A Little Girl

Ever since I can remember, as a little girl, recalling the times of laying under my friend's big oak tree, looking at the stars, wondering where did we come from?, the lessons my parents taught me regarding Adam & Eve, I remember thinking, it takes two, yet, it took one to begin with. Tracing back to my ancestors, thinking, ok, in the beginning, there had to be only 1. So therefore, as a child, it seemed to me, if, and yes, that if, there was only 1 to begin with, then we are all connected to that beginningness of 1. So, therefore, my question is, where did that 1 come from??? Starting with 1, making 2, making 3, making, making, making.....there are so many people today in this world, yet, it still seems we are all but 1. Where did that 1 come from???

Today, as it may change tomorrow, but today, it appears we came from nature. The earth's ability to recreate itself. So, perhaps, if we took better care of our earth, maybe, the world, as people, would improve. Realizing that for whatever reason, in order to survive, we need to be the big 4's...careful, respectful, clean, and manners. Yes, those are the big 4 to me. Yet, those big "4's" were not something which "came" to me, something I knew, it was something which was yet again taught to me. Yet, "yet" seems to be my big word for today, yet, it seems those big "4's" came to me for a reason. I did not go out searching. I followed a path. So, it is perhaps, following that "path" which makes sense to oneself. Everything comes to each of us, everything we need to know....or, everything is the problem. We need to filter out what we need, and what does not belong to us. Taking in other's fates, when, in reality, it is not ours. Being connected to "all"....are we not each an individual, which our own individual path?

Waves Crashing

The waves sound by sound
crashing against the rocks
the waves sound by sound
crashing each memory
lost beyond
cracking open memories
of yesterday
it was
it is
only a memory
of the sound of a wave
crashing against the rock
moving on
beyond
reality
days of existence
delivering not
because it was
only
the sound of the waves
of reality
crashing against the rocks
broken
beyond fixable
moving
forward
with the sound of love
it was what it was
it is what it is
the sounds of reality
moving beyond
the crashing of the rocks

Night Under the Stars

Jamie gave me flower seeds from her garden. A bag of pink mallow, and an envelope full of cleome, spider flowers. I spread them in different spots around my house. Also was able to pick more pears off my tree. I woke up around 10:00 p.m., went to my cedar chest, pulled out 2 of my grandmother's quilts, grabbed 2 pillows, and went outside on my deck. The night air was refreshing. Laying under all those stars as if almost being able to touch each and every one of them. As the night calmed down, I could hear far away sounds. What saddened me was the sound of a girl off into the distance crying into the nightsky. The more I focused on the stars above, it appeared as if the sky was sand, being moved about, and connected to the stars. Or perhaps, a better image would be as if the stars were laying in the sand. Betty & Sassy enjoyed the company, as Betty laid on my right side with Sassy drifting beside and behind me. It was 5:00 a.m. when I woke up, with the stars still shining above me. A very peaceful night.

Mystery

I took this photo of myself with my cell phone pointing the lens at my face??? Not sure what happened here...

Autobiography

Daniel, Annie & Beth in our rec room. Today she is the happiest I've ever seen her! The painting is from 2007, Acrylic on Canvas, 16" x 20".

My daughter had to write her "autobiography" for one of her classes in school. She got a 100% on it. When I read it, I cried. In the beginning paragraphs, she expressed her "hatred", her "anger" towards her father. Yet, ending that paragraph, "if I hate him soooo bad, why do I still want him to love me".

I cried for I knew. I knew that exact feeling. While I was married to her father, I hated him so much, yet I could not stand the fact that he did not love me. He wasn't nice. He wasn't nice to me, yet, when he was, that was my "world". So I thought it was my fault. My error. "I must not be doing something right or else he would not treat me that way. To be human, is to hurt. To feel pain. She finally told her father, "Yeah, Dad, I would really like to see you, but not with Sharon (her stepmom). Sharon has done so many mean things to Beth to keep the father and the daughter apart. Sharon cannot share her husband's attention. Soap operas at best. My daughter was 9 when her father left us. Not me. Us. To abandon me was one thing, but to abandon your children, frankly, I never did "get it". It was a power play game. I will hurt you through what you love the most. Sick.

My ex responded to his daughter with: he cussed her out. He blamed me. If I had not done the things I did, Sharon would not have responded in the way she did. Soap opera. My daughter has seen her father twice this year. Once at the beginning of the year to celebrate last Christmas, and the other, her father's birthday.

