Theo's New Adventure

My friend, Theo, a very talented and intuitive potter, held an open house at his new home and studio in Santa Fe this weekend. He recently moved there after many years of life in the little mountain village of Chimayo. Changing our home setting, and especially the place where one does creative work, can be a scary thing to do, even when you're excited by the changes and by the new environment. We talked the other night, swapping stories of how we were each getting settled into our new spaces. He shared his thoughts around showing his new work, opening his space and himself to the public in this way. It requires a lot of courage to do that.

I admire the life of a potter, their dedication to the clay itself, the loving care that goes into the gentle handling of it as you allow it's intended shape to reveal itself. It's much like sculpturing in which Michelangelo is said to have remarked that the sculptor simply chisels away at the marble allowing the underlying object, the form inside the marble, to reveal itself.

Theo's pottery, while having an obviously organic feel and texture to it, also has a grace and elegance inherent in it. I think that's where the loving touch comes in. One of my Theo bowls, with the quietest of yellows inside, is used to hold some of my favorite bracelets. It could just as easily be used for soup or rice. Another, which seems to change color with the light or it's surroundings, is in my bathroom, holding a square of scrumptious plum-colored handmade soap. Right now, the inside seems to have the slightest tinge of blue. I also have a small tea cup with the softest violet color nestled inside. I love to hold it in my hands and just feel it, it's gentleness and grace.

He named one of his glazes Lonely At the Top. It's from a Randy Newman song. I love the sound of those words together, the little sense of melancholy it evokes. It seems so fitting for this light covering of the fired clay itself. I think about how it speaks of the vase and it's potential. You have this object, which seems very much alive, waiting to discover its new life, its purpose.

He said he spends many evenings playing the piano, which he put in the gallery itself. It's the perfect place for it. I can just imagine that scene: the soft warm colors on the walls and the quiet lighting; his beautiful pottery sitting on their pedestals at full attention; his dog and cat, sweet Abby and Micah, as they lie down to listen; a very appreciative audience, to be sure.

I'm sorry I wasn't there to share in celebration of these wonderful life changes, but I celebrate with him from this distance, which is really no distance at all, and marvel at his bravery, his willingness to take chances and to share his lifework in this way. Congratulations, Theo !


Want to check it out ? http://www.greenriverpottery.com/.

It's All About the Light

The other day I woke up feeling the need to connect with people on a one-to-one basis. I wanted to feel connected to individuals with whom I could establish a rapport through language, through conversation. It didn't have to have strong content or deep meaning, just the sense of connecting in a peaceful, but tangible way. I sent this desire out to The Universe.

About two hours later a new acquaintance called and asked me over to her place for lunch. I knew from visiting with her previously that she had a bountiful garden. She said, "We'll go out and pick our lunch fresh from the garden." She didn't have to ask twice. She gave me directions and away I went.

The drive took me down a long dirt road where I crossed some railroad tracks and had directions to 'turn right at the lake.' As I got a bit closer to her place, the light coming through the trees and across the road took on a quality that made me feel as though I had stepped through a portal in time. It suddenly felt exactly like so many days of my youth, which I remember often as having that same quality of light. I felt transported through time to a place I recall as having a divine sense of freedom; a place where the cares of life had not yet taken root and anything was possible.

When I arrived, her dog Phoenix greeted me, and then she stepped around the corner of the house verifying I was where I was supposed to be. She lives on one of these small beautiful lakes hidden in this neck of the woods. It was her family's summer home when she was growing up. It still had that quality to it, with the addition of being a place where a person is obviously living a life of the mind, from the heart, and as an extension of the outdoors. There was almost no distinction between the two.

We went into her gardens, basket in hand, and picked peas, beans, carrots, and corn, all scrumptiously fresh. There's nothing like a carrot right from the garden, the dirt still clinging to it. I recalled many days when I was very young and would eat them with the dirt barely brushed off. No time for washing. There is a clarity to a garden-fresh carrot that speaks to me from what seems long ago and far away, but really is right now, in this spectacularly fine moment. It was a lovely lunch with a nice visit getting to know each other better and glimpsing insights into each others lives, past and present.

