Rock God

A couple months after Christmas 2010, much to my family's shock and disbelief, my brother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the otherwise healthy age of 53.  I was in India at the time and received word as I was leaving to come home.

 Alzheimer’s at such a young age, ‘It can’t be true’ are often the words uttered when a tragedy such as this hits home.   For a while we speculated that it must be Lyme’s disease, an infectious illness caused by tick bites.   After all, my brother has been an avid rock climber since the age of sixteen, traveling the country and around the world where he sleeps in a hammock anchored to the wall of a rock suspended thousands of feet off the ground.  Surely he must have contracted Lyme’s somewhere along the way. 

My brother saw specialists, the smartest doctors in the field.  However, all the studies revealed that it was indeed the dreaded disease, the same disease my mother was diagnosed with in her early 80’s as well as two of mother’s sisters who are now deceased.

As a writer friend of mine once wrote,

“No matter how well prepared we are, the complex geography of fate isn’t something we can ever truly anticipate, or defend against.  But what we can do is respond to what happens-by doing our best and helping others to do theirs.”

In the midst of heart ache and despair, tragedy’s “golden shadow” appeared in the form of my brothers close knit community of climbing buddies, friendships that extend back 40 some years.

It was my brother Doug’s lifelong climbing buddies who so heroically rallied behind him, doing their best to help. They called and visited, took Doug on outings to the mountains, art museums, biking, camping, vacations, even climbing.  Yet, one of the most deeply touching acts of kindness bestowed upon my brother was a book his buddies wrote in his honor titled, “Take Me to the River:  Anthology of Alleged Rock God Exploits”, a hilarious and moving tribute to their much adored climbing companion and friend.

Recently, I sat down with my cup of tea to learn more about the “alleged exploits” of my brother whose friends affectionately call “Rock God”.  As I turned each page filled with anecdotal stories and photographs of skinny guys (they can lose 10 pounds or more on a long climb) entwined in rope and gear balancing mid- air on as little as ¼ inch of protruding rock, I shake my head in disbelief.  Now I understand why my mother so fervently prayed each time my brother left on yet another climbing adventure.  A mother’s fierce love is something you can’t quite understand until you yourself become a mother.

Doug’s climbing career had its meager beginnings at “The Ledges” in Grand Ledge, Michigan. He and his buddies were adolescents then, filled with hopes, dreams, and agonies. They not only climbed, they grew up together maturing into adulthood, careers, marriage with children,  and still they managed to carve out time to climb together at least once a year-  traveling to Yosemite’s El Capitan,  the Tetons, Verdun gorge in France, West Midlands in England,  the Dolomites and Canadian Rockies, to name a few.

Because of the extreme rigor and danger of climbing, a strong trust and unbreakable bonds develop among climbers as they literally depend on each other for their survival.   It is a world I know very little of except through the photos and anecdotal stories my brother would tell over the years and now through an anthology written by his friends who share stories that make me laugh,  stories that can only be told from the admiring eyes of loyal friends who share a common bond. 

 Perhaps a few excerpts from the book will paint a clearer picture of how my brother acquired the beloved nick- name “Rock God”.

“Hailing from Charlotte, Michigan, not far from Grand Ledge, the climbing epicenter of the state, Doug, ‘Rock God’ Matthews has been on the cutting edge of climbing since his start in the fall of 1972.

 Despite the questionable auspiciousness of beginning a climbing career in the fall, the Rock God (RG) rarely, if ever has fallen.  . . RG went on to establish some of the most classic and challenging lines in the sandstone by the Grand River, including his namesake . . . “Doug’s Roof”, fired in style in 1976.  Some of his ascents have never been repeated, though by plan or accident is still a mystery. 

It was not long before the Rock God was climbing all over the country, trekking to the faraway lands of Wisconsin, West Virginia, New York, North Carolina and New Hampshire... No matter where he went, he inspired his partners to heights far beyond their own mortal abilities, often accompanied with music of equal inspiration such as the Talking Head’s famous song, “Psycho Climber”, upon which his legend grew hundred-fold. 

Where as I need a stick clip (climbing device), Rock God doesn’t even need a rope, the Rock Legend eschews all forms of modern sport-climbing devices, even eschewing wholly woven t-shirts and tights . . . Only a few of us could hope to match this Legend.

