Exciting Launch of Kickstarter Campaign!

This morning, I pushed the magic button, launching the Kickstarter campaign I've been working on for what seems like, years.  I started to do this a few years ago, but it didn't feel like the right time, so I waited. Concentrating on my writing, photography, and just the process of gathering stories, narraitves, research, and living along the rivers.  For years I have immersed myself in this project. It started when I was working on my doctoral dissertation, and I wrote a huge chapter on the history of the indigenous and mixed indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest. The chapter was way too long for the purposes of the dissertation, but in that work were the seeds of this project, Ancient River Trails: Voices and Visions of N'chiawana, the Columbia River and Her Tributaries.   

As you probably know, when you're in the middle of a major project of any kind, it's so very important to take breaks, set the work aside, and move our bodies and focus from the work at hand. For me, that has always been to head to the nearest body of water, the place where the water runs, ebbs and flows, and where the sky, land, and waters meet.  Another passion of mine is going back, behind the last known fact or statement, to discover what came before, what was said or done before, and to find the patterns that remain the same in our lives and the ones that seem to have disappeared. The stories of my family were incomplete. There were pieces I knew and large chunks that were mysteries. Some still remain so.  In a naive effort to find my Grandmother's burial site, I found myself tramping through muddy pioneer cemeteries up and down the Columbia and the Willamette Rivers. As I became more aware of tribal and cultural practices of clans and tribes along the coast and rivers, I realized the story of my grandmother lay elsewhere.

While gathering narratives for both my graduate projects (thesis on immigrants and refugees and dissertaion on mixed indigenous peoples in the PNW), I discovered the truth that all of us come from somewhere else, and our roots are spread out through multiple layers of narrative histories, events, shifts in consciousness, and perceptions...our stories change as we tell them, and our stories take on new meaning as we live and continue creating new visions of what has been and who we are. This book that I've been working on began as an attempt to find out about my own inidgenous heritage, but has become something much more. Ancient River Trails: Voices and Visions of N'chiawana, the Columbia River and Her Tributaries, is chronicle of some of the stories that are told of those who lived along these rivers before, of those who live and work these rivers now. It is a living, moving piece of the much longer story of thousands of years of life along our waterways, and how, at this point in time we are seeking to preserve the cultures, languages, stories, and life of the past with the way we are living along, working with, taking care of, and preserving the river and life along the rivers.

I invite all of you to take a look at the video I made to launch my Kickstarter campaign. This campaign is to help me raise awareness and funds needed for completing the book and short film I'm making on the rivers. This winter and spring I will be traveling up the rivers past The Dalles to explore the rivers further east and north. I want to photograph the Snake and Yakama Rivers as they meet the Columbia, and explore more of the smaller tributaries and the lands around the rivers. My desire is to continue meeting people, learning more about the past and the present of life on the rivers, and to preserve some the beauty and some of the cultural narraitives, lore, stories, and language through this book and film. I also wish to encourage others to look beyond what appears to be, to discover the hidden, sometimes forgotten, sacred narrative of life...narratives that deserve to be remembered and honored.

Thank you for supporting me was I continue this leg of the journey, and I welcome your ideas and whatever support you can give me through the Kickstarter campaign.  Keep following the journey, and I will be sharing more as we move into the colder, rainier seasons along the rivers.  Today the fog lays heavy over the river, and the sun that woke us up today, has disappeared behind the dense fog bank. The Wallapa Mountains to the north, appear as only a vague, dark outline against the sky, the ships anchored in the river channel sit like silent giants, their orange line on the ships' hulls, the only color to be seen.  Living by the river is one of the greatest gifts a writer and photographer could ever wish for. This beautiful river, N'chiawana, the Columbia, is life to me, and sharing some of her beauty and stories is my passion. I need your support, and welcome you to share your questions and your interests about the rivers. Think about that which you are passionate about, and step out in some way, no matter how small, towards allowing that passion to grow.  Sometimes we think we are waiting, when in fact we are growing into our passions, and readying ourselves for the next leg of the journey. Letting life unfold, in perfect order and time, allows us to live fully in the truth of the present.  How fortunate we are. 

