Inside the cage | by Holly Hudley

I love our home. It feels like a home, not just a house. 

I hear legos  - hundred of legos - and the plastic rippling noise they make when little hands scrape through the bin in search of a particular piece. I love, even, the arguing voices because they are loud and sure, not yet tamped down by fear or an over abundance of caution.

I hear my 14 year old dog let out a small groan when he stretches and tries to stand. 

I see the light filter in and highlight dust motes like small, sparkling fairies or billion year old Stardust.

I love our home.

But today I am down. I am down because we are 100 + infiniti days into quarantine, and I haven’t hugged a person outside of my family for months. 

I am down because the little moments of spontaneity life affords us are all but missing (they are rare even outside of quarantine because we have 3 kids and most things are structured around them).

I am down because this is the summer when so many voices, so many beautiful, tired voices have been uplifted to protest injustice, and we don’t yet know if anything will change. Like really truly change. 

I am down because if the gates were thrown wide open, I don’t even know what I would want to do. 

There is a story about a caged lion who paced back and forth, back and forth in its confined quarters all day. One day, after years of pacing, it was freed. Instead of running with abandon into the wild, he paced, back and forth, back and forth the length of his cage. The cage still felt true. 

Ta-Nehisi Coates said in a conversation with Krista Tippet said, “There’s no immediate action that I can do to get out of this. What the realization is, is that me and you are here trapped together — that you’re as trapped as I am, that once you are aware, you’re in the cage too. It’s a different kind of cage; it’s a gilded cage, but it’s a cage...It’s natural that the first thing you say is, ‘How can I get out?’” To get out of the cage requires not only turning toward one another instead of shaking the bars, but also a deep kind of imagining. How do we imagine something we have never known? 

I like what Terry Thompson said in a conversation with us on the podcast: First we have to learn to be uncomfortable. Then we have to learn to hear and tell the truth. Finally we have to be willing to heal together. Then we can create new spaces of belonging. I know we can get there. The question is, will we? 

Let’s throw some paint against the wall. See what happens. Let’s imagine brave spaces and safe spaces where the beautiful, tired voices are not the only one’s singing a new song. 

A Thanksgiving Address

Since we are already wonky with time, why not pretend it’s Thanksgiving?! No, actually, before you grab the turkey and dressing, this address of the Haudenosaunee people is used as morning prayer, before meetings and gatherings, and in anticipation of difficult negotiations. In the book Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer notes that the people of the six nations tribe want it shared widely, long for it to became a mantra of the land.
I could distill it to a single sentence since I likely will never be able to recite it from memory. The repeating words “now our minds are one” recall interbeing and intentional community. They are a reminder not only of foundational reality, but also of what we must continually strive for. Remember: thoughts become words, words manifest deed, deed creates reality.

——————

The People | Today we have gathered and we see that the cycles of life continue. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. So now, we bring our minds together as one as we give greetings and thanks to each other as people. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Earth Mother | We are all thankful to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all that we need for life. She supports our feet as we walk about upon her. It gives us joy that she continues to care for us as she has from the beginning of time. To our mother, we send greetings and thanks. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Waters | We give thanks to all the waters of the world for quenching our thirst and providing us with strength. Water is life. We know its power in many forms- waterfalls and rain, mists and streams, rivers and oceans. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to the spirit of Water. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Fish | We turn our minds to the all the Fish life in the water. They were instructed to cleanse and purify the water. They also give themselves to us as food. We are grateful that we can still find pure water. So, we turn now to the Fish and send our greetings and thanks. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Plants | Now we turn toward the vast fields of Plant life. As far as the eye can see, the Plants grow, working many wonders. They sustain many life forms. With our minds gathered together, we give thanks and look forward to seeing Plant life for many generations to come. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Food Plants | With one mind, we turn to honor and thank all the Food Plants we harvest from the garden. Since the beginning of time, the grains, vegetables, beans and berries have helped the people survive. Many other living things draw strength from them too. We gather all the Plant Foods together as one and send them a greeting of thanks. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Medicine Herbs | Now we turn to all the Medicine herbs of the world. From the beginning they were instructed to take away sickness. They are always waiting and ready to heal us. We are happy there are still among us those special few who remember how to use these plants for healing. With one mind, we send greetings and thanks to the Medicines and to the keepers of the Medicines. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Animals | We gather our minds together to send greetings and thanks to all the Animal life in the world. They have many things to teach us as people. We are honored by them when they give up their lives so we may use their bodies as food for our people. We see them near our homes and in the deep forests. We are glad they are still here and we hope that it will always be so. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Trees | We now turn our thoughts to the Trees. The Earth has many families of Trees who have their own instructions and uses. Some provide us with shelter and shade, others with fruit, beauty and other useful things. Many people of the world use a Tree as a symbol of peace and strength. With one mind, we greet and thank the Tree life. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Birds | We put our minds together as one and thank all the Birds who move and fly about over our heads. The Creator gave them beautiful songs. Each day they remind us to enjoy and appreciate life. The Eagle was chosen to be their leader. To all the Birds-from the smallest to the largest-we send our joyful greetings and thanks. 