It was the beginning of deep friendships, . . . a time when the excitement of getting a new pair of ill -fitting EBs (1970’s state of the art climbing shoes) was not dampened by the inevitable loss of toenails.

For many of us, climbing became an addictive passion which could only lead to Yosemite Valley . . . the place where real climbers go. The big walls were why we came. 

The following is a comical if not down- right scary description of their first ascent of the challenging 3,000 ft. vertical granite rock formation called “El Capitan” in Yosemite National Park:

“It is impossible to describe all that we did wrong.  For sure, we set a new record for being slow, and we slept at most of the poorer bivies (a “camp site” on the climbing route off the ground). On day 2, we dropped our food bag.  Had to live off of a small bag of raisins and peanuts after that.  Paul had some lecithin and beansprout sandwiches that were composting in the haul bag that we just couldn’t force ourselves to eat.  At night we froze because we did not take sleeping bags – too heavy, we thought.  We ran out of water on day 4.  But we persevered and, after 4 nights on the wall we topped out (made it to the top). That was the beginning of 15 years of Yosemite adventures for Doug and me.  We did the drive, we ate at the Mexican restaurant, we flirted with the same waitress, we listened to the Talking Heads, Dire Straits, and Michael Franks, we stopped at the Wawona Tunnel – there was a time when I wondered why we wouldn’t do the same thing every May for the rest of our lives.  I couldn’t imagine ever stopping.”

And stop they did not.                 

“The year 1984 brought Rock God out to Estes Park for further escapades on Rocky Mountain granite with the entire gang from the Michigan Alpine Club.  . . . Tom and I thought better of accompanying RG into the snowy mists.  .. No matter where he went to climb, he left a fine record of ascents. .  I thank RG that he’s taken me to the most beautiful places on earth!  And there were always some strange and awesome sights to behold, as only RG could record … RG can find his camera, no matter where he may be, from the heights of Shockley’s Ceiling, to the floors of Yosemite Valley, I still remember sitting nearly nude in a field overlooking Mono Lake as the RG turned his camera to take in my tan in contrast to the blue, brown grasses and tufa.

Random memories include Doug having long blonde hair and being asked repeatedly by an old blind guy to dance in a bar in Milton, Canada.  I believe he did. 

 And in Europe we lived on canned beans and HP sauce . . . A couple of weeks were spent in Italy’s Dolomites doing the climbs put up by a young Reinhold Messner (a famous Italian climber).  What beauty, white limestone, the bluest skies, exposed routes and for Doug, a waitress at one particular alpine hut who played drinking games that required him to kiss her.

On a trip to Scotland, we stopped at Edinburgh before heading west to the fabled Isle of Skye.  Edinburg was a fascinating place . . . great architecture and ever looming, a castle.  Kyle and Bruce got escorted out of the Edinburgh castle by the military police because they successfully scaled/bouldered the castle walls during the annual military tattoo.

And then there was the summer of love.

 A fine summer in Estes Park . . . We all found jobs that didn’t interfere with our climbing.  Doug became a waiter at the snooty restaurant at "The Stanley Hotel". He proudly served the finest dishes and became the favorite waiter of Klaus, the restaurant manager.  Klaus liked his steak dinner and Doug and another climber/cook, Keith, knew what Klaus wanted.  But, Klaus shouldn’t have pissed Keith off.  Each steak destined for Klaus was slipped down Keith’s underwear and marinated in his crotch prior to cooking.  Unbeknownst to Doug, it was this steak he so proudly served to Klaus. 

 We climbed and climbed that summer, tearing up the crags in the Park and Long’s Peak and Lumpy Ridge.  And we laughed like perhaps no other time.  We loved what we were doing . . . but eventually it came to an end.  It was the summer of love and love had become very important.  Helen came out to surprise Doug, and it was indeed a surprise, and she and Doug finally married  – a testament to what a fine woman she is. It is bitter sweet to remember the adventures, the epics, the sense of camaraderie and always, the love.