Rainy Day Pier                                                                                                                                                  Catherine Al-Meten

To view my Kickstarter video and support my project, Ancient River Trails: Voices and Visions of N'chiawana, the Columbia River and Her Tributaries, visit my website or my Kickstarter site.

Light: Moving into Darkness

Reunion                                                                                                                     Catherine Al-Meten

Before dawn this morning, I woke up.  Going into the kitchen to start the tea kettle, I reached for the light switch, and stopped short of turning it on.  Instead, I lit a candle.  The act of lighting a candle in the early morning darkness, filled my kitchen with a soft, radiant glow. I carried the candle back into my room and sat down to write in the calming, peaceful light of the candlelight. 

What came to mind in that split second before I decided not to turn on the lights, was a spiritual practice introduced to me years ago by a former student.  Katherine, a young single mother who had struggled with depression brought on by loss and grief over her husband’s suicide, had been seeking ways to deepen her sense of inner peace and spirituality.  She came into my office one day and we talked about ways she might start creating habits and practices to develop a more peaceful, less hurried way of life. Shortly after our conversation, she told me she had decided to start and end her day more peacefully. Instead of jumping out of bed and turning all the lights on, she had started using candlelight in the mornings. And in the evenings, she muted lights or used candlelight in the period just before going to sleep.

Beginning and ending the day more in tune with the natural light cycles, helps us live in deeper harmony. When I was first on my own, I learned how to follow my own sleep rhythms, never using an alarm clock.  I couldn’t tell you how that happened, but it has always been easy for me to set my own internal clock to wake up when I need to, or to sleep according to my needs.  While working for myself usually does not require me to be on a tight schedule, I nevertheless have a pretty regular pattern of sleep.  Being a night owl, I tend to go to sleep late, and wake up around the same time each morning; 7-8 hours after I put my head on my pillow. In the summer, the light pours in my windows creating a natural wake up call, and as we move deeper into Autumn, my own body clock seems to awaken me. Once in a while, I’m awoken by a rousing thunderbolt that sounds like it has landed outside my bedroom, or the blast of a ship’s whistle on a foggy morning. Sometimes it’s the dog’s bark or the deep soul calling of some nightmare dream or early morning wake up call from the Divine intruder.  Most mornings,it’s quiet and calm where I live. 

 Over the last hour, sunlight has taken the place of candlelight, and the light reveals the day awakening.  Two people are taking a morning run across the trestle on the river walk. The ducks and geese on the river are beginning their morning conversations, and birds have taken flight all up and down the river. Haven’t heard or seen the crows yet; they usually fly here to the riverside where they spend their day hunting, strutting, and chattering on wires, roof and tree tops, and hunting through the grass in between times they are chasing the larger birds of prey, hoping to get the eagles or hawks to drop their catch of the day. Crows are some of my favorite birds. Everywhere I have lived, I have found the local crows.  Recently, I was in the forest where I did not see a crow for three weeks, and I realized how much I missed them.  Something practical and regal about a crow.  Seeking a larger place in life than they might deserve; seeking the highest branch or treetop while keeping track of all that goes on in the world below them.

Sounds of the morning, bird calls, muted sounds of neighbors quietly starting their days, and the rattling and shaking of the local bus as it makes its first round of the day, picking up passengers who are heading into the day’s activities.  

Today, it’s quiet. No wind nor rain beating against the windows or echoing down the heater vents. A high bank of gray covers the Wallapa Mountains, the open river, and all of us who live along her shores. Clouds, like a soft blanket, muting all noises except an occasional bird call, a few cars passing, or voices greeting one another on a morning walk. No dogs yet have sounded warnings or begun their morning chases and outings. Cats quietly make their rounds, silently darting across streets, up alley ways, and onto back porches seeking  a place to curl up after early morning hunts and meals. 

A large ship laden down with cargo, its red line deep in the water, barely visible, silently and swiftly makes its way to the bar where it will enter the open sea and start its ocean voyage. Other ships, wait, still and calm, anchored in place in mid-channel, waiting to sail upriver.  

Tide is high, and the water ripples in toward shore as it continues to rise. More people out and about. Birds have left their nests for the day’s activities. A last quick look around tells me that a few more leaves must fall from the old plum tree outside, before it can be in its full, stark glory, bare and naked for its journey into darkness. Light has returned for the day, and darkness will take her place, earlier and earlier as we move deeper into Autumn. Life has returned in the muted, morning light. 

