Tag Archives: color

Peas

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Peas_0001

To me this story is about power – who has it, who wants it, who needs it.  Last month we dealt with Krishna and his mother and touched on issues of motherhood.  This month the story brings me to issues of childhood.

When I was little it seemed like I was in a continuous struggle for power with my mother; a struggle into which I had arbitrarily been plunged without instruction book or reason.  Of course I’m describing my feelings – the language came with education and experience and years of introspection and reflection – but I knew instinctively, as all young animals know,  that understanding the power dynamics of my tribe was vital to survival.

I know now, she did not see me as her adversary.  In fact, the struggle I took so personally wasn’t personal at all.  Her anger, come by honestly, could not be directed at its proper target and so she turned it on herself and on me.

Peas were a huge issue.  I hated them, she insisted on serving them.  Truly they made me gag.  It was the texture more than anything else, but the color didn’t help.  In the beginning they were canned.  The frozen ones were mildly better though by the time they came around the battle lines were so entrenched no one could back down.  On the nights she served peas I often sat in front of am congealing food until bedtime.  I devised all kinds of devious ways of folding them up in my paper napkins and then excusing myself to go to the bathroom where I flushed them down the toilet. I stuffed them in my pockets, pushed them into the soft stick of butter in the butter dish, dropped them in my glass of milk, and fed them to the dog who spit them out.  He didn’t like them either.  Naturally, these stratagems usually failed, resulting in interminable lectures about starving children in foreign climes.  The slightest hint of defiance in the form of body language or glances led to high-pitched angry tirades that shattered everyone’s peace for the rest of the evening.

Years later, my mom went back to college and took all kinds of classes.  We grew to expect weird innovations in our family routines with each new course and teased her unmercifully, but I was proud of her.  She willingly embraced those new ideas, pondered their meaning and applied them to her own internal process.  One day, I was sitting on a kitchen stool chopping onions for the meal she was fixing when suddenly my mother burst into tears and said, “I’m so sorry I made you eat your peas.”

It was an extraordinary moment of contrition on her part and forgiveness on mine.  It was all that was said.  I think we were both shocked.  We didn’t talk about my childhood again until years later when I had garnered the courage and experience to be able to initiate the conversation.

My collage shows a child spitting out her peas – her mouth, like Krishna’s, is full of stars to remind us how precious children are.  There are two other little ones here – the goblin I thought myself to be and the defiant self-possessed little girl who clung to her own identity and integrity.  The fabric in the background refers to the part of this month’s story I liked best – the bed covers and mattresses of many colors.  My mom loved fabrics and patterns and taught me to love them, too.  My eye for color and talent for composition are part of her legacy.

Bed was a special place for me – the place I could be myself, escape into imagination, and read to my heart’s content with the help of a flashlight.  It was also my cache.  I hid food under the bed.  Not peas, of course, stolen cookies and forbidden chocolate made up my stash.  You can see candy wrappers and cookies peeking out beneath the pillows.

My peas, like the princess’s are like  grit rubbing against the soft vulnerable flesh of an oyster.  Year after year,  I exude nacre to ease my discomfort, working and re-working the raw material of childhood until it becomes a luminous, precious pearl that enriches and enhances my life.  The proverbial pea also provides grit in the sense of “true grit.”  I’ve found that in my life it is the dis-comforts that make me strong and build my character.

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The Bremen Town Musicians

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Bremen Town Musicians

Bremen Town Musicians

April fools us with five Mondays this year so Michelle and I have decided to each do a one-off tale of our own choosing.  I selected  The Bremen Town Musicians because it’s been a favorite of mine since childhood.  Since then I’ve revisited this tale several times, always with the same sense of delight.  I can pinpoint exactly where this sentiment resides – right at the top of my tummy – waiting to erupt into a gleeful sound, something between a chuckle and a gurgle.

In retrospect I  see that I loved the idea of animals (read non-entities and minions) upsetting the established order of things.  Their cheerful aplomb and raucous courage cheered my own rebellious heart.  I attribute that rebellious streak and longing for independence to my (at the time) terrifyingly angry mother, the strict hierarchy imposed on our family by the military culture we lived in, and the genetic disposition inherited from Dad’s determinedly individualistic family. The self-determination of the donkey, dog, cat and rooster endeared them to me.  To this day they remain great favorites of mine.

Male donkeys represent stubbornness, vulgarity and  laziness.  Though originally associated with Ra the Sun god ancient Egypt, later they became aligned with Seth the ‘evil’ brother and shadow side of Osiris.  Female donkeys, on the other hand, represent knowledge, symbol of humility, poverty, courage and peace. They appear twice in the Christ story – once to carry the Holy family to safety and again to carry Christ on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem.  Apuleius also made use of the donkey in The Golden Ass.  He transformed his protagonist into a donkey in order that he might work through his thoughtless foolishness and eventually regain human form  under the divine auspices of Goddess Isis.  The juxtaposition  of Donkey’s differing traits remind me of the Tao, the spiritual path we must all, sooner or later,set foot up.fyVMtP8A

