"Synchrodestiny": From Painting to Poetry

Long before I had ever heard of the term “synchrodestiny,” Deepak Chopra’s label for life’s “intricate dance of coincidences,” I knew it was possible to move through experience and relationship in such a way that good things seemed to magically happen, if I were open and aware. Sometimes the eventual unfolding would have begun with a still, small voice saying, “turn left here,” or “wear those earrings today”; other times, I might have been unaware of any such prompting, yet suddenly in front of me would appear exactly what I needed at that moment, or from behind me I would hear, “Andi?” and turn around to see someone I had not seen for twenty years.

I have learned both to expect and not expect these moments, to make decisions with or without them, and to be delighted and amazed (yet not amazed) whenever they happen. Here I offer a recent example:

During a very busy recent period of deliberate, self-imposed unemployment, I was training for a 60-mile fundraising walk. My walking partner and I spent our training time together talking about how we could use our gifts and skills, time and talents to improve other people’s lives, to make money, and to add meaning and value to our own lives. On one walk, the topic was creativity. As I began to recall the creative media I have experimented with (colored pencil, pastels, charcoal, watercolor, acrylic, collage, embroidery, calligraphy, ballet, flamenco, poetry, etc.), I realized that in recent years my work as a technical writer, curriculum developer, project manager, and executive director, while challenging and fulfilling, has been much more about my skills as an efficient, organized thinker and planner, and less about creativity. Not bad, just fact.

About an hour after returning home from our 12-mile walk, I received an email forwarded from my walking partner, a notice of an Intuitive Painting workshop which she had just received via a listerv to which she, as a certified Counselor, belongs. I read the description of the one-day workshop on an upcoming Saturday in Santa Fe for a reasonable fee, and thought, “why not?!” (I later found out that because Nina Ross had posted her notice to the Counseling listserv only an hour before I responded, I was the first participant to sign up.)

Arriving at Nina's studio on October 20, I had little idea what to expect. I was welcomed into a little room with 5 chairs, 4 large sheets of watercolor paper (each taped to the wall—2 on one side of the room, 2 on the other), and two tables of all things “painting” – coffee cans full of brushes of every width and varying lengths, sponges, stirring sticks, scrapers…. Plastic squeeze bottles of brightly colored paints, little plastic pallets, small cups of paint, rags… and cans of water. The four participants and Nina sat first in a circle, while she introduced us to each other, to the workshop, and to a reading from a book by Byron Katie (whose name I recognized only because a few weeks prior I had read one of her books while staying at a friend's house). Then we moved the chairs out of the way, and quietly began to paint.

I used a wide brush at first, making large sweeping strokes from bottom to top, in deep turquoise blue. From there I added purple, then green, and then progressed to trying different colors, brushes, and strokes. Nina suggested I try painting with my left hand, for a change. I did, and a kind of black calligraphy resulted, approximating Chinese characters which I then accented with red dots. She then suggested I turn the canvas, so I worked with it “upside down” and then “sideways,” adding layers of texture, color, line. The result was an abstract painting that made me happy. It was colorful, exuberant, and seemed to say “See? You can paint! You can create!”

I took the painting home, observing it in a variety of lights and orientations. Finally, I put it down flat on the kitchen floor, stood above it, and snapped a picture of it with my cell phone camera, filling the frame. The next day, I sent it to some friends, and posted it here on the blog, calling it "Intuition."

Fast forward a week. I was at my little rented office, working on a few projects, when I decided to walk over to the hair salon in the shopping center across the street. It was not time for a haircut, but I wanted to leave a flyer about The Walk, hoping the salon would be willing to post it for me and help me do the last of my fundraising. As I walked to my destination, I passed an art gallery that I’d never noticed before, and made a mental note to stop there on my way back to my office. The gallery was fairly large, with many different artists’ works, and types of art, showcased. As I browsed, one of the women at the desk approached me to tell me about the gallery (a co-op) and her own watercolors. Then she said, “Are you an artist?” I said, “Well, that’s a really interesting question!” I was thinking of my one and only painting, the evidence right there on my cell phone. “No,” I said, “I’m really more of a poet.”