Today, it is ok. I am sooooo glad that life turned out the way it did. My daughter did not "need" that "sickness" in her life. She is her own person. You cannot force someone to love you. You cannot make someone be who they are not. As far as Sharon and Dario...they deserve each other.

Life is so full of memories. My memories happen to be of discovering. Discovering how life is SUPPOSE to be. Not controlling, not manipulative, absolutely not abusive. It just flows. To be human....yes, we are not robots. As much as television wants to point out that we are all just "personal computers", not life as a history. Learn from it. Learn to touch. Learn to feel. Learn to be human. Humans hurt. Humans heal. Humans die. Hold on to what is real. I am no longer a "monkey"...listening to "past lives"...I grew up...just as my children have. What is real...that same phone call saying, "hey mom"....

The Rabbit

My son called me tonight to tell me to watch the show "Heroes". It was a 3 hour special. I walked outside during the first hour. There was a big rabbit. Now, that rabbit holds many stories. A story told about how someone ran over a rabbit and felt terrible about it, yet, not understanding the "oversoul" of the rabbit. When the "rabbit" sees the headlights, not realizing its fate, perhaps coming back to the exact same point, where it left, and then to the point of maybe the rabbit will come back and all the "high towers will be gone"...yes, alot of deep stuff going on there, with the point of being that we are all "stars" of our own making, we have to be, whatelse is there to talk about, other than the "rabbit story". I know, makes little sense, yet, alot to me. To tell of the "supernatural" happenings, which is the story in the making of "Heroes", a "hollywood story"....but, my son connects, he connects me with the "hero" story. When we ran over that "thump"...did we save the rabbit from an "ungodly", "beastly" death? And then the other "story" about the rabbit. A friend whom I work with. As we were "locked" into time, his whole life was falling apart. The story of the rabbits. His wife left him as we were "encircled" into another time. The rabbit died. And then, there is the story of the "rabbit" with my friend Sue. She introduced the "rabbit" to me. What is the word today? Vibrator. Nope. The vibrator died. The "rabbit" doesn't do a thing for me, yet, it taught me what I needed to know. Only, the real is real. Not a delusion. The mother rabbit of tonight...face your fears. There is nothing to fear except fear itself. Where does fear arrive from? Only in your imagination. Imagine the world the way you want it to be. Not with power. "Power will either take you up or down." Yes, another fabulous quote from my past. The last time I talked to my friend, whose rabbits died, he said to me, "how are you"? I told him "great". He said, "are you really? or are you only pretending to be?". At the time, there was no pretense. Still isn't. The rabbit story. Shooting stars....

Express

16" x 20" Acrylic on Canvas

9-21-2008

Favorite-Home

Collier-my great nephew-14 weeks "Favorite" 18"x 24" Acrylic on Canvas 9-18-08

Blackbirds

I just read this amazing story on my lunch break and wanted to share. It is from a book called "Porch Stories" by Jewell Parker Rhodes:

"I cherished my outside time with Grandmother, pinching myself both to stay awake and for sheer happiness at being alone with her. I always sensed Grandmother was happy, too, enjoying her respite from the day, even though she'd be up again by six.

"Tell me stories." "I've told you before." "Tell me again." And she'd hug me to her bosom and never fail to oblige. "Did I tell you the blackbird's tale?" "Yes. Tell me again. Tell me like you told me the first time." She'd smack her gums. And I swear a hush fell shimmering, straight down from the sky.

"This is an old, old tale. My mother told me. Her mother told her." We were cocooned on the porch: Grandmother, sitting tall on the top step; me, sitting one step below, my chin even with her knees.

"Blackbirds were the slaves who flew back to Africa. Every time you see a blackbird, you should think of a slave who set himself free." "Have blackbirds always been ex-slaves?" "No. Didn't begin until two centuries ago. Eighteen hundreds, down in Alabama. Hundreds of slaves were picking cotton, suffering under Master's care, all of them singing about the need to go. Singing about 'Crossing the River Jordan.' Or 'Go Down Moses, let my people go.' All these Christian songs they'd been taught.

They sang, too, about trains and 'How long they'd been gone? Baby, how long?' But only so many could take the Underground Railroad. Only so many could escape. Most just sang, mournful, wailing, filled with never-ending yearning. "The oldest slave was a spell man. He knew about herbs, how to mix possets and teas. One day, when the sorrowful songs seemed to rock the sky, the old man put down his hoe, shouting, 'Children, remember. Remember who you be.' "The slaves were bewildered. They'd forgotten who they were. Couldn't remember any name before they were called Sally. Mary. Tom or Joe.