But, the fun was just beginning. She has a canoe.

Next thing I know, we are slipping the canoe into the water. I'm in the back, paddle in hand, feeling like life was suddenly all about just going forward into beauty. I was seeing a quality of light that transcends time in a simple human experience. We went around the lake noticing the different greens, the few homes scattered around it, the small island her son likes to camp on, as she gave me a brief history of her time there. I let my hand drag through the water, as I have always loved doing while paddling a canoe. It felt absolutely delicious.

From the lake in front of her place I could see her gardens, the lushness of the tangled vines containing the bounty of her loving care; a care that comes from knowing that what you nurture comes back to nurture you, nourishing your body and your soul.

When we docked later, walking up to put the paddles and life vests away, I sensed a quality to life itself that reminded me of the freedom that comes from letting go of the future, living in the now, allowing life to unfold moment by divine moment.

As I drove away later, that quality of light stayed with me and remained for the rest of the day. Time is a tricky litle thing. I got a glimpse into it that day, a glimpse of the absence of it, actually. It's not about going forward, or going backward, or passing into any where. It's really all about the Light.

A Soldier In Afghanistan

Back in the summer of '85, a song I had co-written, "Minnesota Nights and Northern Lights," became "the # 1 song in the north country" according to the DJ's giving it massive amounts of airplay that summer. It was also "the most requested song" on many stations across Minnesota and other areas of the upper-Midwest. It had been recorded by Steve Hall and Southbound 76. It became their "signature song." I was there when they performed it in the bandstand at the Minnesota State Fair later that summer. It was a nice time for me, as music had always played a major role in my life.

Last summer my son, Coleman, googled the song title and, lo and behold, someone on Wikipedia was looking for a copy of it. So, I responded and sent him one. I have since sent out copies to many others who were also looking for it. It's nice to have it remembered by so many people, all of whom have good memories around it.

Recently I received a request for it from a soldier serving in Afghanistan. He said, "It will remind me of better times." His name is John. He's with the 82nd Airborne Division as a helicopter maintenance technician Warrant Officer. He said, "It's nothing meritorious." This is his second tour of duty there, plus one in Iraq. That sounds pretty meritorious to me.

Sitting at my computer, visiting with this soldier from Minnesota, enlarges my world-view and gives me a fresh perspective on this war because of the people who are serving there. It's not a news story. It's real. And real people are out there every day responding to their sense of duty. I'm glad my song is keeping him company.

Another interesting aspect of this involves my son, Coleman Coughlin, who is lead guitarist for a metal band called Severed Nerve. They recently put out their first CD,"The Y Incision." It's being listened to by soldiers in Iraq. How cool is that?

Well, the only thing that would make it cooler is if they all got to come home; John, in Afghanistan, and all the other soldiers there and in Iraq.

Now would be good.

Dave's Pickup Truck

I have fallen into covetousness.......again. I know, I know, you're not supposed to covet your neighbor's stuff. But, man you should see this pickup. It's a 1961 Ford Econoline. It looks like it just stepped off the assembly line. Only better, 'cause it's 2009 and it's sitting out in the yard as I write this.


Dave is the handy man to end all handy men, a true jack-of-all-trades. It's a nice relationship. He works on the house. I get to look at his pickup truck. He said he bought it in almost pristine shape, body-wise. It only needed a paint job. And what a paint job it received. It's as red as red can be and shiny to match. It's a thing of beauty.

I have always wanted a small, older pickup to tool around in (does that give my age away?) and to haul my stuff. Everyone should have one. It's the great American past-time, movin' our stuff around. George Carlin did a routine on it many years ago. Only he used a different S word.

I've attached images. Isn't it cool?

A Room With a View

"Les Coquelicots a Argenteuil (Poppies Near Argenteuil)" by Claude Monet

I'm sitting here in my study overlooking Hidden Pond and thinking about how we arrive at each moment. My friend, Diane, and I, were just outside on the porch having lunch, visiting about life, how certain circumstances that seemed challenging, and oh-so-difficult at the time, brought us to this moment.

