tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80134432175043234062024-03-06T15:02:07.262-05:00still life with circlesthe art and writing of angiestill life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.comBlogger483125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-38805348165849489982014-07-17T15:17:00.003-04:002014-07-17T15:17:44.073-04:00right where i am: five years and almost seven months
A few years ago, I launched a project called Right Where I Am where I asked other babylost parents to write about right where they were in their grief. And it also was about how wherever you are, it is right. I asked people to only talk about the present moment in their grief, not where they were yesterday, or tomorrow, but how they were feeling today. I asked each person to title still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-57457912856185501252014-03-08T10:07:00.001-05:002014-03-08T10:07:17.532-05:00to linger on hot coalsSome mornings, I ache to visit this space. Lucia lives here. She lives here, there, everywhere.
We moved.
Fall pushed against me, and I collapsed into the flow, gratefully, moving with it all. We are well. The lot of us. New jobs. New schools. New homes. And my perspective lightens in this place. So close to my childhood home, and my people in every nook here. Quiet German stock. Salt still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-23433880026102421502013-09-02T07:04:00.001-04:002013-09-02T07:04:50.475-04:00buryingThere is still so much I think about in regards to Lucy's death. Like the fact I never had a funeral, and that small non-funeral gesture sent out such enormous messages to friends and family. Perhaps that we didn't want to speak of her, or publicly mourn her, or maybe even that her loss, and further our grief, was only ours, not meant for anyone else. We prescribed how others should grieve with still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-78469309001456975002013-07-27T09:01:00.002-04:002013-07-27T09:01:33.991-04:00Kindness Day Crystal Grids
If you have a moment, use these grids for a tonglen meditation or prayer session. I have decided to share this before I go into my painting meditation session, so others can hold these parents, themselves and those they love in healing light and energy. If we are doing this together, the healing energy will be amplified, cascading through the universe. This year, I am painting over still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-90426327128273743952013-07-25T09:32:00.000-04:002013-07-28T11:47:10.345-04:00newsFirst things first, July 27th is the MISS Foundation's Kindness Project, and I am participating for the third year. Last year, I made a video of my work, which probably everyone has seen a bazillion times, but if not, this describes what I do and why.
So, again, this year, I am performing a tonglen meditation for grieving parenting, and painting mizuko jizo for grieving parents. If you would still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-80635641593698630122013-07-21T09:33:00.000-04:002013-07-21T09:33:09.529-04:00healingI cover the tarot spread with a silk. Nothing suspicious here, Gas and Electric Meter Reader. We are certainly not gypsy fortune tellers here. My sister laughs as he shuffles through our house, dodging the swings in the dining room. She gives me a side glance.
Who cares what the fuck he thinks?
I don't care. I just don't want to freak him out. He's a minister, he told me once. And he speaksstill life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-52006202910201912322013-07-11T12:26:00.002-04:002013-07-11T12:26:22.849-04:00pathwaysLife feels nuts and wonderfully delightful. Summer camps and circles of women and tarot readings and reiki and thoughts about when and where we will be in our life. My vision board keeps catching my eye. "WHERE TO LIVE NOW," it screams at me.
I just don't know, Vision Board.
There are pictures of dirt in our hands and our feet, mindfulness, and uncluttered wisdom, no credit card debt, and a still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-32661248581558432362013-05-31T07:40:00.001-04:002013-05-31T07:40:44.216-04:00right where i am 2013: four years, five months, nine days
Two years ago, I launched a project called Right Where I Am where I asked other babylost parents to write about right where they were in their grief. And it also was about how wherever you are, it is right. I asked people to only talk about the present moment in their grief, not where they were yesterday, or tomorrow, but how they were feeling today. I asked each person to title their still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-27818452453310420782013-05-19T17:15:00.002-04:002013-05-19T17:15:22.262-04:00madianaI trucked the kids to my mother's for the weekend of Munay-Ki and meditation, and dressed and chatted Friday morning with Jess, wrote a blog post here. Prepared with a reading and some coffee, packed up my mesa with a rattle and cross and crystals to make a little grid for ascension. As I drove, I prayed, as I always too, talking to my guides.