"The old man, his back bowed, crisscrossed with scars, looked at the dulled faces, the thin men and women, hands calloused from cotton, the children, heavy-lidded and tired, and said, 'Time to go. Time to go.' He whispered his African name in the nearest slave's ear. Whispered his name deep down into the other slave's soul. Then, he raised his arms toward the sun and flew. Just lifted off the ground. His arms became wings. His back grew feather-down. His legs elongated into feet with talons. 'High,' he said. 'High beyond the horizon. I'm free.'

"Other slaves began whispering their African names. Olun, Nambi, Membe, raising their arms and believing in their power to fly. Straight at the sun. Through puffs of clouds. No worries about wings burning off. Just soaring, straight and high. Far into the sky.

"The overseer was bewildered, riding his horse, cracking his whip like a madman. Threatening any slave who tried to rise. He knew Master would fire him for even one slave lost. He grabbed John's foot, only to have talons draw blood. 'Kailila,' John cried, long and hard, the vowels turning into a high-pitched screech. The overseer shook his fist at John/Kailila. Shook his fist at the swarm of blackbirds diving through clouds, creating swirls of black on bright blue sky.

"When there was a flock, over two dozen slaves turned into sleek blackbirds, they turned as one and headed east - back across the ocean, the wide, wide expanse of restless waters, to the African shore." "All the slaves flew?" "No, some slaves were left behind. They wished the blackbirds well. Clapped their hands. Shouted out a farewell song." "Didn't they cry?" "Sure they did. Sometimes too much pain can make you forget pieces of yourself. Forget your homeland, the people you loved. Slavery's outrageous curse. But the remaining slaves were left to tell the tale.

Like my grandparents. They saw the blackbirds fly. They told the tale, passing it on and on and down to me. Me, passing it to you." "Did the blackbirds become human again?" "You mean when their feet touched the soil?" "Yes," I sighed, wishing my arms would become wings and I could fly into the night sky, soaring above tenement houses, Pittsburgh's three rivers and rolling hills.

"Yes, but some of the slaves, having crossed the sea, preferred to fly. They no longer wanted to be on land where they could be captured and resold. They preferred life as winged creatures, feeling the sun bake their black wings. "Sunshine never scorches them. They never fall. Never drown in the sea. Just call - sometimes with pain, sometimes with alarm - sometimes with plain melancholy. Some say they call for their lost families, for mothers and fathers they couldn't return to, for brothers and sisters enslaved. Sometimes they call - caw - hurting, because they feel the depth of human pain. They remember their buried pain, piercing way down deep, just as they remember their original names. Some say they call for all the slaves that died at sea.
Those that never survived the crossing.

"Most times, slaves were tossed overboard if they were too weak, too sick to fetch a good price. Sometimes, whole cargos - men, women, and children - were drowned when a British ship chased the slavers. No cargo, no crime. Their caw-cawing keep the drowned souls from feeling lonely. "What blackbirds like best is sitting in a treetop, atop a wire, or on a scarecrow's hat, watching the neat rows of growing corn. Sun, Earth, and Water keep on providing.

Blackbirds keep true to their freedom. Before sleeping, before tucking their heads beneath their wings, they give a special call - caw-caw. Caw-caw. Call-call." "Call, what? What do they say? What's the cawing mean?" "That's the secret. Call. Caw-caw. Some say the birds keep repeating their African names. They say they do it before sleep, to make certain they won't forget. In case they ever decide to be human again.

"Some say the blackbirds caw/call, carrying tales. They call for you and me to travel homeward, to hold on to our selves despite hardship, despite pain. They caw-caw for us to pass down tales, down through the generation. They caw-caw for us to call upon our human selves to remember old truths...to remember a time when our ancestors left bitterness and pain, and rose up and flew as glorious blackbirds."

Each night Grandmother would tell a different tale...then, on Sunday, begin all over again. Sometimes she'd tell the same tales, sometimes she'd tell old tales redone. Sometimes there'd be an unexpected story. New and fresh beyond measure. Porch stories didn't happen September through May. School nights were bland, filled with getting ready for tomorrows that echoed the same old day. Only during oppressive summer nights, when heat and humidity made the air too thick to breathe, did the soul-stirring stories arise.

Each year, they'd change a bit, as if the stories changed according to my age. Different details would be filled in from six to eight or eight to ten. In truth, Grandmother's stories were for all ages. But the tales themselves were like labyrinths, mazes, where the meaning wasn't always clear.