My sister-in-law, Helen, who is also an accomplished rock climber, said that in all their years of climbing together Doug never lost patience or got rattled.   On one trip to the Wind Rivers, he refused to do an anticipated climb up Mount Helen because he said she wasn’t in the right frame of mind.  Good Call.

Recently I drove to D.C. to pick up my brother and bring him home to stay with us for a week.  We listened to John Coltrane and Bob Dylan, some of his favorites.  We made fresh fruit smoothies, went for walks and watched the sunset.   We called his daughter, Harriet, who is in Maine for the summer working in the women’s department of a clothing store.  It was the first day of her very first job.  On the verge of womanhood herself now, so independent and brave, she turned 16 this month.

 In their forties, my brother and his wife went to Cambodia to bring home their nine month old adopted daughter, the joy of their life.  She has had a wonderful upbringing including a few lessons in rock climbing from the alleged “Rock God” himself.  She has learned to be brave.  We have all had to learn to be brave.  And whether here at home or suspended on a cliff 3,000 feet in the air, this is what life requires of us.

Claiming our Power

This writing is in response to neighbors, friends, and family who so courageously responded to my previous post titled, “Speaking the Unspeakable”.  Quite frankly,  I was taken aback by the number of women in my immediate environment who began sharing with me their memories of sexual  assault,  some of them speaking  aloud for the very first time.  One woman in particular, who is in her eighties, had never spoken of her assault before because, “It just wasn’t talked about in those days.”  Another dear friend related how reading my post caused her to “remember”  an incident of sexual abuse at the age of 13.   

It is those who have responded that have given me the strength and fuel to continue this conversation, though in a slightly different vein. 

Recently,  I opened an issue of “Time” magazine.  The focus of this particular issue was, “The Most 100 influential People”.  I randomly opened the page and lo and behold my eyes fell upon a photo of Denis Mukwege, a physician in Africa who is involved with healing the survivors of wartime rape.  Jill Biden, the Vice President’s wife, met Dr. Mukwege on a trip to Africa and wrote the following moving statement about his work for Time:

In the heart of Africa, after a lengthy journey along a sienna dirt road cut through mountainous jungle on the eastern side of the Democratic Republic of Congo, within sight of the border with Rwanda and one of the bloodiest tribal-civil wars ever known, we arrived at Panzi Hospital in Bukavu.

It was there that I first met Dr. Denis Mukwege, a gynecological surgeon and founder of the hospital.  With a towering presence, a disarming smile and a soft, soothing voice, he is a source of strength and sanctuary in a land of violence and despair-a forgotten war.  The son of a Pentecostal pastor, he is guided by the Hippocratic Oath and an indomitable commitment to justice on his own mission to save these communities one woman at a time.

What Dr. Mukwege and his team at Panzi Hospital do is extraordinary.  Theirs is a reality where 48 women in the DRC are raped every hour, according to a 2011 report.  They have treated more than 46,000 victims of sexual-gender-based violence-6 year olds and octogenarians alike.  Beyond healer to these women and girls, Dr. Mukwege is hope.

My heart went out to this man and the incredible work in which he and his colleagues are involved.  I marveled at their strength and ability to carry on day after day treating victims of rape and war, bringing hope to a seemingly hopeless situation.

I was immediately reminded of a Rumi quote I recently ran across, “Don’t turn away.  Keep your gaze on the bandaged place.  That’s where the light enters you.”  Dr. Mukwege and his team, who refuse to turn away from the wounded and traumatized, are the embodiment of light that enter one of the darkest spots on earth.  They are a gentle reminder to all women who have experienced rape, that despite near insurmountable conditions, there is hope.

Repressed memories of my own sexual assault as a child came flooding back during a bout of postpartum depression after the birth of my second child,  allowing me the opportunity to peer into my own wall of darkness.  Not a very inviting prospect.  And yet, unknowingly I had stumbled upon a timely path that would eventually lead to healing. 

 Much has been written about the dark or “shadow aspect” of human nature .  Psychiatrist Carl Jung called the shadow, “the unknown dark side of our personality.” He states that whatever we deny in ourselves becomes part of our shadow.  No matter how highly evolved we think ourselves to be, we each have a shadow side where whatever we deem unacceptable, inferior, or evil about our self lies hidden.  However, the” gift” found within any wound or trauma is the opportunity to access these hidden aspects of self we have unknowingly locked away in order to feel “safe” or appear “acceptable” in the eyes of society. 