Now our minds are one. 

The Four Winds | We are all thankful to the powers we know as the Four Winds. We hear their voices in the moving air as they refresh us and purify the air we breathe. They help us to bring the change of seasons. From the four directions they come, bringing us messages and giving us strength. With one mind, we send our greetings and thanks to the Four Winds. 

Now our minds are one. 

Closing | We have now arrived at the place where we end our words. Of all the things we have named, it was not our intention to leave anything out. If something was forgotten, we leave it to each individual to send such greetings and thanks in their own way. 

Now our minds are one. 

Poems of the Week

they asked her,

“why are we here at a time when there is so much misery and despair?”

she responded,

“because you answered the call. the earth signaled for heroes, and the heavens sent forth the ones who were most ready to grow and unleash their unconditional love, you’re here to shine the light of your own healing, to offer the world the gift of your balance and peace.”

~jung pueblo, inward

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,

vacation with pay. Want more

of everything ready-made. Be afraid

to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.

Not even your future will be a mystery

any more. Your mind will be punched in a card

and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something

they will call you. When they want you

to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something

that won’t compute. Love the Lord.

Love the world. Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace

the flag. Hope to live in that free

republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot

understand. Praise ignorance, for what man

has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion — put your ear

close, and hear the faint chattering

of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap

for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy

a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep

of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head

in her lap. Swear allegiance

to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos

can predict the motions of your mind,

lose it. Leave it as a sign

to mark the false trail, the way

you didn’t go. Be like the fox

who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

~Wendell Berry, from The Collected Poems of Wendell Berry

Laughter like rain | by Holly Hudley

I’ve been thinking about a kid I used to know, one I worked with in Gulfton some years back. The Gulfton area houses 71% immigrants and many languages in crowded apartments. 

This kid was slight, wore black rimmed glasses and oversized shorts. A little bit of fuzz sprouted from his chin. He could be described as bookish until you sit with him and notice the angel of death pendant and tattooed markings of having been jumped into a gang — a process which usually requires one to be beaten by other gang members or for the initiate to jump or kill a rival gang member. Gangs have their own rituals of belonging.

The whole class was a frustrating one for me. I felt like I talked at the kids while they zoned out. I was charged with teaching them about mindfulness and emotional well being amidst palpable trauma that buzzed in the air. This particular kid never said a word, sat impassive though not entirely inattentive with arms crossed low against his belt. At some point in the semester I changed tacks, let go completely of the lessons which probably felt like distant galaxies to them, and  began to sit with each kid one on one. I lead with a few questions to facilitate conversation and then just followed their threads. 

The day I got to his name on my alphabetized list I thought the conversation would be short and sweet, peppered with single syllable answers. It wound up being one of the longest and he was the only kid I got to. It was a rainy Thursday, fat drops pelting against the roof. 

I had no idea what his voice sounded like before then. I said something goofy, I don’t remember what, and he laughed. 

He had the most beautiful boyish laugh, one I will always equate with rain.

We got caught in one of those cycles where the laughter loops back and forth and by the time you’re finished laughing and laughing you don’t remember what made you laugh in the first place. Most of our conversation that day was spoken in the language of that kind of laughter. Something broke open.

What I learned about him was that he was one infraction away from being locked up. What I learned was that his gang gave him belonging and safety where he didn’t have it. What I learned was that there were consequences for leaving it. What I learned was that he had a younger sibling for whom he cared deeply, a sibling who looked up to him. What I learned was that he felt terrified and brave and tough and soft all at once. 

What I saw that day, the first day I heard his voice, his laughter, was the little boy with the goofy sense of humor who in other spaces could not risk letting that eek out from under his facade. I didn’t save his life or even change it. I was not heroic. I don’t know if he is locked up or if he got out of the gang. I don’t even know if he finished high school or remembers that day the way I do — rain, laughter, silences, words. For the remainder of the semester, the most I got was a sly smile and a quick fist bump. 