Being born in the year of the dog gives me a great affinity for canines.  Their wild ancestry sings in my bones and allows me, at least metaphorically, to run with wolves.   Dogs above all else, symbolize loyalty, an attribute I appreciate in others and aspire to myself.  Because of their dual nature (wild and domestic) the dog is said to walk between worlds.  Dogs are often guardian figures such as Anubis or Cerberus or the companions of powerful Goddesses  such as Hecate, Diana, Hel, and the Caillech.  The hounds of Hell, who run with the Wild Hunt through Celtic nights, are sometimes called The Hounds of the Mothers.  Cave canem!  Beware of the dog  who can focus her wild nature through the lens of her loyalty and fight to the death to protect what she loves.

mosaic dog

Ah cats, who can deny their insouciance?  Sacred since time immemorial in both their domestic and wild guises they remain to this day creatures of portent and mystery.  Long demonized by The Church because of their affiliation with the Feminine Divine, cats have managed to retain their popularity in spite of being drowned, hung, skinned and burned at the stake. One reason is their ability to destroy vermin.  Unlike dogs who serve man out of love and loyalty, the cat makes a pact with humanity in which both parties are expected to fulfill certain conditions.  Cats love the night and seem to have a special affinity for the moon, reflected in the luminous orbs of their dark-adapted eyes.  Their purported nine lives make them a symbol of transformation and rebirth.

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The Rooster is known for his courage.  Long associated with the sun he is a solar symbol in many cultures around the world, venerated for bravery, kindness, raucous good nature, eroticism and ability to keep time.  His appearance in dreams may be a call to “wake up” or, if he appears in full plumage, a sign to strut your stuff.   In Christianity the rooster stands for the risen Christ, but he is also affiliated with the Greek trickster god, Hermes.  Good fortune belongs to Rooster, but his self-assurance and confidence can slide quickly into vanity and fool-hardy “cockiness”.

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All these animals are rich in meaning, they appear in dozens of tales around the world as both bit players and heroes. I could go on and on about any of them, but I can  already see a pattern emerging. Self-reliance, connection to Spirit, rebelliousness,  good humor  are all qualities I prefer and can lay claim to on my good days. Their shadow sides are mine as well. I am glad my old friends don’t hesitate to crow, bray, screech or bark when I get too vainglorious, stubborn or aloof.  This story reflects so much of my own nature. It’s interesting, gratifying and very humbling to me to see how little has changed, how much remains the same.

For some reason I gave this Germanic (notice the dachshund)  tale a Japanese setting – perhaps because of the import these creatures retain in so many diverse cultures around the world.  Their meaning differs, sometimes radically, but these four animals all make their home in our collective unconscious.  They are messengers from our deepest selves and most ancient community, bearing lessons and rewards for those of us with eyes to see and ears to hear.

As a child, I never noticed this story was about old animals being discarded by their community.  Now, my own aging eyes and ears perk at tales dealing with the end stage of life. After seeing my mom in and out of several nursing homes and watching my dad’s decline into old age, I am poignantly aware of how many of our old relations are shuffled off to deteriorate in death’s waiting room.  It’s an awful way to go.  I thank whatever gods may be that both my parents died at home, surrounded by family.  My own ageing process remains both fascinating and frightening .  I hope to meet it in the same spirit as Donkey, Dog, Cat  and Rooster meet theirs.  You’ll notice I used a lot of color (our prompt from Leah for April) in portraying them and yes, I used the word hope, upon which I cast such aspersions in the previous post.  The story speaks to me of color – the rainbow colors of diversity and change, creativity and novelty, courage and carnival, persistence and possibility.  I really like this story.  I like it even more now than when I first heard it.  It’s a noisy tale.  It says, “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

The Color of Hope

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Color of Hope

The Color of Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

So says Emily Dickinson.  Knowing Emily as I do (she’s an old favorite of mine), I’m inclined to go along with the traditional rainbow-at-the-end-of–the-flood interpretation of her poem.  Nevertheless, she was well versed in irony and used it to alleviate bouts of frustration, bitterness and despair.  It’s possible “Never stops at all” means “Oh PLEASE, shut the Hell up!”

Do you ever get a tune in your head that won’t quit, just keeps replaying, again and again, no matter what?  Hope can sound like that – a repetitious melody that disallows any other thought and won’t let you rest.

Hope can be regarded as a delusion that keeps reality at bay; a dangerous illusion that can prevent introspection, delight in present pleasure or engagement with the world. Emily’s last line speaks to this when she says hope never “asked a crumb of me.”  In other words, Hope precludes relationship, give and take, mutuality. It can be a lonely pastime. Henry Miller would agree. He said, “Hope is a bad thing. It means that you are not what you want to be. It means that part of you is dead, if not all of you. It means that you entertain illusions.”

Of course there’s no definitive answer to whether or not hope is a blessing.  It remains a word of many colors – some somber, some bright.  Speaking of color, April’s prompt  from Leah Piken Kolidas at Creative Every Day is color.  Rainbow seemed an appropriate association for both color and hope.  Among my Pandora related collage images I found a rainbow-colored box and a rainbow-colored bird and although Michelle had already appropriated Emily’s poem, I wanted to use it, too.

My last collage for this story, leaves the ending as ambiguous as ever .  It answers none of our questions.  Who sent the storm that rained for forty days and nights – and why?  Why must girls be raised in ignorance to be exploited, manipulated and used?  Who profits from promises?  Who does Hope serve?  What lies beneath the surface of this tale built on deceptions?