Please help keep me focused. Please help me still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-79685625110567530442013-05-16T09:18:00.002-04:002013-05-16T09:18:50.428-04:00meditation on the tower
I wish I had a sister that didn't die.
Me too, Beezus.
But your sister didn't die.
No, I mean, I wish your sister hadn't died.
Oh.
Me too, Mami.
I know, Thomas.
I want a sister, Mami.
I know, baby.
Off they run, to their play fort and behind the big tree where they create a fairy library with index cards and stamps. All fairy and gnome books, and they too are fairies, dontcha know? still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-46802860764508642862013-05-07T10:05:00.001-04:002013-05-07T10:05:29.536-04:00mother's dayBoulders stretch further than my eyesight. It is something to behold. Me and hearts and people climbing, bouncing from rock to rock. I sit on a granite boulder, quartz and rhodonite, ommmm slightly. There is a man yelling at his young son to be a man and stop crying about spiders. Something dies in him that someone else will revive, someone will tell him that it is okay to cry and he won't know still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-26562551369163236672013-04-21T08:00:00.000-04:002013-04-21T08:02:21.739-04:00sanctuary
I perch on the doorway between who I was and what I am to become. The crystal, wrapped in rabbit fur and rivets, leather and braiding, hangs between my breasts. I'd like to say it came to me, but I searched for it. But the other things, the elk antler, the hawk's wing, turtle shell, the apophyllite that takes my breath away, they came to me, laid themselves at the foot of my altar.
Use me. still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-28578631097130107632013-04-11T19:20:00.000-04:002013-04-11T19:20:22.564-04:00birthdays
Three years ago, I gave birth to a live kicking baby. I was in awe, mesmerized at his mere survival in my womb of death. My sister and I always joke that as a baby, Thor looked like a snake that swallowed a baby pig with his gigantic newborn belly and goodnaturedness. (Are snakes goodnatured?) Still, a baby Buddha. All smiles and farts. Big belly and huge smile, arms stretched far overhead. His still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-19408980131521101302013-04-02T09:52:00.003-04:002013-04-02T09:52:59.471-04:00spring
There is nearly a lake in the center of the parking lot that my daughter insists I drive through. Why do we have a big truck, she asks, if we can't drive through big puddles? It is a fair question. The splash spreads over the rest of the parking lot, and the children scream. Heavy iron work and fencing prevents rickety shopping carts from being taken into the streets of Camden. Automatic doors still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-80148772600073267482013-03-13T09:20:00.002-04:002013-04-29T06:55:18.002-04:00self-acceptanceMy midlife crisis is going well. Thank you very much.
Painting by Hector Arrache.
To be honest, crises rarely go well at all. I haven't taken up with a lover, or traded in my SUV for a sports car. Rather I rename myself Coatlicue, eat the hearts of virgin artichokes. I am more Mexican than Mexicans these days. I wear big coral jewelry and linen clothing, summon the soul of Frida Kahlo. still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-58020319707114232602013-02-25T06:15:00.001-05:002013-02-25T06:38:25.088-05:00aromatherapy
Less is more. More kills everything. Think delicacy. Subtlety. Finesse.
I don't know HOW to do less, I think.
