August 2022

I want to think again of nothing.

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Photo by Connie Kinsey

I want to think again of nothing.  There must have been a time my brain wasn’t churning, churning, churning.  The incessant monkey mind silenced.  But it’s probably a pipe dream.  I read recently, that even in the womb we dream. If we dream, we must think.  But about what?  Surely not the things I think about all the time.  Surely not.  Please. All that thinking just wears me out.

I want to think again of recess – that wonderful part of our day when we left it all in the classroom and went outside to the bright sun.  I usually played jacks.  When we came back in, the teacher would read aloud from a chapter book.  What glorious days were those.

I want to think again of the latest book I’ve read.  To ponder where the story is going and imagine the characters.  I want to be lost in that scenery, invested in those lives, living vicariously through both protagonists and villains.  If one is too busy to read, one is too busy.

I want to think again of the sounds of the forest and the garden.  I want to sit in my garden, close my eyes, and just listen to the wind rustling through tree leaves, the sound of animals scurrying here and there in the forest, and hear the heart-pulling yet peaceful call of the mourning dove.  Who is she mourning?  What is she mourning?  Does she too want to think of what was?

I want to think again of endless possibilities of what I might be when I grow up.  All the possible pearls one might pull out of the oyster.  The curiosity about where life might lead me.  I’ve been led and there aren’t a lot of years ahead of me.  I think of the inevitable things.

I want to think again of nothing. Blissful, peaceful nothing.  Still and quiet.  Feel the wind on my skin and sound of mourning doves and the scent of late-blooming roses.  I want to close my eyes so I see nothing—nothing that needs to be done or fixed or some other unpleasant chore.

Nothing.  I want to think again of nothing.

A riff on the poem Starlings in Winter by Mary Oliver

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Political Assassinations, Dead Chickens, Pop and Popcorn

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One movie poster proclaimed, “No grander Caesar…No greater cast!” It was the first filming of Julius Caesar in color. It was released in 1971 in the US. It might have been ’72 before I saw it but see it I did at the Northwoods Park Movie Theater in Jacksonville, North Carolina. It was walking distance from my house, a long walk, but walking distance, nonetheless.

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100 Days of Badass Women

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I interrupt this blog to bring you a note from Doug Imbrogno, founder and editor of Westvirginiaville – a digital magazine.

The short version is that “100 Days of Badass Women” is a semi-finalist in a new online film event called the Paris Women Festival. You’ll have to read more to find out why I am so proud of this accomplishment!

NOTE: View the film here: https://westvirginiaville.com/2021/02/100badasswomenvideo/

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THERE ARE A BUNCH OF world-class artists at work in West Virginia. The habitual ‘hillbilly chauvinism’ against the state often obscures their work to the wider global audience it deserves. Yet, at least in the case of Cabell County-based artist Sassa Wilkes (they/them), artful judges are noticing. I’m pleased to report the 19-minute AmpMediaProject 2021 documentary, “100 Days of Badass Women,” about Sassa’s remarkable artistry and “badass women” portrait series, has earned semi-finalist status in a new online film event called the Paris Women Festival (yes, THAT Paris, not Paris, Texas).

This continues an impressive run whenever I submit to filmfests this showcase of Sassa and their art and philosophy, in a video crafted by Bobby Lee Messer and myself from a Connie Kinsey interview. The doc has earned spots in: the 2021 versions of the SiciliAmbiente Festival; the Montreal Independent Film Festival; the Chicago Indie Film Awards; Venice Shorts in Venice, California; and was an award winner in the 2021 Accolade Global Film Competition and Best Shorts Competition.

Lest you think I dressed in drag to enter this new online fest, here’s how the festival self-describes: “Paris International Women Festival is a competitive online event that valorizes the work of women filmmakers or films about women. In this festival, we are looking for a unique and innovative perspective from female filmmakers to introduce them and promote them. We also accept projects directed by non-female directors who have something important to say about womanhood. We are an online event based in Paris and we are dedicated to female cinema.”

Sassa (and Connie) indeed have something important to say, show and reveal. Bravo to a West Virginia artist and work deserving of all the success in a world that is actually taking notice of this showcase of it. -Doug Imbrogno

The Path

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Artist Unknown — please let me know if you know

The stone path to the door in the tree is made up of stones too big to be called cobblestones.  They are worn and broken in spots – the path was either once well used or has been abandoned for years.  I can’t tell which.

The doorway calls to me.  Has always called to me.  I’m quite certain happiness and contentment lie behind it.  I think it is the Tree of Life.

I’ve been trying to get there for years.

Sometimes the heels of my shoes are too high and I can’t negotiate the stone path. Other times, the atmosphere on the way to the door is too foreboding.  To inaccessible.  Too dark.  Too far out of my way.  Too something.

I am determined now to go through. I have kicked off my heels and stride barefoot through the forest. Vulnerable and a little bit afraid.

Most likely, the door will be hard to open. I think the hinges might groan.  Might be rusted shut.  I don’t think many people actually make it through that doorway. Not these days.  The times are too — something.  I’m supposed to be a wordsmith.  I should be able to summon the right word. I can’t find it.  Maybe unsettled.  Complicated.  Perilous.  Insane.

If I get through….no…when I get through, I will paint the door red.  In opposition to the Rolling Stones. 

There is too much black already.

I am so weary. 

Once on the other side, I think if I stand in the doorway and look out, the forest will be sun-dappled and green.  The path is welcoming and not perilous.  The tree may bear apples.  Bright red and juicy.  Plenty for me. Plenty for others.

I think once the journey is over, I may forget how arduous it was. 

That might be a blessing.  Reality, which has been far too much with me, tells me that is not likely. 

It wasn’t easier with sturdy shoes.  But approaching the door naked and with reverence seems the right thing to do now.

I have stripped myself of that which might hold me back.  That may keep me from feeling all the feels.  I am vulnerable, but I am strong.

I will stride as much as possible across those worn, broken rocks through the dark, dreary forest.

I am tired of the dark.  Tired of dreary.

I am tired.

It’s now or never.  This crosses my mind a lot.  I don’t have a lot of years left.  I have spent my life, it seems, in a perpetual state of stress.  I can’t remember not being stressed. Not since I was 10.  Fifty-three years of stress can kill you.  Sap your will to live.

I haven’t lost that.  I am not defeated.  I am determined.

A second wind has energized me.  Or maybe a third wind.  Hundredth wind? 

I’ve been at this for a long time.

What’s on the other side of the door?

I try to imagine it.

A cozy room with a narrow quilted bed, reading chair, and books?

Another doorway to a sunlit meadow brimming with flora and fauna. Ripe apples?  Mine for the picking?

Nothing?  Everything. Mindfulness instead of mindless existence.

I am weary of trying to reach that door and failing.

I don’t think I’ve been trying in the right ways.  Tried tackling the path with someone or more than one someone by my side. 

Nope.

Tried it alone but was fortified for battle and obstacle.  Provisions, hiking books, walking stick, pith helmet. Camera to document the journey.

Nope.

Tried it tearful.  Tried it prayerful.  Tried it angry.

Now, no try, just do. 

Yoda is perhaps the greatest philosopher of all time.  Do or do not.  There is no try.

Maybe all of life is just a journey.  But that seems too despairing.  There has to be a point.  A destination.  A place of fulfillment and ease. 

Mustn’t there?

I intend to find out.

That door beckons.  Has always beckoned.  I will push it open.