Each relationship, each place I've lived, has taught me invaluable lessons, ever moving me onward down the River of Life. At times I pushed, took a few side trips, even what seemed like a retrograde step or two. Even these times brought me here, to this fine moment. We have our little journeys, we meet the people we are supposed to meet, we make mistakes, or what at first seemed to be mistakes, but somewhere along the way we learn there are no mistakes.

I am spending the summer here in Minnesota, possibly beyond. All I know right now, is what I know right now. This is where I am supposed to be. Guidance brought me here, and is now keeping me here. For how long? For whatever time I am here. I don't want or need to know anything else. Well, sometimes, I am tempted to project, look around the corner, stretch my neck to get a glimpse of what might be. Then I relax, remind myself that I don't need to know. The Universe is taking care of me, my life, and everyone else's, too. We're all in this together. We are all individuated aspects of the whole.

A friend sent me a Lisel Mueller poem yesterday titled, "Monet Refuses The Operation." It's full of beautiful lines describing the interconnectedness of life, each object ever part of the great All.
I especially liked these lines:

"I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent."

We are One. This is becoming clearer and clearer to me. And I love that it is. Everything makes sense, everything is gently falling into place, everything fits. We are not learning, we are remembering, remembering who we really are. Every moment is THIS moment. Don't doubt it. Just Know it.

"In Every Wood... a Different Green"

I woke up this Minnesota morning to heavy rain. We're talkin' cats and dogs. It's not something I've seen much since I started living in the high desert. Yes, we get our so-called monsoon season, consisting mostly of afternoon rains of short duration. This is rain that turns everything soggy, in a good way.

Yes, I'm still here, in the land of my youth, spending time with family and old friends. I've been doing some back road driving, some revisiting of places I've lived, houses full of my memories. Yesterday I drove by the house we moved to when I was thirteen, on Birch Lake, in Hackensack. My memories of canoeing that lake are among my favorites. There's something about the rhythm, the cadence of paddling, that speaks to me, lulls me into a fine and familiar place. On the water, surrounded by green, is a nice place to just Be.

My parents had a small cafe and rented canoes on the side. There were four of them on a rack on the end of the building. They were beautiful in red, yellow, turquoise, and white. We had our pick of colors most days. My sister, Jane, and I would carry it two blocks to the beach where we'd push off for an hour or two of paddling the shoreline. We were early teen-agers and having the time of our lives.

I plan to do some canoeing, as soon as it stops raining. I'm not complaining, though. It is so green, so lush, and it smells really good. I'm reminded of these lines from a poem by Tolkien:

"I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen;
in every wood, in every spring,
there is a different green."

And so it is. And Life goes on...

Trains in the Distance

I just arrived in the land of my youth, Minnesota, after two days on the road. I usually stay in North Platte just because it's the place I run out of steam. A friend, Murad Sayen, had mentioned in an email that it has a huge railyard, lots of trains coming and going. He has photographed some amazing railroad graffiti and is a wonderful artist. He did a painting he titled "Night Train". It has been acquired by collectors, but I've included an image, as it's a nice reminder of when trains and train stations were more a part of our consciousness.

It reminds me of the trains of my childhood. We lived a quarter of a mile from my grandparents house, which was next to the tracks. I heard stories of my grandmother, Lila, feeding the hobos who rode the rails back in the Great Depression, the one in the 1930's. I suppose their place was "marked" by those who knew she was willing to feed them, which was the practice then.

As a child, I had the train schedule memorized and would run down the dirt road, hot sand under my barefeet , and get to the top of the hill in time to watch the trains go by. I loved their mystery, their strength, the sound of the whistle which always blew as it passed the crossing next to my grandparents house. I dreamed of ridin' the rails myself, going someplace else, anywhere that would take me away, to be heading out west where destiny awaited. I knew then I was pulled to the West in some romantic, maybe even karmic way. It spelled excitement, adventure, a new way of life that I thought would fit me to a T.