And this evening, once the day’s busiest times end, and before I put my head down for the night, I will dim the lights, light a candle, and sink deeper into the stillness and calm of the night. I will sit in meditation, spend some time in prayer, and begin wrapping up the promises I made myself today, setting them aside to find a place of peace, within.  Lists may be made, of gratitude and ‘need-tos’, of what to plan and what to check off, and all to assure myself that in this sweet moment, the light we have is enough. The darkness is enough, for we move into and out of light in the rhythm of the turning of the planet, and in the journey of life that leads us on. Waking tomorrow, we will make other choices. For now, this is enough. 

Practice Makes Perfect: A Matter of Priorities

In Flight                               Catherine Al-Meten

Two articles caught my eye this morning, both on the essential skills a modern woman needs. The first article lists 50 essentials every woman needs to know. It begins: "1. How to open a bottle of champagne; 2. Drink without getting a hangover in the morning; and 3. How to look good in a photo.  The list went on citing 47 more similar 'essentials'.  The second article started off with the following question: "If you were a woman and not allowed to go beyond 300 metres periphery of your home, and if at all you venture out, it had to be under supervision, how would you feel?" Both articles address the plight of modern women albeit from very different circumstances.  What prompted me to search out skills for modern women in the first place, was my failed attempt at bread making, crocheting, and knitting.  I'm getting ready to do some canning, and even though I've done it before, it's been some time and I'm wondering how this is going to turn out. When I read both of these articles, I was struck that the fact that on this absurb continuum of modern woman's experiences, I was somewhere far from either extreme. 

My attempts to make bread arose out of two things: memory and desire.  I have fond memories of baking bread when I was younger. All kinds of bread including whole wheat and bran bread in coffee cans, pita bread from scratch, zucchini and pumpkin bread from vegetables from my own garden, and even some Swedish braided bread we made in a junior high home economics class.  My own mother never made bread. She in fact seemed perfectly happy to have white bread sliced in a package, thereby relieving her of the task of bread making.  My desire arose from having the good fortune to be out in the woods by myself for a couple of weeks, with time to do as I please. A friend had brought a beautiful and delicious loaf of bread to my house a few weeks ago, and having gotten her recipe, I thought, "No problem. This will be a cinch."  I even found a You Tube vid that showed an actual 4-year old making the recipe.  However, my bread did not turn out so well.  

As for crocheting and knitting, I periodically get in the mood to knit or crochet, and have grand visions of creating beautiful and artful pieces of clothing, wall hangings, and tea cozies. The problem I have each time I go to knit or crochet, involves counting. After repeated attempts to knit or crochet a straight line, I was reminded by a friend who actually does make beautiful, artful pieces of clothing in a snap, that I needed to remember to count my stiches.  "Count stiches!?" I replied in a horrified voice. The idea of doing something relaxing like knitting or crochetting and having to count stiches, just did not equate to me.  When I knit or crochet, I like to dream, and allow my imagination to wander. My fingers and hands can fly between yarn, needle, or hook, and my thoughts can wander at will.  No, counting stiches was not part of the process for me.  So at least I understand that the reason I knit or crochet has nothing to do with the practical art of creating anything but a rather asymetrical scarf-like object or wall hanging.  If I had to knit or crochet for a living or for necessity, I would have to count. I would have to follow instructions until I learned how to knit or crochet a sweater or scarf, hat or gloves.  And I would probably have to practice for a long time to get good at making anything that I or anyone else would actually use.

As for breadbaking, it is not a necessity for me to bake bread at this stage of my life. In fact, the less bread I eat, the better.  There are wonderful artisan breadmakers where I live, and I feel I can justify a fresh loaf of rustic rye bread from the Blue Scorcher once in a while.  I may try my hand at breadmaking again, but it also may not be at the top of my list of priorities right now.  Rather than obssess any more than I have, I would rather just acknowledge my deep regard and respect for those who have the skill, patience, and abiltiy to make a decent loaf of bread. I admire even more, those women who have to make bread in order for their famiies to eat each day. Whose hands are worn and marked by what they have shaped, kneaded, rolled out, baked, and served each day.  Those who bake bread not by choice but by necessity.