As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I wondered why I had said them. True, I have more poetry to my name than paintings, collages, and calligraphy combined, but I have rarely, if ever, said “I am a poet.” I've written poetry for decades, read it aloud at poetry readings, but never claimed the identity, "poet."

The artist responded, “Oh! Do you know Joanne?” Joanne, apparently, was the other woman at the desk. They had been chatting as I walked in. Joanne and I introduced ourselves; then she said, “I am the vice president of the New Mexico State Poetry Society” and asked me if I had a book. I told her that I had a file-folder manuscript of about 65 poems, but had never published a book—just a few individual selections here and there. She shared with me that her first collection of poems had just been published, locally. We went out to her car; I happened to have just enough cash with me to buy a copy. She then told me about her publisher, Mercury Heartlink, and recommended I contact them (the web site address was on the back of the book).

I walked back to my office, went online, found Mercury Heartlink's “Contact Us” link, and sent an email introduction to Stewart Warren, the man behind the site. Short version of what transpired next: we spoke on the phone the next day, and agreed that synchrodestiny was at work. He would publish my poetry. I cleaned up the manuscript per his instructions and sent it to him. We agreed to meet the next week, on 10/31, Hallowe’en. He spent the next few weeks working on the book, and meanwhile I collected blurbs and author photos, and completed the 60-mile Walk. By November 19, my book, When East Was North, was available on Amazon, not as an e-book, but a real, live book with a beautiful cover, published by Mercury Heartlink. Less than one month from the date of the painting workshop.

Call it what you will....but for me, Chopra's "intricate dance of coincidences" works just fine. I think I shall rename the painting "Dance of Coincidence."

Andi's NEW BOOK: Now Available!

My new collection of poetry, When East Was North, is now available for purchase on Amazon at the following link (click below):

When East Was North

 

Please consider getting a copy for yourself or someone you love! Or buy one for a stranger! And after you read it, please write a review on Amazon. Thank you for your interest.

Meg Leonard is a Placitas, New Mexico artist whose work graces the book's cover. Please visit her site at:
 www.megleonard.com 

Team Dory: Just Keep Walking

Here we are at the end of Day 3 of the Komen 3Day 60-mile Walk through parts of Chandler, Phoenix, Tempe, Guadalupe, and Scottsdale. From left to right: Andi, Fehrunissa, Kathy, and Jeanie (our team captain). Collectively, we were Team Dory, as in the fish in Finding Nemo whose motto was "just keep swimming." Our refrain was similar: just keep walking, step after step, mile after mile. We all walked the full mileage each day, and avoided serious injury. Thank you to all those who supported me and my "crazy walk" (as one former colleague put it!).

The Writer's Asana

I find myself embarked on two creative projects simultaneously. One involves yoga, the other, poetry. As I mentioned in the last blog post, I am working on a book of poetry -- my original work -- that I have been writing and revising and updating for several years. In the process of getting the manuscript ready for publication, I am learning a lot about myself, the world of publishing, and what it means to set my sights on the goal and apply myself energetically to its completion. I'm not going to talk about the yoga project right now, nor give away too much about the book, except to say that if you like the blog, I think you will appreciate the poetry even more. Here is another poem from the upcoming book:

I Write

I write

short

            loose lines

because my hand goes numb

if I grip

            too tightly

or type for too long.

I write in snapshots

because my mind

photographs

its memories

for Anne Lamott’s

one-inch picture

frame that holds only

so much color, line

and shadow.

I write myself

into a corner

with nowhere

else to go but

there

where

I must stay

until I write

myself out

again

again because

out of things to say

or else to go nowhere

but there

here.

I write beneath the flannel night

and into the denim pocket of the afternoon.