Everything came with a maxim: "Jewell, child, what goes around, comes around." "Reap what you sow." "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." "Do good and it'll fly right back to you." "Catch your spirit up in a world of joy." "The dead are with us. You're never alone. All things alive." "Nobody in the world better than you. You no better than anyone else. We all a 'mixed-blood stew.' " "Cry, then get on with it." "Signs everywhere. Pay attention." "Scratch a wall, somebody dies." "Burn your hair, for if a bird finds it, uses it for its nest, your hair will fall right out." "Small actions mean something." "Every good-bye ain't gone." "What's worth holding on to in this world sometimes can't be caught. Can't be held." "Babies mean life."

I didn't understand half of what Grandmother said. Just marveled at her throaty laugh, her smacking gums. Her kind eyes. Tough hands. I felt like the black sky was going to swallow me up -- warm, comforting in its infinity and blackness. The complicated labyrinth of stories would never end. A communion existed between us; I knew how to be quiet, in love with Grandmother's words and stories. Our small stoop became a universe. She taught me how to live. Remember your name. Who-you-be. Be in love with your good self. Wear clean underwear. Don't let anyone ever think there's trash in you. "

A Witch

Why did I label this post "A Witch". When I painted the above, it was as if I were seeing through the eyes of a child. Later on, I was asked a few times if I were a witch. At the time of the painting, back in June of 2007, I began going outside and planting my feet in the ground and "absorbing the earth's energy". It was very cleansing for me. As if, once again, I could see "me" through the eyes of a child. As far as "a witch", all I know is that I smudge white sage when my neck gets tensed. I learned, being part Cherokee, that the Indians would burn this sage to remove negative energy. Seeking my heritage, I suppose, makes one a witch? Yet, for me, all I know, is that I do this to clear the space, balancing positive/negative energies.http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/09/24/video-palin-shown-praying_n_128873.html

To Feel Instead

When things do not feel "right", I get a tenseness in my neck. For the past 2 days, that tenseness has exist. I try to figure out where it's coming from - from inside of me or outside, that which surrounds me. I keep trying different things to "fix it", to make the tenseness go away. It is gone now.

More Oddities

This morning when I woke up, Betty was outside barking and barking and barking. I looked outside and saw her tail sticking outside the shed door, but it was dark, and that's about all I could see. I thought, if somebody was out there, she wouldn't be standing there just barking at them. She'd be attacking. So, I went ahead and jumped in the shower. When I got out, it was lighter outside and Betty was still barking so I went to investigate. What I saw was a opossum, who appeared so cute and fuzzy in my shed. That's what Betty was barking at.

I went back in the house and yelled for my daughter. I told her there was a opossum in the shed and I needed help to get her out. Beth said, "I've got my school clothes on, Betty will jump on me". So, I told her I would hold Betty and she would get the opossum out.

We go outside and I get Betty away from the shed and hold her by her collar. Beth goes into the shed and slowly approaches the opossum telling her to go away. Beth tells me she won't move. I told her to get one of the tools in the shed and push the opossum. Beth grabs a broom. She "scoots" the opossum but the opossum turned and "growled/hissed" at her. Beth screamed and came running towards me. We go back into the house. Beth "imitated" what that opossum did. She was hilarious! Well, we tried.

When we left the house, Betty was still barking.

The top photo is of the opossum, yet, it was dark in the shed.

Came home to find the dog was no longer barking and the opossum was not there.

Good Spirit Feather

18" X 24" Acrylic on Canvas"Redeem your faith in your fellow man by remembering to devote yourself to random acts of beauty and senseless performances of kindness. These stones portray the beauty, kindness, faith, and humanity & grace that is sometime so hard to find in this modern world!"

The Drama by Beth Ceragioli

Drama is the written play. It is the acting part in theatre. Drama is made by creativity and imagination. It does not exactly have to do with the set, curtains, lights, etc. Mainly, it has to do with the actors/actresses, director, writer, the play itself, and so on and so forth. The judgment of drama (plays, movies, etc.) is done by critics in there personal reviews. Although drama does have to do with the written play, it moreover has to do with the expressiveness of the characters in the play. It is not merely written words, but words that come to life out of the paper. You know it is a good play when you feel so in-touch with the characters that you become apart of the story-line itself.