For all those of us who have the choice of 'going back to nature' or returning to the processes of the not-so-distant past, we may remind ourselves that becoming proficient at anything requires learning, practice, and repeated exercises of trying, sometimes failing, and sometimes succeeding. Some of us have pursued training or education in order to learn a valued profession like teaching, nursing, doctoring, engineering, scientific discovery and research, or some other technical field. We have learned skills to help raise children, take care of family finances, care for our aging parents, handle finances, learn to deal with cars and their 'problems', and we have all learned through the process of trial and error. And we most certainly have learned and continue learning about ourselves and our relationships with others.  Most of us have had our share of failure, and our share of successes. 

Many of us, and I include myself here, tend to take the path of least resistance, and go for the skills that come from passion and a talent or gift for doing something. If I have an ear for music, it is easier for me to pursue singing than it might be to pursue learning to speak Chinese. When I listened to my mother play classical music on our piano, I never could bring myself to learn to play piano because my first attempts were so poor. I did not have the drive, patience, or commitment to practice and get better. I preferred instead, to train my voice, learn an instrument that was easier for me to play, and leave piano to someone like my mother who seemed to have a gift.  

Some choices I've made have not been easy but they are the choices I have made because of my passion. My passion for the Arabic language made it a priority to learn a very difficult language. I am still learning after many years, but the basics are there, and the more I practice, the better I get.  The choice to pursue my studies and focus on the research on PTSD and Chronic Intergeneratinal Stress was also difficult, but it became a priority, and has been the motivating force behind much of what I write and much of my photography.  My photography focuses on what heals; my writing explores the whole process. The deeper I go, the better my work gets. If I were to stop, it would be fine too, but something, that inner fire, burns on and continues to awaken a need in me.

Practice makes perfect, and if we don't practice even those skills we have some aptitude for, we will never know what gifts lie unopen within us. While I don't expect to take up piano or bread making as a hobby or profession at this point, there are some things that I do have a passion for and that I have a commitment to learn, practice, and get better at. It is not necessary to be good at everything, as some perfectionists types might think. Perhaps we all have a little perfectionist residing inside us somewhere, and that is who has spent the morning berating me over my feeble attempts to get more domestic.  At a recent art studio tour, a painter sat with me for over an hour, talking about the art of being an artist. He is in his 80s, and described to me how he still wakes up at night with that little perfectionist critic berating him. We both laughed about how we have to shut those voices up, fire the critic, and go on practicing our art in order to do what we must do, be who we feel called to be, and allow our gifts to grow and flourish.  

As modern women, it is my thought that we have the unique privilege to perfect our skills in something beyond opening champagne bottles or relieving ourselves of hangovers. If all we have done with the gifts, opportunities, and freedom is to become less capable, more insensitive to the plight of others, and increasingly more shallow and empty, then we have squandered something precious and beyond value. How would we feel if we were still chattels of our fathers and husbands? How would we feel if we were not allowed to read, let alone become writers, artists, teachers, or scientists? How would we feel if we were not allowed the choices we now make on a daily basis?  

We each stand in a unique place on the earth. Some of us have more of some things and less of others. Some of us have little freedom, others have few limits. How we perceive the world from where we live, walk our daily walk, interact and honor one another, and serve and create in our lives, reveals a great deal about how we have each used the life we have been given.  We make choices, we experience circumstance beyond our control, and we live our lives perfectly and imperfectly.  We gird ourselves with our beliefs, practices, and traditions, and see the world through a lens colored by all our expereinces. Some part of ourselves, the silent observor, notices when things are out of whack or pays attention to the intuitive nudges and sensations that warn, prepare, or invite us onward. As writers and artists, we know the value of practice, commitment, and attention to learning as a means of unleashing the ideas, raising the level of our work, and of finding that mysterious gold that each of us has within. Whether we are seeking to improve the lives of our daughters and grandchildren or are simply trying to make sense of this one day, this one project, this one situation, we are all called upon by some inner force and by the Creative force of the Universe, to keep on moving, one foot in front of the other, and one line at a time, as we live out our purpose and find meaning. 