This morning I listened to a recording of a somewhat novel approach to working with the shadow.  I would like to share some of what I learned from this recording as well as what I’ve discovered from my own experience.

The shadow is not “bad” or “wrong”.  It is simply those aspects of self we have judged or condemned.  Often we try to avoid, suppress, or wish these parts away, when in fact what the shadow desires is simply to be acknowledged.

 What our shadow needs most from us is empathy and respect.  When that which is hidden and denied is not acknowledged,  we set ourselves up for a fate of unconsciously repeating the same cycles of pain in the form of verbal, emotional, mental or physical dysfunction or abuse.  Those who commit crimes against others are acting out their shadow side, the aspects of self that feel invisible, disrespected and powerless.

It takes incredible energy to keep our shadow repressed which means there is less energy available to live life.  In fact,  a repressed shadow does not allow us to fully experience the “good stuff” either - the joy, vitality, love and happiness that are our birthright.  One’s  affect becomes dulled.  One of the wonderful things about being human is the wide range of emotions we are capable of experiencing.    

 When the shadow feels respected, it will begin working for us instead of against us.  So we empathize by giving voice to our shadow, by calling it forth.  We call it forth (not in public) but into the light of our own awareness in order to listen to what it has to say.  It may not be what we want to hear.  It may cuss and yell and scream and carry on, however we continue to listen without judgment or condemnation.  We let it have it’s say (in private).

 We also acknowledge the people who have hurt us and take them into our heart.  We do not condone what they did, but we tell them we respect and honor the power they didn’t own. We say to pain, anger, rage, jealousy, addiction, depression, guilt and shame, “I see you, I honor and respect you.  I take you into my heart just as you are, and if you need to rant and rave, then go ahead.  I am here and will not turn away.”  

In essence, we meet the shadow, not in order to control it, but to disarm it by loving and respecting it, by giving it what it needs, an open heart and a voice.  We acknowledge its right to exist because it does in fact exist, and after all it survived the unspeakable atrocities forced upon it.

We live in a world of duality where both light and dark, laughter and sorrow exist side by side.  One cannot exist without the other.  That is the nature of things.  Our task then is to integrate the polarities within our own self, bringing them into balance.  We cannot say, “I only want to feel the good stuff” while pushing away the undesirable.  It doesn’t work that way. 

By observing our emotions, we discover how they arise and subside quite naturally without any interference on our part.   A problem arises when we form an opinion or judgement about our feelings and attempt to control them or suppress them.  They have no recourse but to move underground, becoming like a pressure cooker, until eventually they are unconsciously acted upon, perhaps explosively or aggressively, causing harm to ourselves and others.

When we cut ourselves off from the dark and wounded aspects of self,  an unconscious belief is sustained that we are powerless and unworthy.  In truth we are far more powerful than we ever imagined.  Yet, it is up to us to take responsibility for our own healing.  No one can do this for us.  And as someone once said, “Sunshine is the best disinfectant.”

Darkness is a powerful teacher.  Whenever fear, anger, rage, guilt, jealousy, unworthiness, shame, addiction, depression, or sense of inferiority arise, it shows us where our deepest work lies.  Rather than distracting our self or reaching for something to numb the pain, we can choose not to turn away. 

The cycles of pain are broken by keeping our gaze on the bandaged place, for that is where the light enters us.  By honoring our shadow side, our wounds surprisingly become our saving grace and the pivotal point where we take back our power.

The Creative Process

 

I recently watched an inspiring documentary on concert pianist Seymour Bernstein.  Bernstein is an eighty five year old native New Yorker who still teaches music.  His specialty is teaching professional musicians how to hone their craft. As a master of his own art, he pays special attention to the nuances of the creative process.

Bernstein’s life and his musical talent are not separate.  He speaks quite frankly about himself, the importance of solitude and how he finds God, not as a deity “out there” as  most religions teach,  but within.  He does not claim to be a spiritual or religious person and yet one could say that everything about him is spiritual. 