My cousins had lived down the highway, but moved to a town a couple of hours away when I was eight. It might as well have been in another universe. Except for the trains. Each summer my sister, Jane, and I would be put on the train to visit them for a few days. We loved the trip, seeing a bit of the backcountry as we went. I felt special, as though my mundane existence was suddenly loaded with possibility. The open road, of sorts, which has always appealed to me.

We spent a few days doing foolish things, like racing their horses at full gallop down the dirt road, which was forbidden by my Aunt Lorna; piling into my Uncle Fay's new hammock, which, of course, broke. Stupid stuff kids do without thinking...

We thought our cousin, Mark, was the coolest guy we knew and loved him madly. Shelley, his sister, was our friend, but Mark was a guy, mysterious, the Other. His was a life of adventure, breaking the rules. No playing with a dollhouse. I didn't want to pretend to have a life, I wanted the real thing; one adventure after another. I guess I still do.

We rode the train back a few days later, often in the dark, and it was always bittersweet. We liked knowing we were going home, but hated to have the adventure end.

I still love to see trains as I drive cross-country, sometimes near Wagon Mound, which carries with it that western, "where the deer and the antelope play" feel to it. Many of the boxcars say Santa Fe on them. It seems, looking back, sort of prescient, as though I was getting messages then, whether I recognized them or not, about my life, the direction it would take. I believe we get signs everywhere once we start becoming more aware. But, that's for another time, a different post.

Paul Simon has a song, one of my favorites, with the line, "Everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance...everybody thinks it's true." It's about love hanging on for dear life, but it speaks to me of the longing that I have come to associate with trains and limitless possibilities.

To Kindle or Not to Kindle

It all started at the firehall in Backus, Minnesota. The town library was in a room in the back. I remember it as tall dusty shelves crammed with books. I couldn't get enough of it. I began with Nancy Drew and read everything I could get my hands on. I was in love. I hated that I was confined to four a week when I could devour a book in a couple of hours. And fully comprehend it. Those were the days.

A couple of weekends ago, at a friends house in Denver, a new acquaintance had the latest techno-gizmo, a small laptop. The subject turned to the Kindle. We had a small "To Kindle or Not to Kindle" debate, of sorts. I love books. In my hands. I don't want to scroll, I want to turn the page. I love the weight, the feel, even the smell of books. It's not that I can't be distracted by shiny things. I can. But, it's back to that written word on paper that I can't live without.

It's been reported that the use of libraries has gone up markedly during these tough economic times. Maybe it's the freebies, maybe it's the longing for a past that may or may not have ever really happened. I think it's the books. They can be comforting. They can enlighten. They can work magic. They can even make you fall in love.

I worked in a small town library once upon a time, fell in love in the same library. He was tall, dark, and very handsome. He came in to read the paper, and when he went into the stacks, so did I. He was looking through the William Goldman section of fiction. I had my opening. I asked him if he liked WG. Turns out we had the same favorite book, "Boys and Girls Together. " He remembered the opening line, "Aaron would not come out." I remembered the closing, "Aaron entered into agony."

Profound change can take place in your life because of books. Have you heard the group, My Morning Jacket? Start with their song, "Librarian," and you'll know what I mean.

Canyons I Have Known and Loved

Before my move to the Southwest I spent a good deal of time hiking and exploring canyon country around southeastern Utah.  I yearned to see more of what I was naturally drawn to geographically if not spiritually. It was partly about hiking and partly about my love of red rock but mostly it was about being entranced by all things Anasazi. This ancient culture called to me almost halfway across a continent and I couldn't get enough of it. I needed to see where they had lived eight hundred plus years ago.

A small town named Bluff became base camp. The greatest hiking in the world - Comb Ridge and Butler Wash among the possibilities - was just outside of town. Hikes were planned around the hope that a ruin would be discovered hidden in an alcove on the canyon wall. I knew all about the Federal Antiquities Act and had no desire to hunt pots but I did want to photograph these incredible dwellings and the artifacts around them, in situ. Every spring yielded sweet surprises.