The dramatic theory states that a play is simply an approximation of life, but not life itself. This means that a play cannot be exactly like life, but another perspective of it. The reason of this is because, a play has to have a definite beginning and end, while on the other hand, life has no definite beginning or ending. This theory was created by Greek philosopher, Aristotle, back before the sixteenth century. His writings on drama are very, widely known. He described six elements of drama: plot, character, thought, dialogue, melody, and spectacle.

Told

"Tree in Moon" 18" x 24" Acrylic on Canvas

9-8-2008

I was told today that I could no longer express

what happens at work

what happens at work stays at work

whereas the majority of my life

is just that

at work

So...I deleted all the blogs of work

the lies are hidden

underneath reality

which makes me wander

who am I

other than this person who works

A person who is not allowed to express

how "work" evolves

around who I am

yet

this person is not a person who "works"

Work is that

work

working to pay the bills

not watching my soul soar

The life of the artist

how he expresses

freely

which is not about "work"

Work is survival

what we all deem to do

to pay the bills

to exist

Yet somewhere buried deep within

is the "voice"

which says

do not exist from memory

do not exist from history

to do so

would only take my assistance

work

pays the bills

yet

love

love with all you are

replaces "work"

with being

being is not just to "exist"

love is

accepting life

as it is

seeing everyone with equality

equality to be

who you are

as work

pays the bills

to exist

Life Flows

18" x 24" Acrylic on Canvas

One can sit in the river
one can dwell in the past
or
one can flow with the river
and let shadows past
for
life does not stand still
to stagnate
to drown in a pool of swamp
nor does it float
upon obstacles beyond
life flows
find the current
enjoy the ride
for life flows
whether you like it or not
I for one
enjoy the smoothness
of the ride
embellishing all
which may arise
for life flows
as the gentleness
of the morning's glow
of awakening to the
sounds
of nature
hollering out so
hey
the sun has risen
night
time
has passed
come and enjoy
the sounds of nature
echoing
throughout
come and be alive
with
birds singing
spreading joy
in every crack
in every hole
life
flows
see your body
as nature
sees you
see your body
cherishing
nature's
glow

Being Naked

"Being Naked" Acrylic on Canvas 16" x 20"

July, 2007

This was the first painting I sold. I did not know how much to charge, so I told Mary, a fellow artist, to just pay me what she could afford.

6:07 AM 6/29/2006
New

Express create

you do it everyday

what makes you happy

what makes you glow

only you know

Could it be the meal you prepare

for your family

could it be the clothes you

choose to cover your body

could it be words you use

to speak to your friends

what web do you create

for yourself and those

around you

How is your home designed

is it full of you these thoughts as of now

came from someone else

harmony will flow

share

and watch it grow

Guarded words

are not dispersed

love birds

flock together

creating their nest

with no where to rest

but

they stick together

Your heart will guide you

freely giving to help another

fill your tank

more words that were shared

with others

Watch as harmony grows

as the sound of the lyre

balancing you so

more words from others

feeling harmony grow

BoBo

"BoBo" Acrylic on Canvas 18" X 24"

2/2007

When my daughter, Beth, and her friend, Katherine and I were coming back from the gulf, as we were driving through Alabama, Beth suddenly exclaimed, "look" and was pointing at a humogous billboard with a painting of a giant red devil that had horns and a very long tail. Underneath it, were the words in big, black, bold letters "GO TO CHURCH OR THE DEVIL WILL WHIP YOU!!!". My daughter said, "oooh, he's got a whip!" This painting of my clown reminded me of that devil! She doesn't care for clowns either so I painted him with wings on him.

Pears

My son, Craig, sent me this photo of my grandson, Caleb. I found it fitting to post beside my pear tree, which is full of pears!

Realization

"Still Here" 18" x 24" Acrylic on Canvas

What if a being has no goals
what if all a being wants to be is be
what if
all the pressure of life
is merely an illusion
of trying to be someone
other than who you are
what if
a being just wants to exist
in this world today
soaking in
all the simplicities
which come their way
there tends to be so much
so much of everything
desires of creating goals
to reach
what if
a being just wants to exist
enjoying the simple pleasures
of realizing
that just being
is a natural thing
to do
accepting all which life brings
one’s way
is enough
accepting
all
what if
there are no goals
no struggles to achieve
what if
life is meant
to
just
be
there tends to be
someone
somewhere
always telling you
how you should be
what if
you did not listen
and turned it into yourself
what if
you realized
that life
is just a dream
blocking out
advertisements of the extreme
what if
your mind
told you
to just be
the imagination
which
stirs oneself
to be
what a beautiful painting
one could paint
if one
could only
see