No two pianos sound the same, according to Bernstein, even if they are made the exact same way.  This is because pianos are built by different people and the wood used  comes from different trees, which means the wood is not exactly the same and therefore carries the sound a little bit differently.

In the beginning, when learning a new piece of music, Bernstein explains how he plays very slowly until he gets each part down.  Only after he has learned the piece in its entirety does he pick up the pace.  He instructs his students in techniques like posture and breathing, things one might think are less important. And he listens.  He brings his whole self to the process and teaches that everything is important, every last detail. 

Bernstein is sought after by professional musicians because of his unique approach to the creative process. These musicians are accomplished in their own right and yet are willing to discover what they don’t know as he gently places his hand on their shoulder while they play making them aware of the tension held in their body so they can soften just a bit.  And as they do so, the music likewise softens, becoming more fluid as it begins to flow in new ways.  Bernstein also instructs his students in the art of breathing.   These very precise moves help shape not only the music but the musician.  After all, what we bring to our art form is more than just talent or technique, it is the entirety of our whole being, and this too effects the music in very subtle, yet profound ways.   

It occurred to me that Bernstein's approach can likewise be applied to any art form or craft, even the craft of living life.  A craft is something that is learned step by step as we carve out our particular expression; it doesn’t come in one magnificent flash, unless of course it does.  We bring our attention to it by being fully present.  Nothing is irrelevant.  Everything matters.  And if a log falls across our path, we step over it and keep going (Bernstein’s analogy).

In his younger days, Bernstein was a concert pianist.  However, he quit performing publicly when he was fifty because he says he was tired of the pressure, the stage fright, and the whole social scene.  Instead, he began teaching piano, which he says is his first love anyway.  Thirty five years later, at the age of eighty five, actor and friend Ethan Hawk (producer of the documentary) asked Bernstein if he would consider performing for his theater group in New York.  Bernstein decided to accept  the offer.

On the evening of his performance, the piano was positioned in front of a large picture window overlooking the busy streets of New York.  Passersby would stop to watch him play, some even snapping photographs.  I thought to myself, “Why don’t they shut the curtains!”  But they didn’t need to shut the curtains.  Bernstein was not in the least perturbed by the passing scenes outside the window.  He played with unwavering focus and elegance. It was like music from heaven. Now you see why I say he is truly a spiritual person.  You cannot play music like that unless you are infused with spirit, because as the music enters the listener, it effects the whole mind, body and spirit, and one is changed by being in his presence.  

The Magic of Alaska

 I’ve just returned from another Alaskan adventure. My husband, brother and I come to Anchorage every summer to visit my mother who lives in an assisted living group home around the corner from my sister’s place.

 Usually our vacation is filled with a variety of scenic activities interspersed with family time. The highlights of this trip are our visit to Seward, a town in the Kenai Peninsula, and the discovery that Mom, who has Alzheimer’s, is winning at the computer memory games!

Seward, with its subarctic climate, is a small coastal town with a population of approx. 2,500 located 130 miles south of Anchorage.  It is known for its beautiful Kenai Fjords National Park which contains one of the largest ice fields in the United States. These ice fields are the source of numerous glaciers, including Bear Glacier, it’s largest.

This trip we decide to book a whale watching and nature tour that leaves from Seward.  The weather is perfect with blue skies,  sunshine, and a calm sea.  On board ship, we roll up our pant legs and quickly shed  layers of warmth in exchange for the sun’s penetrating rays. 

Here in Alaska, strangely enough the sky seems closer, as if you could almost reach up and touch it.  A brilliant sun with 20 plus hours of daylight lessens the need for sleep. Despite the fact that Alaska is one of the coldest ice and snow covered states in the union, spring here brings a surprising explosion of life gushing forth from land, water and air, as if it has never known the darkness of winter.  It is one of those magical places where the spirit of the land has not been squelched by man.

As our tour boat pulls out of the harbor, we spot a humpback whale playing in the waters of the fjords close to shore where the depth of the waters suddenly plunge 1000 feet.  The curve of its black body rises gracefully out of the water to give us a brief glimpse before submerging again.  