I write

sideways in my journal with an unquiet mind in child pose

the writer’s asana.

For Erin: Poetry, Finally (but not Final)

Until now, this space has been devoted to non-fiction musings. But I am a poet (a spectrum writer -- everything from technical communication to poetry), and I have recently embarked on a book-publishing journey. [Recognize a "hook" when you read one?] Last night, in the manila file folder with my 65+-page poetry manuscript, I re-discovered scraps of paper with a poem in my scribbled and crossed-out handwriting, ready for typing and editing. Here is the result.

The Franchise

Before I make the long drive home in early autumn darkness,

My daughter and I meet between her classes for afternoon coffee.

While she digs for dollar bills and comes up empty,

I watch the cash register item-display

                        ...Tall Latte $2.95

                        Pumpkin Bread $1.85…

WAIT, I protest to the cashier.

That should be one-SEVENTY-five.

No, she says. The computer rang it up for one-EIGHTY-five.

I see that, but the bakery case sign clearly reads

                        Seasonally Delicious Pumpkin Bread $1.75

There’s nothing I can do, she says. We had a price increase,

but we haven’t received new signs from Corporate.

            (Toothy, vacuous smile followed by hair toss.)

Appealing to her moral center, I suggest

You can make a new sign yourself to avoid future false advertising.

We’re not allowed to alter their signs,

So there’s really nothing I can do.

While my brain tries to calculate the Corporate profit

earned when every customer

who celebrates the delicious pumpkin season

is overcharged ten cents,

            Erin glides away from me,

toward the Pick-Up Order Here counter,

distancing herself again from my principal-of-the-thing outrage.

I can’t resist one last attempt as I hand over my cash.

You CAN do something, I assert.

You can give me an extra dime.

The register drawer pops open –

She counts back the change for my ten dollar bill

exactly as the computer tells her to

Plus ten cents more.

I smile, tossing the dime into the tip jar.

There is something

I can do.

From One Dog Person to Another

Clarification: I am not a dog person. I am a 3-dog person.

My first dog actually belonged to my sister. Though Fritz was her dachshund, I loved him, too. He was a playful dog – spoiled, but not fat or lazy. He ran after us kids as fast as his little legs would carry him. He licked my face, I squealed. We hid milk-bone treats for him, and he raced around the house trying to find them. He pooped in the back yard; we cleaned it up. We had a nice back yard with lots of grass, ornamental plants, and fruit trees. Fritzi-poo was not particular about where he did his business, but my dad paid particular attention to how well it was disposed of by all of us kids.  Dad, mechanical engineer that he was, made a Super-Duper-Pooper-Scooper to facilitate the clean-up. It was a long-handled, 2-part device (broom and dustpan, perhaps?) that helped us deliver the contents to the trash can without having to touch it. I may have received some small compensation for scooping poop, but more likely I just had to do my duty after Fritz did his.

After Fritz died, there was a period of doglessness in our household before I got my own puppy, a beagle-terrier mutt with long legs and classic beagle coloring. I chose the name Ajax, after the Greek god I’d read about in Bullfinch’s Mythology, but my sister said people would think my dog was a cleaning product. So I named him Oliver, instead, for the high school musical in which my brother had a starring role as the Artful Dodger (not a good dog name). I fancied myself a puppy whisperer and tried to teach him tricks; I also imagined myself an artist, so I observed Oli from the vantage point of a tree branch, and drew him, in pastel pencil, while he slept. Like Fritz, he pooped in the yard, but he was my dog, and my siblings were older and busier by then. Thus the poop was my responsibility, until my mother and I moved to an apartment and Oliver went begging for another home.

