A Visit from Stacey

Rebecca Cleary

Certain Uncertainty,oil on canvas by Stacey Bakula, 2008.

(…based on Werner Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, with these timely reflections by Stacey that I just rediscovered in my computer files. She must have written this as she was prepping to do this painting or shortly thereafter. Her words echo deeply. I found it so amazing that as her brain was literally eroding away she was listening to lectures and exploring quantum physics, chaos theory, string theory, etc. All showed up in her paintings…)

In physics and chemistry, wave–particle duality is the concept that all energy (and thus all matter) exhibits both wave-like and particle-like properties. Being a central concept of quantum mechanics, this duality addresses the inadequacy of classical concepts like “particle” and “wave” in fully describing the behavior of quantum-scale objects.

Certian Uncertainty

We are all a piece of used parchment.  The hide of the dead, dried and preserved.  Scribbled and written with…

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A Visit from Stacey

Certain Uncertainty, oil on canvas by Stacey Bakula, 2008.

(…based on Werner Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, with these timely reflections by Stacey that I just rediscovered in my computer files. She must have written this as she was prepping to do this painting or shortly thereafter. Her words echo deeply. I found it so amazing that as her brain was literally eroding away she was listening to lectures and exploring quantum physics, chaos theory, string theory, etc. All showed up in her paintings…)

In physics and chemistry, wave–particle duality is the concept that all energy (and thus all matter) exhibits both wave-like and particle-like properties. Being a central concept of quantum mechanics, this duality addresses the inadequacy of classical concepts like “particle” and “wave” in fully describing the behavior of quantum-scale objects.

Certian Uncertainty

 

We are all a piece of used parchment.  The hide of the dead, dried and preserved.  Scribbled and written with all of time upon us.  Some of it is completely erased.  Some is still readable.  All of it uncertain.  And then our life is written out upon us.  In some places, we are rubbed raw from happenings trying to be rubbed out again and again, in other places we are thick as if brand new and yet in other places calloused, still the remnants of animal.  We don’t even start out perfect.  What history has written upon us cannot be denied nor ignored when even at our best we are smudged and have eraser rubber in our hair.

We have the nature of Godds and human all and both at the same time.  Whether we are alone or coupled, or among others in a group, all of our being is relevant.  Value, matter-ing, is inherent and not something bestowed upon like history.  This is a fact as love is a fact because it just is or it is not.  One can be convinced of love like one can be convinced the world is flat, but that does not make it so.  How we see ourselves, our world, others has to be as both/and.  Us and Them, Holy and Profane, dirty and clean, sin and glory, all at the same time.

How much choice do we have in this world?  How much of the past can we erase and how much can we write for ourself?  We look one way and see something, we look another and see the same thing.  We blink and see the same thing as something else.  In the end all we are seeing is ourself.

A new poem

Morning After Mourning

Grief lands
Sets down its bags
Begins claiming space
As initial overwhelm of loss
Slowly dissipates
A new roommate
To now accommodate
Grief’s weight
Waits
Bends light
Throws shadow
Gradually fades into the wall paper
Unless and until
A breeze through the window
Or dust rag or mop
Bumps, shifts, nudges
Disturbs its winter’s nap,
And then once more eventually
It settles into its quiet corner.

But mourning –
Mourning bides time
In the pouch of grief’s shadow
Before emerging.

Mourning slogs through bogs
Sucking footfall after sucking footfall
Trudging through the night
… After night
… After night
Through weeks, months, years
Forced march however long
Until finally
A long last low crawl
Creeping to the precipice
That final daunting edge
Where dawn dares to entice
Tease, flirt
Faintly glimmer
Finally break
Lifting clouds
Dispelling fog
Shooting rays of rose and gold
Tentative at first
Then
At long last
Radiant, vibrant, warmly healing
Newly strengthened musculature
Of heart and soul
Tempered to new resilience
Ready to knock down cobwebs
In the corner where grief slumbers.

The Stacey Bakula VORTEXT Scholarship Fund at Hedgebrook

Santa 2006

Dear friends,

** please see update at botttom

Those of you who know me at all will recognize the import of the “ask” I am putting out into the universe today. Asking is not something I do comfortably or easily.

A year ago, I initiated a scholarship fund at Hedgebrook to assist more women of diverse backgrounds in participating in the annual VORTEXT weekend program. I did this in Stacey’s memory as I know how passionate she always was about helping those, like herself, whose life situations often bar them from access to life-expanding opportunities such as those that Hedgebrook offers. The outcome was a rich and valuable infusion of vibrant energy and voice that enriched all participants at the weekend program.

This year, as I continue my support, I feel urged to help grow the scholarship funds, so I am inviting friends and acquaintances who are able and may feel so moved to also contribute to Stacey’s memorial fund. It is fitting that this outreach comes now on the third anniversary of her passing.