A short distance off, sea otters spin and twirl on the surface of the sparkling sea.  But mostly, they float on their back with tail tucked between their hind legs, letting the currents carry them where they will.  We watch as one of the otters cracks open the hard shell of a clam with its long fang- like teeth. 

Out of the sea jut large walls of jagged rock that house bald eagles, puffins, common murre, to name a few, as well as families of sea lions, their floppy golden bodies basking on the sun drenched rock.  We are close enough to hear their horn- like calls as two of them appear to be sparring, over a female perhaps?  

We see plenty of common murre. The common murre is a medium size water bird, penguin-like in appearance only much smaller.  It spends most of its time at sea, but nests along the rocky cliffs when it is time to breed.  However, the puffins are one of my favorites.  We joke that they look like flying potatoes with their short stubby bodies and short wing span.

Then suddenly, without warning, a torrent of birds descend upon our boat.   If you’ve ever watched the Alfred Hitchcock movie “The Birds”, you’ll have an inkling of what I’m talking about.  However, instead of instilling horror and doom, there arises a cacophony of sound and choreography unmatched by even Hollywood at its best. 

Out of nowhere it seems the birds appear, swooping, flapping, gliding, cawing, in swarms overhead and on the surface of the sea in circular patterns and from all directions, enveloping our boat in all their bird glory.  It is a spectacle like nothing I have ever witnessed.  One of our nature guides tells us that in the sixteen years she has worked for the tour company she has witnessed this magical event only twice.  I guess it was our lucky day.

One of our last stops on the tour is Bear Glacier.  Temperatures begin to drop as we near the glacier and we bundle up in our gloves and hats. The glacier is 13 miles long with large chunks of ice berg floating in the lake at its base.  At this point we are almost completely surrounded by snow capped mountains.  All is quiet on deck, as we take in the breathtaking view of nature’s grandeur.

Four years ago when we brought Mom up to Alaska to live, her Alzheimer’s was progressing rapidly.  Each successive year, we marvel at how much better Mom seems to be than the year before.  She could barely sign her name and now this time we notice a pad of paper in her room where she keeps a journal of sorts, jotting down items of interest throughout her day.  We are surprised at how much her handwriting has improved.   And she is steadier on her feet too, not requiring a walker anymore.  This is almost unheard of with Alzheimer’s, a progressively debilitating disease. 

We continue to speculate why Mom’s health is improving and wonder if it’s not the pure arctic air, or the intensity of chi (vital life force energy) here, or the loving attention of my sister and Mom’s caregivers.  Maybe it’s a mixture of all the above.  How wonderful that we will have her in our lives a little longer.  I’d like to think perhaps it is all part of the magic and majesty of life in Alaska. 

    

Costa Rica, August, 2011

This time of year,  Costa Rica is a living inferno.  I try to stay cool by exposing as much skin as possible without attracting attention.  However, clothing or no clothing, it’s all the same.  100% humidity night and day.

My sister-in-law, her husband and their three teenagers who are vacationing on a mountain top have graciously invited my husband and me to share a rented villa overlooking the lush rain forests and Pacific Ocean.  Mini-van and swimming pool included.

Each morning out on the veranda sitting cross-legged on a leather back chair (common in these parts), I  luxuriously sip my mug of Costa Rican coffee,  mesmerized by the panoramic view of jungles with swooping birds and chirping insects. Over by the garage, the black monkeys howl as they swing from the trees angrily throwing kumquats on the tin roof as a warning for us to keep our distance.

There is little sign of civilization, although we are only a few miles from Playa Giones, a tiny coastal village carved out of the thick vegetation where ex-pats and surfers come to get away from it all. This place is known for its great surfing.  My nieces and nephew, and even my husband, give it a shot. They return with swim suites full of sand and stories to tell.   I prefer to relax by the pool admiring the exotic flowers.

Much to my surprise and delight I discover Playa Giones is the home of the "Nosara Yoga Institute", a yoga paradise with the most spacious yoga studios tucked away in the towering jungles, surrounded by lush foliage, wind chimes, and an aura of serenity. 

 There are no fast food restaurants or chain hotels.  We eat practically the same meal every day - fresh fish, beans and rice, sometimes avocados.  With fish this fresh, you really don’t need anything else.  The roads are dangerous with hair pin turns and ruts the size of monkeys.  And when it rains hard the mud slides make it near impossible to maneuver our borrowed minivan up the mountain. 