As I was completing this article, the dog started barking, a signal that someone has driven up the long drive on this lonely stretch of road.  The Veggie Lady had arrived, and with her, a cooler chest of late summer vegetables fresh from Betsy's garden.  People in this part of Washington, and other parts of the country, share their garden crops with one another as part of a coop system.  My job today now is before me. All the vegetables need to be cleaned. The refrigerator needs to be cleared out and cleaned out to make room for the vegetables.  The fruit I got for canning needs to be cooked and prepared, and for a brief period of time, I feel just a tiny iota of what it feels like to have to get the food prepared and processed so as to feed others and avoid waste.  Today's miniscule reminder tells me that I can set my mind to very practical chores, take care of the animals, keep a house in good order, and do so in the relative safety and peace of this home.  

Just a Little Respect

Dancer at Dusk                                                   Catherine Al-Meten


Aretha Franklin singing Respect, 1968

Writers are inspired, influenced, and moved to write in any number of ways on any number of topics. I'm staying at my friend's home in the forests right off the White Salmon River in Washington. Taking care of their animals and home while they are away on a much-needed vacation, I am having my own version of a writer's retreat. Even though I live by myself, at home I live in community, and so find this time away soothing to my soul, relaxing (taking naps every day), and refreshing.

I was greeted by four cats and a lovely old dog named Cupid (also a few fish; the yellow one is the only one that talks to me and all she seems to want is more food). On the dining room table was a small vase of wild flowers and two blue envelopes addressed to me. One was from my friend, telling me where to find the nicest hikes and waterfalls. The other letter was from Naomi, my friend's oldest daughter. Naomi had written me a long letter complete with detailed maps, about how to take care of the animals, where to find the neighbors, and how to find my way around the house. I treasure these letters, and as my stay has gone on, I have noticed more inspiring things around the house.

If you have ever taken care of someone else's home, you may understand my reluctance to look too closely at anything that might be personal.  You walk a fine line when living in someone else's space between appreciating someone's home and being snoopy or invasive.  It took me nearly a week to begin reading some of the writing on the walls. Yes, in this home, the members of the family post their feelings in plain sight. It is lovely.  At the kitchen window is a reminder from Mother Theresa to be kind to one another.  A small piece of printed paper framed on rice paper and construction paper reads: Love grows best in small house like this where there are fewer rooms and walls between us where we can't help but communicate with one another. Just think how much we'd miss if we had a larger home."

And then there's the lovely stylistic painting that looked to me like a four or five wild flowers . I was drawn to the painting as it reminded me of the brush strokes on a Chinese watercolor. I knew Naomi's parents had lived in China and my friend learned to paint in a particular style. As I looked closer, I noticed to the left, a cluster of hearts drawn around the word Compassion. Below compassion was Be Kind, and below that, the word Respect.  This essay was inspired by what reading the word respect invoked in me this morning as I stood at the kitchen sink preparing my morning tea and looking out into the garden and beyond into the forest.

The simple design and the word respect evoked a flood of memories. While spending time here in the forest home, I have been reading one of Natalie Goldman's books, and have been doing the exercise writers have learned, using the phrase, "I remember..." as a writing prompt.  Usually, I have no problem  finding subjects to write about, but what I wanted to do was tap into that part of me that created from a deeper level than intellect, need, or directed focus.  I have found using the  "I remember..." prompt to be very enjoyable and useful for unlocking past memories and allowing those memories to rise up and flow out.  So here goes.

I remember when I was teaching a spiritual direction class at Marylhurst University years ago. It was an intensive weekend course, run for three days over the course of two long weekends. My partner teachers and I shared the joy of planning and conducting the class, and we each had different styles of both teaching and spirituality.  We blended together, for the most part. What I recalled this morning was one of the instructors, a woman a bit older than I (I was in my mid-50s at the time) reprimanding me for using the word respect while I was leading the class discussion. She was quite passionate i with her disgust that I would use such a a term when describing how to be in the presence of another during spiritual direction, or for that matter, at any time.  I had been presenting the idea that when we sit with another person we need to respect the person and the gifts, experiences,  background , and traditions they bring into the experience.  My point being, that too often counseling and therapy have been set up as a hierarchical relationship of "the One who Knows and the One who Needs Help".  This may be true for some, but in spiritual direction and counseling with people from cultures and traditions outside our own knowledge or experience, this tactic seldom works.  Traditional cultures honor and respect the healer well as the one who is seeking healing. Each has the gifts and knowledge within to discover the source of their own healing. Among the 35 or more people in the class, a number of us were indigenous/native people. When we sit with another person, we need to respect the person and the gifts they possess within. To honor and respect another person is a key aspect of many cultures, and I had been sharing ideas that pertained to how different cultural differences need to be taken into account. One size does not fit all.