Cedar Mesa is where the adventure really began. There was Mule Canyon, which gave us what we referred to as Mule Canyon Towers and Mule Canyon Apartments, modern day appellations for ancient dwellings. We'd spend the afternoon absorbing the ambience and imagining their day to day lives. Midden became one of the sweetest words in the English language. We took some great photographs, always followed by a lunch of canned sardines. It was tradition.

The finest hike for me was in Owl Creek Canyon. We didn't know what to expect except a great hike between rock walls and the possibility of astounding discoveries. We didn't have to wait long. Half way down the canyon we turned to check our back trail (always a good idea), and saw part of a ruin in an alcove just above and behind us. There was a granary with the stone slab door still covering it and a couple of other structures that were a photographer's delight. It got better from there.

By the time we got to where the going got really fun, we realized we were on a grand adventure. I could feel it, knew this was going to be life-altering.

En route we passed three other hikers, something that rarely happened back then. Canyon country had not yet been discovered. They were two guys and a gal on spring break who were just coming out after spending almost a month down in the canyons. She apologized for being a bit "whiffy" and admired my bear claw earrings. After we moved on I kicked myself for not taking them off on the spot and offering them to her in honor of her intrepid spirit.

When we reached the pour off I realized I would have to meet my fears and subsume them enough to get down to the pool below and Neville's Arch waiting just around the corner. A long ledge at a slight angle high above our destination was the only route. Going across gave new meaning to sweating bullets. Temporarily sitting on my sorry butt and looking down into the canyon below only exacerbated the effect. I knew I had to stay on my feet where my boots would provide traction in case I lost my footing. JB, my cohort in crime and hiking, was there to provide encouragement as well as the opportunity to save face if I simply couldn't do it. He was a mountain goat. I was not. We kept moving along the ledge, one step at a time and a lot of positive thinking. Failure was not an option.

Eventually we did make it down and took a big breather at the bottom. Then, we moved on to Neville's Arch. As I looked at it from a distance, I became fully aware that I would have to retrace my footsteps across that ledge to get out of there. We were day hikers and not prepared for a night in the desert's extreme cold. I said a little prayer. Okay, okay. I said a big prayer. Then we headed back.

It became an interesting lesson in the dynamics of being right versus left handed. This is my posit: going across was very scary because my right hand, the one I use, was exposed with no place to reach for safety. On the return trip, my right hand was up close to the rock wall and thus a greater sense of safety. Anyhoo, I made it back across feeling a great deal less fear, a bit more enlightened, and with a whole lot of gratitude for an experience I'm obviously still talking about. JB dubbed the ledge, Teresa's Traverse, and so it remains in my memory and, as memories go, it's a pretty good one.

The photograph is of me, in one of the canyons we explored.

Merriam-Webster Is a Friend Of Mine

"Summer afternoon - Summer afternoon ... the two most beautiful words in the English language." Henry James

They are beauties, that's for sure, but I have many others I could add to that list. Countless. Words communicate ideas. Every single word carries with it that idea. How we talk with friends and how we establish communication via words carries weight, holds meaning. What I love most though is the written word. That's where dictionaries come into play, and I do mean play. I love a spirited but gentle debate over what a word means or how it's pronounced. Nothing like a good dictionary to settle the question.

Early last winter a dear friend and I had just such a debate over the word homage. He, like so many other misguided folks, wanted to use it with this faux French pronunciation that's been making the rounds. There is no such word as "Oh- mazh" (accent on the second syllable). It is homage, accent on the first syllable, with or without the h. Look it up. In a real dictionary. Which brings me to Merriam-Webster.

I like to imagine Merriam-Webster as a 1950's farm wife, sitting at her kitchen table in plaid cotton house dress, apron on, getting ready to fix supper, her full bosom resting on the table. She's writing in longhand, intent on getting just the right nuance to a word that crossed her mind while at the stove, meticulously recording it in notebooks for future generations.