The story goes that my sister-in-law Wendy rented the house from a guy named Rusty back in Plano.  Rusty owns a small rustic hotel and beach bar, "Casa Toucan", in Playa Giones where all the surfers with sun soaked skin and tiny bathing suits hang out. 

Apparently Rusty is quite a character.  One morning we discover a sticky pad note on one of the herbal tea boxes in the cupboard that reads “To Rusty.  Heart Heart Heart, Margie.”  We learn from Wendy that Margie is not the name of Rusty’s wife.  Oh, well,  I suppose what happens in paradise, stays in paradise.

The Human Condition

I recently spent a captivating afternoon in one of my favorite art galleries, the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum, on the Hollins University campus. I have a strong affinity for Hollins since I spent quite a bit of time there back when I was completing a graduate degree in liberal studies.  Sometimes I return between semesters when the students are gone just to stroll through the well groomed grounds and wander through the art gallery. I am rarely disappointed by the museum's exhibits and this one was no exception.

On display was the work of an internationally known artist by the name of Tip Toland, Artist-in-Residence at Hollins, February 11 – May 1 of last year.  Several of her ceramic sculptural portraits were so stunningly realistic I had to resist the impulse to reach out and touch them.

The following is an insightful description of Toland’s work offered by the museum:

“A viewer of Toland’s work can instantly assess and acknowledge her familiarity with the human form, bone, muscle, and skin structure.  The inner truths however, require further observation, contemplation, and time.  Beyond the physical presence, the aspect of her work that makes them truly remarkable is the way the artist has captured the individual features, the nuances, gestures, persona, and the inner psychological character of her portraits. 

Ultimately what Toland is trying to capture is ‘the truth of what it is to be human . . . the human condition, without the veneer.'Toland is known for exploring aspects of life from which other artists steer clear, especially aging and the aged.  Often her figures are nude, exposed, fragile and vulnerable; many seem to be in mid-thought, mid-laugh, or mid self-awareness. . . “

This small, but powerful collection, led to my own meandering observations.  Toland’s nude figures are startling reminders of the ravaging effects of time on the body. Crooked and missing teeth, sagging, accordion-like skin folds with dark pigmented spots, and hairless scalps. 

As a reminder of our own mortality, the subject of aging and the aged in our culture often causes one to grimace.  We’d rather put it on the back burner a while longer in order to develop a good healthy dose of denial.  Ads are plastered with pretty young faces and strong rippling bodies.  And yet, the reality of aging and its obvious trajectory are always in the background.  It's the human condition without the veneer.

Examining Toland’s work brought me back to an awareness I had when working in the health care delivery system, and nothing brought this to my attention more than when I worked in hospice care. Being with those who have only a few short months to live causes one to pause and reflect.  The fact is, the dying, as societal outsiders, live at the edge of life. They have one foot in this world and one in the next.  However, because of their unique perspective they have much to teach us about how to live and how to die.  They are intimately in touch with a truth we will all eventually face.  Life as we know it is harsh, transient and short lived.

Yet, a strange paradox exists. When face to face with our own mortality, we often feel more acutely alive than ever before.  We begin to see with new eyes and realize the value of each precious day.   Are we living each moment with eyes open, a full participant in life, or puttering along in the same old ruts and routines?  Are we living the life we want to live, or making excuses?

 If you hang around hospice workers long enough, one of the remarks you will often hear them make is, “People die the way they have lived”.   My observations tell me that the final years or months of life can be met with peace and resolution or struggle and denial.

The stark reality that Toland’s art so poignantly depicts is that when we leave this world, we leave the same way we came in – vulnerable, naked and stripped of all pretense.  This does not mean we relinquish dignity, grace, and hope.  Rather, it means,  relinquishing the conditioned layers of protection that prevent us from experiencing life directly.

As Toland’s work might suggest, aging strips us of our veneers.  Our skin, like the skin of the artist’s life-like sculptures, turns crinkled, thin and fragile, so thin in fact there is very little left to hide behind.  This can be greatly disturbing or surprisingly liberating.