How we respond to and work with those whose cultures, traditions, and beliefs vary from our own requires understanding and requires respect for the differences, similarities, and mutual relationship being established, healed, and maintained. My fellow instructor also came into the room with a set of experiences, background, traditions, and perspective that colored her own experiences. She came into adulthood at the time in the U.S. culture when rebelling against the established mores of society was growing in response to some rather narrow, dominant cultural values that had evidently been stultifying for her. Her response was to reject the values she had felt imposed upon her when she was younger, and as a result, she released her anger at me.  I understood she had, as an artist, been chanting the mantra of "Never trust anyone over 30," for 40 years or so, but I was struck, as if I had been slapped across the face, by her vehement anger and reaction toward my using the word Respect.  Kind of ironic, don't you think? As she went on, she also said that respect was a worn out construct that no no relevance or place in our vocabulary let alone our spiritual practices.

This morning, as I stood in the kitchen, thoughts of this past encounter playing out before me, I thought of how her and her anger. I also recall, how immediately after this encounter, we went outside and she led us in a dance using string, to show us how to feel more connected to one another. There seems something so innocuous about this entire experience now, but at the time, I found it perplexing that one could not see the connection that came out of their own behavior was far more realistic than attempting to create connection through art.  Now I understand that when we act out of our shadows, we do so often with the full intellectual knowledge of what is good, or authentic, right or wrong, yet still unable to see how we have not truly internalized that knowledge at all.  We know what makes for good communication; but we don't always know how to do it. We know what makes for healthy relationships; but we often settle for less, or live with the illusion we can fix, change, or wait things out. We know that some words, memories, ideas, or acts trigger our inner demons; but we nevertheless react, strike out, or hurt others with our unhealed wounds.

Did this woman understand how her disrespect wounded me? Probably not at the time. Respect is not, as she may have felt, an act of subservience or a false front put on to cover hurt, shame, or dislike. Respect is allowing for differences, and indeed, simply recognizing that we do not all think alike, experience life in the same ways, or understand how others view life. We do not each view ourselves or others in the same way. Our beliefs, perspectives, and backgrounds are a complex conglomeration (in the words of Fancy Nancy, conglomeration is a fancy word for mess or chaos) of historical and cultural realities, unconscious influences, and personal and collective drama, trauma, and idiosyncratic aspects of personality.  Respect is one of the only roads we have to experience ourselves as compassionate beings. We have no hope of ever truly understanding all there is to know about anyone, including ourselves. By being more respectful though, we can experience greater compassion. We can be kind to one another, to the animals, and to the land we are helping take care of.

Rather than dismissing, discouraging the use of, or disparaging one another for acting according to values like respect that we hold dear, we might learn from young children who as they learn who they are become aware of actions being connected to feeling and thought.  Respect coupled with kindness leads to compassion--a kind of love that goes beyond all boundaries, histories, cultures, and beliefs.

When I think of respect now, I see how it appears as compassion in people I know like my neighbor Donna. Donna is a a hardworking, intensely competent woman who is also a nurse. She treats everyone with respect. I watch how she treats some of the people around the neighborhood who send me looking for shelter. She treats everyone with respect. that is a very difficult thing to do, for it requires that each person be given full attention and respect. Another person who goes out of her way to listen for that one true thing a person brings with them, that one thing that makes them lovable, and I see Peggy respecting each person enough to give them something to help build them up as a person, not tear them down. She shows this same respect to animals, to the land, and to all she meets. So does her husband, and between the two, they open their hearts, their lives, and their gifts to all those they meet, without having to tear anyone down in the process.  Truly gifts of the Giver they are.

Most of the people in my life, especially those I call friends, and those in family are all so different from one another and from me. In some cases, all we have in common is one another.  What allows love to grow in each relationships, however, is the respect we have for one another and for the way each person honors and respects one another. I feel very fortunate to walk with the people who are on my path, who are headed in the opposite direction, or who are sitting at the wayside, wondering, "What's next?"

