Walt Whitman - Laws for Creations

I have never read Walt Whitman, but I'm going to change that. I have read bits and pieces. But sometimes I think we find what we need when we need it.

Found this today:

LAWS for Creations,
For strong artists and leaders—for fresh broods of teachers, and perfect literats for America,
For noble savans, and coming musicians.

All must have reference to the ensemble of the world, and the compact truth of the world;
And no coward or copyist shall be allowed;
There shall be no subject too pronounced—All works shall illustrate the divine law of indirections;
There they stand—I see them already, each poised and in its place,
Statements, models, censuses, poems, dictionaries, biographies, essays, theories—How complete! How relative and interfused! No one supersedes another;
They do not seem to me like the old specimens,
They seem to me like Nature at last, (America has given birth to them, and I have also;)
They seem to me at last as perfect as the animals, and as the rocks and weeds—fitted to them,
Fitted to the sky, to float with floating clouds—to rustle among the trees with rustling leaves,
To stretch with stretched and level waters, where ships silently sail in the distance.”

What do you suppose Creation is?
What do you suppose will satisfy the Soul, except to walk free, and own no superior?
What do you suppose I would intimate to you in a hundred ways, but that man or woman is as good as God?
And that there is no God any more divine than Yourself?
And that that is what the oldest and newest myths finally mean?
And that you or any one must approach Creations through such laws?

A Solemn Vow...

JH spends so much time avoiding chores, it's becoming an art form. So I took this video of him promising to clean his room first thing tomorrow morning. He made me vow not to put it on Facebook or Twitter.

But he said nothing about my blog.

So here it is:

I'll let you know how it turns out.

The Art of Listening

From the musical "Working", based on the book of the same name by Studs Terkel, who died this week at 96.

He reminded us that listening to one another can be an art. Thanks, Mr. Terkel. You were a rare bird in this cynical age.

art gives life meaning

A couple days ago, my friend Tracey over at More Than A Minivan Mom asked this question:"is it necessary to have some sort of angina or natural proclivity towards the dark side to attain artistic greatness?" It's a great question, and one that, should you have a theory, you should post on her blog.

This post isn't about artistic greatness, but it is about the undeniable need for art in our lives. I believe that life is made richer by art. We need it to shape us, to give meaning to our stories, to fill out the rough edges of the facts of our lives, and to quench our thirsty souls. I know this because whenever my life becomes too much about getting things done, about doing dishes and laundry and paying bills, I become less myself. When I turn on some music, when I dance with my boy, or we paint a picture or go to a museum, it slakes that thirst a bit.

I think that the reason art is crucial, at least to me, is the idea that it is shared, that is communal. When I started blogging, I thought it would be a creative outlet, but the reason I blog isn't to make art. It's to have community. To share stories with others and to peek into other lives. It helps me make sense of the world, and right now I think that's more important than ever.

Yesterday, our little family took a trip north to Seattle, our old stompin' grounds, where my husband and I met, and fell in love, and lived, back when we were single, then a couple, then a married couple. Back then, we didn't have Joe-Henry, but we had a community of friends, artists who shaped our lives and filled our souls. Yesterday, we went to celebrate a dear friend's birthday. He was the best man at our wedding. He's a well-known playwright, and his wife is one, too. They live part of the year in Austin, TX, where he teaches at UTexas, but they spend their summers in Seattle. Another dear old pal was there as well, a friend of my husband's from way back, before I entered the picture, and as the three guys hung out on the patio, and swapped stories, the kids playing nearby, I was struck with the sense that this is our art. These people are still our community, no matter how many miles separate us, no matter how we fill our days - whether it's workin' for the man or doing dishes or raising kids or writing plays. This friendship, initially based on artistic collaboration and a love of cheap beer has turned into a work of art itself. Intricate and lovely and treasured. It's grown and matured. And the beer has improved, too!

We brought instruments with us, because we're hokey that way - a travel guitar, a violin, a child's accordian, shakers and pennywhistles and we all played. The kids, the grownups, even the birds squawked along. We sang "Brown Girl in the Ring" and "Down By The Riverside" and "We Shall Not Be Moved". We played loud and badly, but we made some art.

It was a beautiful drive home, with Joe-Henry awake for all of it, pointing out the moon in the clouds and the shapes they made. Making up his own stories. Painting the world in rich colors - just for us.

gingerdog

We have a friend at our house. Her name is Ginger. She doesn't poop or pee on the carpet, and she doesn't bark too much, and she lets our boy talk about anything and everything he can't or won't talk to us about. Missing his friends in LA, arguing with his mom, and most especially death. He's been big on the subject lately. I can't even mention his getting bigger anymore, because in his mind that means he's growing up, which means that I'm getting older, which means I'll die someday. It sends him to tears, but at least they're more manageable now. At first discovery of that thought, he was gripped with fear and it took forever to calm him down.

This morning he woke up and climbed into bed with me. Because my hormonal self is out of whack, I've been waking up too early, and I was already awake in bed, reading The New Yorker fiction issue, nursing a sinus headache along with my coffee. He brought Ginger in with him, and snuggled up and requested that I "puppet" Ginger.

He has a million stuffed animals, but only three make it into the regular "puppet" rotation: Ginger the dog, a bear we got in Paris that he named Linky, and JimPolarBear, a dirty little polar bear that speaks with an unlikely Southern accent (ask my husband). But Ginger is Mom's domain, and he loves her dearly, even when he is so mad at me that he can't see straight. The other day, after getting really riled at how unfair I was being (no more tv, clean up your toys - you know, the usual Cruel Dictator stuff), he stopped screaming at me long enough to ask me to puppet Ginger. Somehow she got him to calm down, and even though he didn't want me in the room, I had to be, and Ginger managed to impart a little wisdom and levity into a situation that I as mom couldn't. Even when I'm mad as a hornet, Ginger manages to be unfailingly patient and kind and reasonable. I'm grateful that we've stumbled on this tool. It wasn't my idea - I wish I had been that wise - it was his, and it's something that helps us both deal with things we have a hard time talking about.

It shouldn't surprise me. I used to be in the arts as an actor, and I worked a lot with children, and it was clear to me then that they could embrace things as big as their own feelings far better when it was at an artistic remove. It gave them tools to deal with huge issues.

Like death. This morning, he was telling Ginger about death. About how, when she grows up, he'll be old and then he'll die. And I had to swallow hard, because I suddenly felt the depth of his fear about my own demise. He made me bring her downstairs, so he could play her a "dying lullaby" on his piano. It was gorgeous, and he sang it so sweetly and solemnly, and it rhymed. (Those of you who know him won't be surprised at this, but those of you who don't, well, he's kind of a musical genius. No joke. I know it sounds like I'm just a proud mom, and I am, but this is clearly his gift, and who am I not to toot his horn!) Anyway, it was so moving, and brought both Ginger and mom to tears. I gave him a big hug, and told him how much I loved his song, and this is what he said to me:

"Mom. Your breath really stinks."

But for a few minutes, I felt like we had tackled the big stuff. I felt so grateful for my past in the arts, for my ability to commit to a character, to imagine and fly. But mostly I felt grateful for my son, because being his mom is the best gig in the world.