They were a little snooty, I was 5 or 6. I think I had mosquito bites and bruises all over my legs (being a tomboy) and they picked on me about it. Unrelenting in the torment, I went home crying.

That didn't change me, it didn't bother me that much: what stuck with me the longest was when I wrote them a note telling them how it effected me, my Mom telling me to stop crying and to tear up the note. It was the look on her face and the message "don't give them the satisfaction" and then something deeper... "how can she be so weak?"

My Mom is a strong woman who had a hard life. She cries for no one while they are alive and the only times I've seen her cry was for a pet, her brother and my Dad when they died. She has the hardest time crying (when she does) and her whole body shakes as if in a panic attack. So this is evident in her fear response towards anyone else's vulnerability. Cry if you fall down, sure, but the rest? Suck it up.

I'm not alone and neither are parents in these messages, given or received. So, that is how life went for me for 30 years. I never could understand why someone just couldn't be honest with their perspectives and perceptions and so I was completely conscious of keeping "it" all in. My art was the only release for the real me underneath so much so that I forgot how to talk about it. I had a realization something about me felt different from how everyone else appeared... and I wanted something unintelligible. Life felt like it had been inhabited by hard-shelled hostile entities, but I didn't know why. I felt de-skinned, ultra sensitive and exposed. 

Fast forward. Not only had I been dealing with invisible constraints and saw them in other people, I had also been dealing with a mild to moderate depression since graduation in '03, in '05 Katrina hit. The depression until then had taken the form of anxiety and agitated depression also known as mixed state or mixed episode (a very dangerous kind that infiltrates your thoughts, behaviors but with an anger and anxiety that makes one very scared of one's own capabilities. Most depressed people would kill themselves if they had the motivation, with mixed episodes, you have the energy, PLUS rage.)

Anyway, after Katrina, the need struck everyone everywhere and I couldn't help. People died, families were without anything, children didn't have homes, food, toys, anything. (I cannot stand suffering and have to do something.) At the time, I had JUST gotten into therapy. My father had just had a quintuple bypass (yes, quintuple. 5 arteries!!) and had lost everything in his home that had gotten 4-5 feet of storm surge.

The stress was too much to bear. One day, my Dad walked up to me in the kitchen while I was cooking chili for my whole family and instantly a tape played in front of my eyes in my mind of a scene of him with that expression, and I, when I was 3 years old. Front to back in complete clarity of me trying to talk him out of killing himself and trying to talk him into living. The "movie" included the sights, smells, sounds and emotions of that time. I was three, helpless, had no idea that the world existed outside my front door and that my dad's life--- and mine- were about to crumble.

That, my dear, is a flashback. And not the post-acid induced kind (which I never took, btw) or the fluffy, fuzzy flashbacks of romance movies. Its also symptom of PTSD.

For the first time since my teen years, I had been put in the position to care for my father. The first time was an unhealthy, parasitic version of exploitation in which I cared for his emotional health when I was only 3... the second was a natural progression of his own age and mortality, but the similarity was there enough to trigger the flashback.

I caught my breath, said nothing and finished dinner. It wasn't easy, but i did it. Throughout life in other areas, things had gotten progressively worse. People don't know that depression filters EVERYTHING that comes through your senses into your thoughts and heart and then filters everything that comes out of you into the world. It is like a black filter.

Something as simple as walking down a dock can be turned into an Alfred Hitchcock scene. As I was walking down a dock (we were looking at hurricane devastation), we encountered some fishermen on what was left of the dock. (what the hell???)

Instantly, I had the painting of Edvard Munch's The Scream flash before my eyes-- and I understood what he felt like. The people looked hostile (probably dealing with depression on their own, too, from Katrina) and had no friendly expression whatsoever. I got home and painted "Velveteen Scream". It was the pictoral expression of what vulnerability, and the lack of, feels like. Disconnection. Click the picture for more information on the painting and its symbolism.    
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Edvard Munch's The Scream
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Linda Hill's Velveteen Scream
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Life and Art: Put it in the LIGHT so you don't have to fear it. Be open about your pain and insufficiencies, as they will become your strengths. 

3/10/2013

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Do YOU compare yourself to others- or, even just as dangerously, yourself at your best? I used to. Wake up. You were never intended to stay who you were, thats why human spirits grow long past the point when they grow old.

"Put it in the light so he doesn't have to fear it". That is my LIFE and what this blog is about. That is my art. And I heard these words coming out of Dr. Robin's own mouth on Oprah's Super Soul Sunday, the flood of appreciation opened that God was giving me the validation that I am on the right path. This is why I chose to be open, honest and naked to anyone who will listen. I made the conscious decision that I hide nothing from myself, Stephen, friends or clients. It doesn't mean I tell things that are hurtful for no purpose (Your butt looks like two fighting balloons in those pants), but when it comes to myself, my experiences and my capabilities, I shine the light on it.

My life had been marred by so many things I hid out of shame. BUT you can't be hurt by something that you put in the light. You don't have to fear it, you don't have to fear being found out, you don't have to waste time, energy and worry about hiding it. This can be something as profound as being molested as a child, accidentally murdering someone while driving drunk, or as Dr. Robin and Oprah are talking about, Lionel Richie not being able to hit the same high notes as he used to. 

We were never intended to keep recreating what we were or what we already have. Thats not creation, thats copying. We are intended to create something NEW with our art, our lives and our spirits.

We as growing spirits must come to the realization that we create our lives as we move through this spiritual space-- and the spiritual space changes, so we must change and recreate accordingly. The mud-house doesn't hold tight in a rainy marshland, so rebuild your house and keep growing. The question is then, how?

By being open and honest about yourself. What you find out will influence your life and ultimately your art. Nothing that influences one doesn't influence the other, they are intertwined.

What is really going on now? What is my life made of now, what does it consist of, what do I need to feel completed NOW, what are my most basic needs and the needs of those that I love? KNOW yourself, who you are, your limitations and perceived inadequacies. Know your highs and lows and keep them in the light. When those questions can be answered clearly and truthfully, then the answers will direct you to a path that is yours in this time and space alone.

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    Linda Hill

    I am a life long artist, divorced from a 20 year marriage and a Mommy to a gorgeous little boy  for  3 years.

    I love God Consciousness, love to give and love the human spirit in all its forms. Nothing separates us, separation is an illusion.

    Its taken me a long time to feel comfortable in my own skin, scars and all. A past of neglect and sometimes abuse gave me issues I have to work through, sometimes here.

    What helped me most is to truly love and help others. You can't give what you don't have, but by giving, you will find that you already have all that you could ever wish for.

    My art, blog and life has been about "owning" myself along with all the mixed blessings that come with this thing we call life.

    Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I have become REAL.




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