This morning as I sit propped up against the window sill--my makeshift desk against my bended knees, I record in my spiral notebooks, reflections of today, memories of the past, and some dreams for the future.  I feel a welling up of gratitude from within as I feel my life is full of people, family, friends, strangers, and neighbors who demonstrate daily the value of respecting one another. They teach me about being kinder, more compassionate, and more respectful of one another. Christ Jesus was asked once, what he thought the greatest law--commandment (promise of covenant in community) was. He replied, to love God and then to love one another as you love yourself. In the ancient covenant promises of the ancient traditions, love of the Divine was shown through kindness, respect, and love for one another. Part of the covenant is loving ourselves by respecting our personal needs, desires, and growing edges. We not only need time alone to regenerate and heal, but also time to connect with those we love, to respect and show kindness and understanding when they need it most. Loving one another and respecting one another is what speaks to my heart today, and for this I am truly grateful and inspired.

Self Care and Daily Habits

Writer on a roll...That's what it feels like when I get going on a writing spree. There are those days when I don't seem to get much accomplished. There are other days where I am focused on business, personal or professional, and then there are days when I get caught up in outside activities or I'm on a trip and my 'daily routine' falls apart for the sake of being present where I am.  Since becoming a full time writer and photographer, based primarily in my home office and studio, I have found it challenging to separate the different parts of my life.  Something always seems to suffer at the expense of the other. 

Today is a good example.  The reason poet Robert Burns' quotation "the best laid schemes of mice and men/often go awry" is still quoted today is because it is still true. Universal in the sense that we humans seem to think that simply by making plans, those plans will turn out. And, more often than not, they don't. Or at least they don't turn out the way we imagine they will. Nevertheless, we strive, we bear on, relentlessly trying to make things work. And then we get engaged in something that really speaks to our heart, and the plan disappears, time slows down, and we go deep into the well of imagination, inspiration, and ideas where we let ourselves go. We drift, saunter, float, and ride the rapids of our dreamworld and intellectual cornucopia pulling ideas together into sentences, seeking meaning and connections between our disparate thoughts, and sitting dazed and stunned, our hands riding across keyboards or following the path of the pen across a page, sending thought into ideas formed in paragraphs and stanzas, to be read, recited, sung, or acted somewhere beyond this moment. 

Yes, getting up with a plan of action for the day, THE LIST, my day goes something like this:

Wake at 7:00
Do my Morning Pages (journal where I record dreams, ideas, and make lists)
List for the Day:  
Make a cup of tea.
Write
Go to yoga at 10:15
Return from yoga by 12:30
Have lunch
Do the laundry
Work on framing of photographs
Housework. 
ETC.

That's the schedule for the daylight hours.

It's now 1:20 and I have just completed the first big article of the day, and as you can see, am inspired to write this blog post. Nothing that was on my schedule has been done, except the writing. For today was one of those days when sitting down to write, I just wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I was writing on self care, and coincidently, not taking any of my own advice.  My appetite has disappeared, though I did have breakfast about 9:00 (yogurt, fruit, and cinnamon).  I took care of a couple of pieces of business, but other than that, I missed the bus to go to yoga, and it was too late by then to walk or call a friend for a ride. I kept writing, and forgot to heed the call of my own body...hunger. Of course you're not supposed to let yourself go into the hunger mode...it's not a good thing. And stretching and taking breaks (the main reason I have a daily yoga practice); hasn't happened yet.  My hand and wrist are beginning to scream. Doing some wrist and hand stretches and releases helps, but stopping and limiting the amount of time spent at the computer is necessary. I know all this! I've suffered the consequences of not taking care of my hands and arms, but when writing, it's just so hard to stop myself.

So that said, I will now take the much-needed break, eat something nutricious, take a shower, and then a long walk (or the other way around) and read, garden, and take a nap later. That THE LIST for the afternoon that's left. Will I follow the list? Who knows?  I may let you know, but those of you who write, sculpt, paint, carve, shoot, or design know what I mean. In theology this is called chiros time...the time where we get lost and disappear into the moment, the time that stands still, the time that holds us captive. Chronos time, the lateral time that we mark with clocks, watches, sundials, digital announcements, and calendars...that is the time that holds us captive, that orders our lives, that allows us to make plans, create schemes, and set off at the proper time to catch our train, plane, ship, or the perfect opportuntiy...perchance to slip again into Chiros time to create and get lost in space. 