M-W's Collegiate Dictionary has been my dictionary of choice for many years. It doesn't mean I don't like others, but I love M-W, the current one being the Eleventh Edition. My favorite, though, is Webster's Seventh New Collegiate, published by M-W. It's not just any dictionary. It once belonged to the Cripple Creek-Victor High School in Colorado. My ex was the janitor there in the early-to-mid '70's and when the school was razed for a new one some of the books, including this dictionary, ended up in the discarded pile. It still has the CCVHS Library stamp on the title page and glued in the back is the card holder, with card, for checking out Copy 17. He carried this beauty with him for many years accumulating notes and lists and various bookmarks inside as he went along. I coveted it. I mean Biblical covetousness.

Imagine my surprise when it arrived in the mail in April of last year as a birthday present from him. It came complete with his notes, lists, bookmarks and sundry other items that carry with them the kindness of memory. There was the sales slip from the t-shirt shop in Moab, Utah where we bought shirts for his sons on a vacation back in '92, and the pressed paper from a pack of cigarettes he bought on one of our trips into Mexico. His lists contained such items as "Barn Bluff, Red Wing - pix" and "St. Parks of the N. Shore." Words to look up included panegyrist, seigneurial, and the ever popular salacious. He knew what it meant. He just wanted to be sure. Life goes on and he lives in Moab now. I'm glad we're still friends.

Dictionary.com? Not for me. I want to go to a real one and experience life as it's meant to be experienced, in real time with real objects.






P.S. I have since discovered that the latest pronunciation of homage has found its way into the dictionary. It makes me a little sad to see modern usage dictate these things. And, I must admit, since writing this I have succumbed to using an online dictionary at times, which also makes me a little sad.

Showing at the Marlowe

I've been in love with the talking pictures for as long as I can remember. It all started with the ubiquitous, "Snow White", which scared the hell out of me, stepmothers talking in mirrors and all. Then, "Last Train From Gun Hill," "River of No Return," "Friendly Persuasion," and this thing called, "Something of Value". This was long before ratings came into being and parents had a little guidance to help them in their decision-making. "Little Women," came 'round again about the time I thought I'd make my mark as a great actress. I practiced crying on cue with good results. It's a talent that came in handy in a large family. My siblings often used it to their advantage. If there was a movie we all wanted to see - this particular memory contains, "The Nutty Professor," with Jerry Lewis - I was sent. When I returned and the answer was no they asked, "Did you cry?" If I hadn't they said,"Well, go back and cry!" We didn't care what was on the marquee, we just knew there was a movie at the Marlowe and we were going.

One of the reasons I love Santa Fe is the wonderful, diverse options for movie-going. I'm particularly fond of The Screen. it consistently shows great independent and foreign films along with some outstanding documentaries. Those who go there understand what movie-going is, or should be, all about. Great respect is shown to the filmmakers and the film itself with quiet watching, the lights staying down for the entire credits and everyone allowing themselves a chance to let the film soak into their being. The best films leave you with a feeling that you're caught between two worlds - the so-called real world and, well, the reel world. I love that surreal feeling when I leave the theater and still feel engaged in the world I just left.

I rarely walk out of a movie. I don't want to disrupt other people's viewing and I don't want to make a statement that in turn makes others uncomfortable ... unless there's more at stake. In the case of, "The Informers," I had to make an exception. It's based on a Bret Easton Ellis story so I really was forewarned in a way, but the group of actors participating drew me into it. I am not a prude so the sexuality wasn't a problem and I've seen plenty of violence that didn't make me run from the theater. But this group of characters consisted of stupid, if not bad people, doing stupid, bad things. They hurt each other, hurt themselves on every level and they just kept on making really bad choices. It may have been the eighties, the Me Decade, but that's no excuse. Bad behavior or bad choices just doesn't cut it anymore and I don't want to see it on the screen in some glorified fashion. I tried to wait for some redeeming value to show up, lasting almost an hour, and then I just couldn't waste another minute of my life. The scene of the so-called rock star and the poor naive girl from Lincoln, Nebraska forced me out of my seat and out of the theater. It was very liberating, in every sense. Way yucky! I felt like the goose who is force-fed to create foie gras. Watch at your own peril.