Response to the scholarship application opportunities this year has been robust. Scholarship offers will go out next weekend, so if you could possibly make a donation by this Friday, March 31, that would be amazing. That way Hedgebrook will know how many full or partial scholarships they can offer. The goal is to be able to assist 25 writers this year.

Any amount you can give will help. A link to the donation page is here: Hedgebrook  Or you can mail a check to Hedgebrook, PO Box 1231, Freeland, WA 98249-9911 (360-321-4786).

Please notate that your gift is for the Stacey Bakula VORTEXT Scholarship Fund.

In the climate in which we find ourselves today, adding to the richness of dialogue, discussion, and story-sharing by broadening the opportunities for voices that otherwise would continue to be marginalized is critical I hope you will help as much as you can. (If you already happen to be a donor to Hedgebrook, I am cautious about diverting funds from other important needs but suggest that if you wish you might designate a portion of you gift for the scholarship fund — or maybe even increase your generous giving by just a tad more???)

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading and considering this possibility.

More information about VORTEXT can be found here: VORTEXT

**I have been asked for a dollar figure for how much more it will take to fully fund the 25 scholarships Hedgebrook would like to offer. That target amount is $10,000 additional to fully fund. Thanks!

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Who ARE You?

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Who ARE you???
(Not a poem for the faint of ears or eyes!)

That face in the mirror
That one — the one staring back at me —
Who ARE you?
Beyond the physical.
How did I grow so old so quickly?
Beyond the shades of mom and dad.
Who ARE you?

You are facile now
With such taboos as “shit” and “fuck.”
Remember when “sugar” and “fudge”
Delineated your decorum?

Especially “fuck” —
Did you ever dream
It could feel so liberating?

Is it called an expletive
Because it’s explosive eruption
Vents like steam from a pressure cooker?

How did you come to this?
Sink so low?
NO. Actually, rise so high.

Like a balloon high on helium
Floating in unfettered space
Freed to be it’s true balloon self.

A lot of deep exhale
Is required for balloon inflation.
Excavating long-held breath,

Inhalations and swallowings
Of decades-worth of
Shoulds/shouldn’t’s, musts/mustn’t’s.

How DOES it feel now
To fully choose to live out
Your very own “fuck it” list?

FUCKIN’ AWESOME!

From my heart: a reflection and a video poem

Untitled

I haven’t been on this blog since February. Frankly, I just got too weighed down by world events. The horrible tragedies that have occurred around the world; the prolific insanity of gun violence here at home; wars and airstrikes and refugees; an inane political environment and toxic presidential campaign; bigotry, hatred, racism, vilification of broad groups of human beings. I could go on and on.

I had to shut it out… go inside. Tend to my heart and my body. Reflection, introspection, meditation, deep healing. Holding all the hurt of the world while trying to find a way to remain aware and engaged. Envisioning possibilities, positivity, connection, and most of all the immense power of love that is accessible to all of us all of the time.

I am probably not through this time yet. The astrology for this year has been affecting each and every one of us whether we have been cognizant of it or not. Those energies are still playing out. In my personal case, I am being coerced to rest, recuperate, heal and “whole” until early next spring. At that point, there will be a noticeable shift and an impetus into something new, but I will have to be patient and allow that to appear. For now, I am reminded daily to remain in this moment, this now. Dark, heavy, frightening as this heartbeat may be, it is truly just for this moment. I cannot see what the next breath will bring.

What has remained constant throughout this ride through these emotional, psychological and spiritual rapids is the absolute trust in that I am held by a loving Source, that love connects us all, and that anything I need will be sent my way if I remain open and loving through it all. And so I seek to radiate this love constantly and in all directions, to every entity in this spectacular Universe.

Please take a look at the video poem that “arrived” through me during these past several weeks and is available on YouTube.

The Martyrs to Our Awakening

For those who have asked, here is a link to a PDF of the text for the poem…

The Martyrs to Our Awakening (text)

 

 

 

Cellular

The Giver The Giver, by Sharon Spencer

 Cellular

Writing memoir

Returns me to spaces

Deep and distant

 

Mind recalls

But cells remember

Angst, turmoil, joy, wonder

 

All continue

To live in this body

Battle stories, beaux gestes

 

My DNA

Connects as well to profound

Silenced voices and erased

 

Experiences of grandmothers,

Aunts, greats-, and great-greats-,

Women who urge me to speak

 

Now and tomorrow

To tell stories their genes

Breathe into me

 

Tales unvoiced,

Disallowed and discredited,

Too dangerous to loose

 

Into a world

Hell-bent on keeping them

Buried and invisible

 

Their courage

Moves from cells to pen

As I tell my story

 

Unearth and echo theirs…

                           From Liminal: Poetry from the Depths of Transition