For today, there is a Grand Trine in Water Signs, and the muses are about, waiting to jump into our energy fields to nudge us to another journey, to another survey of the imagination. Calling us to answer the call of Intuition, Imagination, and Insight. Calling us to create, to make life more beautiful, and to share something lovely with those who seldom slip out of Chronos into the Serendipity Pool of Life. Let yourself slip away.

Restless Sea                                                                                                              Catherine Al-Meten

I probably should post a photo of the pile of laundry that has stacked up, but even now in my photographs, I remain, in Chiros Time, lost is space.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER: End of the Line

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER: End of the Line: Deconstruction                                                                                                                            ...

Ode to July, Past, Present, Future

Afterglow                                                                          Catherine Al-Meten

Ode to July, Past, Present, Future

July 1, 2013

Iced tea, lemon ade

Vichyssoise, Gazpacho

Lazy summer days.

Bonfires, barbecues

picnics, softball games

Lazy summer evenings.

Barefoot walks in the sand,

rafting streams and wild rapids

Quiet talks on the veranda.

Sleep outs in the backyard,

Swimming beneath the stars,

Time stops in memories.

Long walks to cool libraries

Chores at home, trips afar

Changing pace of life.

Swimming beyond the breakers,

Riding a wave to shore

Feeling the warm sun on my body.

Scent of suntan lotion, seaweed

Chocolate malts, bean bandits from Don Juan’s

Friends at ease on beach towels beside me in the sand.

Sparklers, lighting the patio and our spirits

Indoor picnics to escape the heat

Twilight Zone marathons.

Picking strawberries, making ice cream

Fishing in the bay or from a pier

Enjoying crab louis, a game of hearts, and simply being near.

Reunions, reveries, long talks and sleepless nights.

Falling asleep in sleeping bags by fires

Waking to tree tops edging the morning sky.

Long drives up the interstate

Vapor lock, iced cold cola in tiny bottles

Hours of counting box cars go by.

Washing windows, cleaning out rooms

Painting and finding long hours to read

Baking cakes, listening to Mother’s stories.

Sleeping round a pool, 

watching for Ufos in the night sky

Wondering about the future.

Reading Dostoevsky, Uris, and Du Maurier

Watching The Blob from behind my fingers

Escaping into fantasy, history, the past.

The Source, Forever Amber, Crime and Punishment

War and Peace, Gifts from the Sea, Mr. Wicker’s Window

Treasure Island, and biographies of all the lost queens.

Summer camps and campers

Foray into self discovery, apart from known to unknown

Gazing across vistas of endless mountain ranges.

Riding along steep mountain trails on a painted pony

Sleeping beneath the stars

Casting my lot to the life of a gypsy. 

Lazy mornings waking to white sheets and sunlight

Swimming, and paddling ‘round Avalon harbor

Watching the ship leave harbor, hearing the bells of

St. Catherine’s.

Ship rides between the Island and mainland

Rocking decks, sea spray by the lifeboats

Flying fish and dolphins in the moonlight.

Steaming up car windows

Driving all night for adventure

Sailing at midnight back to land.

Peaceful haven in Father’s garden

Safe and comfort in Mother’s kitchen

Seeking sanctity in a room of my own.

Velvet days, nights along the river

Fluid, constant flow of life

Quiet, peaceful sacred life.

Surrounded by tall stands of pines, yew, and alder

Summer painting evening sky’s glory

Salmon, birds, people flowing back and forth on the tide.

Fewer clothes, more skin

Everything a’flowering

Breath of life alive, warm, immediate.

July--the middle of everything

raw and sacred 

naked in the wind, 

alive in the moment

taste life’s pleasures

feel the richness, freedom,

of being wholly real.

July promises hope

less of everything

greater joy in the essence

of simple, basic, pleasures.

Casting light on each

task as if it were a 

miracle.

And of course, it is.

Catherine Al-Meten

Copyright@2013