But of course, it is too much. Too much sandalwood. Too much patchouli. Too much ylang ylang. I misbehave and leave class and stand in the stairwell with someone talking about healing modalities and spirituality and awakening and protecting one's energy and reading people's auras.
still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-28298738154164996162013-02-15T10:12:00.000-05:002013-02-15T10:16:25.439-05:00spring feverI cut hearts out of paper, and string them together for the children. Parenting is nothing like I thought it would be. Demanding and challenging and alienating and enlightening and lovely. My neighbor asked me if I am sick of staying home yet. I ponder it, spin it around in my head, look at it on all sides. Am I sick of it? It's a valid question, though I'm not. I feel blessed, honored to watch still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-82858785150603408192013-02-11T13:41:00.001-05:002013-04-29T06:54:44.123-04:00painting
There is the physical act of gathering the names. From my email, and FB posts, and forum on Glow. I gather and write them out, with real names and real prayers...For this mother in memory of her son. For that mother in memory of her daughter.
I light a candle, and sage. Sage the space, and computer, and all of you written on paper. I then select the stones for my grid. Heart chakra still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-4561368392295973782013-02-03T10:01:00.000-05:002013-02-04T09:03:30.175-05:00blogoversaryI cut and pasted my entire blog into Word. Just the cutting and pasting part took a half an hour or so. When I was done, I saved it, and an error popped up. "This document has too many spelling and grammatical errors to display properly. Use the spell check feature to rectify." Or something like that. It was 765 pages long, single spaced with one inch margins. That first year, I could have still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-90578817257188646462013-01-29T08:49:00.002-05:002013-01-29T08:56:37.999-05:00Dear Morning,You come too dark these days. Without my glasses you look like night. The baby bridges Sam and I, kicks me in the shoulder and I crawl into the bottom bunk, fall into a restless, dreamless sleep. There is too much for me these days with the cleaning and washing and wiping the bums. And then the other parts of the night where I hear about the body, and drinking and muscles, and I glaze over and still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-48452945987745753322013-01-25T08:57:00.001-05:002013-01-25T08:57:07.962-05:00deep listeningDeep listening.
Uncluttered presence.
Peace.
I stare at my vision board. I understand little in the way of peace, except that I am peaceful. And besides my aches are all mine, my medicine would never work for anyone else. If I have a goal right now, it is just to sit and listen without wondering how I might explain it later. To listen without creating a poem about it, or a still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-78404193032683526642013-01-14T07:08:00.003-05:002013-01-14T07:08:58.141-05:00lucia pazI put her name into the search bar in Etsy, in Pinterest, in Google.
Lucia.
And pictures of a girl with long blonde braids, candles crowning her head, standing in the snowy night. Islands, and saints. Eyes on platters and virgins defiled. I get more specific.
Lucia Paz.
There are 13,200,000 results. People all over the world named the same as my dead daughter. She has two twitter accounts, a still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-61815076824767025352013-01-11T20:10:00.001-05:002013-01-11T20:10:26.867-05:00interview
Archangel Azrael, the angel of grief . Watercolor, 4"x6", 2012.
When Lindsay over at Murmur of Wings asked me to answer a few questions about my art, my heart center just opened up, swallowed the time and length it took. Grief and art and my spiritual journey...wow. Apparently, I am very wordy about it. But I am passionate about the ways in which grief opened me up to release self-doubt and still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-84997928565528054362013-01-09T13:09:00.001-05:002013-01-09T13:09:11.821-05:00winterMy hair twists in the night, wraps itself in curls that look like dread locks. I wake looking at this long hair beast of a woman--black streaked with grey, the wild unfocused eyes of the myopic, and a thirst for coffee that barks at those in the way.
I comb my hair into submission, spray some tamer on it, and sing it lullabies. Then I plait it and curl it around my head. Three years ago, I still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8013443217504323406.post-35217108485356785452013-01-07T10:46:00.000-05:002013-01-07T15:56:50.666-05:00endings and beginnings"That juicer is your enemy. It has been working against you for years. Throw it out."
I imagine a grapefruit, run through, its tart sweetness stinging the back of my throat and then like warmth, it spreads through me. I see my children pushing kale and lemons and apples through and giggling and licking their fingers. Frozen berries run through to make non-sugared sorbet and nut butters and she still life angiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15150141781089602529noreply@blogger.com3