The third dog joined our little family shortly after our daughter was born. He was a gift from dear friends who bred AKC yellow Labradors and had a litter of 10 puppies. They “tithed” one of these pedigreed puppies to us. We named him Erin’s Bonnie Prince Charles, and called him Prince. He was a beautiful broad-chested dog with boundless tail-wagging energy. When not playing with Erin or any number of our visitors, he roamed for miles in the open country of the Navajo reservation where we were then living. He came home several times a day, and spent every night in a fenced rabbit or chicken pen (Doug had transformed it into a suitable dog domain), and some of the day in our sort-of fenced “yard” – a dirt area with a shade tree. We raked, scooped, burned or buried his doo-doo (I’m guessing that’s what Erin may have called it); there was no such thing as municipal trash pick-up.

And that is why, today, many years later and with no dog, I am writing this piece about dog shit. I live in a community that not only has regular waste management services (trash and recycling), but also has convenient little green dispensers throughout the neighborhood (including walking trails) from which citizens can obtain a green plastic bag with which to clean up their dogs’ waste. We also have many reminders, from stern official County Ordinance placards to friendly, hand-made “If you walk our loop, please scoop the poop!” signs.

Why is it, then, that on every one of my walks within a 10-mile radius of my home, I find dog poop? True, I also see deer and rabbit pellets, coyote and bear scat, horse and cow dung…. But none of those offend me as much as the dog crap, especially when it is already encased in a little green bag and left behind a rock or in a bush. I try to imagine what the dog owner is thinking. Her dog stops to do his business; she stands nearby, waiting. Then she does the right thing, pulling the little green bag out of her fanny pack. She puts her hand inside the bag, gently grabs the fresh feces, pulls her hand back out, and knots the bag. So far, so good. But then she leaves the bag on the sidewalk or behind a rock for someone else to pick up and dispose of! [New grammar rule: ranters are allowed to end sentences with prepositions.] There are often trash bins nearby where I spy these green baglets, so there is no excuse for the dog walker not to take the final step in the circle of good citizenship. But even if there is no bin, it is still her responsibility to take the bag with her until she locates a receptacle. Tie it to your dog’s leash! (You DO have your dog on a leash, right?)

If you are a Dog Person, especially one who lives in my neighborhood, please have the decency to clean up after your beloved pet. Or as we say in New Mexico: "Keep the Rio Grand. Scoop the Poop!"

The Finger

Two café tables away sits an impeccably dressed older gentleman in a gray suit of subtlely striped fabric, light shirt and tie, and an orange – soft, burnt orange – knit beret. I cannot see his face because he is holding his forehead in his left hand. With his right hand, he alternates between spoon and fork to eat his meal, one small bite at a time. Sometimes he changes the position of his left hand – instead of an open palm propping up his brow, he uses his fist against his left cheek. Without such support, his head falls very far left and forward – just like my mother’s did in the years of illness before she died.

She never used her hands as head-supports, however, at least not that I remember. When she was still able to sit up in a wheelchair or in bed, she would sometimes ask for a pillow to be placed between her shoulder and her left ear, particularly when she was trying to eat or drink what was being offered to her. But her hands had become rigid, except for The Finger.

Her right index finger remained in her control long after her torso and limbs, neck and voice ceased cooperating with her brain. When we would take her to the mall, a favorite outing, she would direct us from her wheelchair, pointing the finger toward her desired destination.  Despite her multiple disabilities, she could point her way to the perfume counter, the bed & bath store, or the lingerie department. At the food court, the finger made it clear that she wanted a dish of ice cream and a cup of water (for taking pills). The finger also knew the location of the candy shop, and could select the perfect piece of chocolate (for pure pleasure).

The man in the orange beret has finished his meal. His chin rests on his chest as he folds his napkin and places it on top of his plate. He scoots out his chair, and fumbles for something in his suit pockets, eventually producing a handkerchief. As he walks past me, I notice that he’s also dropped a blue card, but by the time I retrieve it – a printed schedule of High Holy Day services at the local temple – he has gone. The waiter told me that she regularly serves him during her evening shift. She promises to give him his card the next time he appears. I hope to see him again, as my new office is located conveniently closeby.