India Bound - 2011

I have been traveling for nearly thirty hours and it’s now two in the morning, India time.   A circle of women in colorful saris standing beneath harsh white street lamps glance our way. Malnourished dogs run loose digging through scattered piles of trash as barefoot children laugh and play in the parking lot of the congested airport.

 Here at last in the bustling, dust-filled city of Chennai, two in the morning appears not much different than two in the afternoon except for the notable absence of a blazing sun overhead.   Suddenly my black slacks and winter boots feel uncomfortably warm and out of place.

The ashram has sent Pravi to fetch my friend, Renate, and me from the airport.  Though Pravi has never met us, he easily identifies our pale American faces in the crowds exiting the airport.  In no time at all our bags are packed in the rear of his cab and we are flying down the road, dust streaming through the open windows.

We head out onto the paved road, weaving in and out of construction sites, dodging buses, trucks, mopeds, bicycles, scooters, some with lights and some without, horns honking loudly, dust swirling.  Chaos.  My traveling companion, Renate, and I are now wide awake despite the late hour.  I soon learn that everyone in India drives like this, and after a few weeks into my journey I begin to notice a rhythm and flow to the apparent madness.  In fact, I have come to view the rather sketchy “rules” of the road as a playful, albeit dangerous, graceful dance.

Now, peering through the windows of our cab, my eyes meet a completely foreign landscape - cows standing and lying by the side of the road, men squatting at open air stands that sell hot tea, coffee and Coca Cola.  Make shift store fronts resemble bombed out shelters,  and amidst the wandering cows and fast food stands appear a multitude of temples, temple upon temple in every size, shape and color, as plentiful as the cows.

One such temple is perched atop a bullock cart festively decorated with fresh flowers and strings of colorful lights.  A procession of chanting devotees follow the caravan offering puja.  Traffic slows then comes to a complete halt in order to make way for the traveling temple to cross the road.  Pravi excitedly points to the caravan shouting, “God, God!”  The worshippers are waving, smiling and cheering.  We wave back, cheering them on.  Today God is colorful indeed!

We arrive in Tiruvanamalai, our final destination, in record time, i.e. under four hours. Tiruvanamalai, a city with a population of approximately 150,000, is located in the southeastern state of Tamil Nadu.  The town was built around a large temple at its center known as Annamalaiyar. It is a city filled with spiritual seekers from around the world as well as religious ascetics called “wandering sadhus” who traditionally shun worldly comforts and possessions in order to pursue the goal of spiritual enlightenment.  I suppose I am here as a seeker in my own right, for the purpose of deepening my meditation practice and to pay homage to the holy mountain.

The ashram staff has gathered at an early hour to greet us with open arms.  Under the direction of Jan, the ashram director, we are given a grand tour of the  grounds as we follow along a winding stone path lined with lush foliage and blossoming flowers.  My only concern is the absence of toilet paper in the bathrooms.  We are instructed how to clean ourselves using cups of water as is the custom in parts of India where the plumbing cannot handle paper products.

The interior of the ashram stands in sharp contrast to the conditions beyond its walls.  Though everywhere dust seems to permeate the air, not a speck of dirt appears on the polished tile floors.  An orderly atmosphere with loving attention to detail imparts a sense of hominess and ease.  I close my eyes, breathing in deeply the palpable stillness of this spiritual oasis.

Awaiting us in the kitchen is a prepared meal of hot oatmeal, bananas, walnuts and tea. The ashram is owned and run by Americans, so we are assured the food and water are safe for our consumption.  Before eating, however, I hurriedly make my way to the staircase leading to the rooftop in order to catch a glimpse of one of the most ancient of sacred sites in all of India, the holy mountain Arunachala, the beloved mountain that has called me here. 

 The “red mountain” as it is called, is said to impart a fierce grace upon all who fall within its magnetic gaze.   I marvel at its rugged splendor.  Overcome with emotion, tears of joy wash the dust of a long journey from my tired eyes. 

After breakfast I retire to my room, dozing on and off as a cool breeze gently flows through the ashram windows carrying with it the sounds and scents of a strange new land where all concerns of a busy life quietly melt away.  I slowly drift into a timeless dimension in which there is not a care in the world.