The day we sat in the hall and had a whole conversation peppered with laughter mixed up and swallowed in our shared air, we revealed something of ourselves to one another. It was a moment of grace without hierarchy, judgement, or empty promises. Just two inner kids who let their guards down, unable to stop giggling. Shared moments like this are connective and vulnerable and also unusual. They are what freedom tastes like.  What could it look like to craft a space inhabited by our free selves? By the child within unmasked by shoulds and oughts? If we lean into these moments, whether they be defined by grief or joy or uncertainty, something of ourselves is revealed in another. This is the idea of a non-separate self: I am in you and you are in me. Your laughter is in mine and mine in yours.

Image by Denise Johnson on Unsplash

Freedom | by Holly Hudley

Martin Luther King, Jr, or possibly Fannie Lou Hamer said it first: “No one is free until we are all free.”

Philosophically I 100% agree. I identify as a pacifist and have never advocated for war. I certainly don’t support slavery and work actively in anti-human-trafficking efforts in and around Houston. I also buy items from Target which are made in some countries with no child labor laws, in effect made by indentured workers. So I am complicit, too. Also, if anyone were to harm my children, I am pretty sure I house a rogue momma bear inside. 

I was faced with my ideals in a more intense way these last weeks with the abolition movement to rid cities and states of police forces and jails. I realized I didn’t have enough information to make an informed opinion, yet another layer of doing a deep dive into what do I mean by abolition and who do I mean when I say all are free? 

Freedom (n.): “power of self-determination, state of free will; emancipation from slavery, deliverance.”

Who is free in our country? Is freedom strictly an inside job or does it also require us to imagine systems where one has the most possibility for achieving said interior freedom? I think there needs to be a balance of structural and personal freedom to define it on a collective, societal level. That said, I love the books by Jarvis Jay Masters, a Buddhist who is on death row in San Quentin Prison. He claims his spirit to be free though his body is behind bars. This seems an incredible accomplishment. 

As I continued on my path of teaching, I solidified my belief that stronger school and community systems were prohibitive to incarceration. I received training in and helped implement restorative discipline measures in several schools. I have seen kids’ lives turned upside down by having family or peers involved in the criminal justice system. When I watched the documentary Thirteenth, it helped me put an even stronger frame around my thinking — 70% of people in jail have not even been convicted of a crime and many can’t afford bail or decent legal representation. They remain there because of poverty. Private prisons have become an investment strategy. In other words they are businesses whose capital gains rely on cells being filled. If I believe whole heartedly in restorative models in schools, why can’t that model extend to those identified as criminals? Restoration does not mean no accountability. It actually requires directly dealing with the crime in meaningful ways that allow for personal responsibility to take place. 

I don’t have a grand t-shirt collection like Bill, but I have one I love from the Equal Justice Inititiative (EJI) in Montgomery, Alabama. The white letters against black cotton read: Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done. I believe in the veracity of this quote. 

I understand the fear associated with the kind of thinking I am putting forth. What about killers, like the man who kneeled on George Floyd’s neck for nearly 9 minutes. Where does he belong? I’ve also witnessed individuals who have built relationships and even worked with the murderer of a family member. I am in awe of this kind of grace. I don’t know if I could extend it, yet I say I am a pacifist. How far am I willing to go? 

My hopeful self believes that if we invested public money on better communities, resources, schools, and mental health facilities, our dependence on jails would decrease dramatically. 

As for abolishing the police...I don’t yet know how I feel. I have a benign attitude toward the police, which is my privilege to say. I neither revere nor fear them. That is not the case for many communities. I watched a video taken by a home security camera of a little black boy playing basketball, probably about one of my son’s age, 9 or 10. He was in the driveway of his home, dribbling. You see him look at something off camera and stop mid dribble. He goes quickly, then, and hides behind the car in the driveway. We see come into view a police cruiser idling down the street. When it passes, the little boy resumes his game. So reflexive it is in some bodies to fear the police, to doubt that they are there for their well being, a reality proven time and again in the regular killing of unarmed black men and women. I can completely understand the desire to abolish a legal system you don’t feel protected by. 

Police are equipped with military grade weapons and tactics, including tear gas and grenades. In 1925, after WWI, tear gas* was banned by the Geneva Protocol because of the damage it caused...and yet police can use it on their own citizens. If the police system is abolished, we have to go deeper still. We have to look at how deeply we invest in weapons, in how firmly we protect the right for citizens to bear arms. If we abolish the police, who will we call to respond to mass shootings, which are so often carried out by delusional white men? Abolishing the police does not take weapons out of the equation. Far too many citizens have access to them. Currently I am more comfortable with reforming the police as well as where money is diverted, but thus far, that has not brought about desired changes. So what you read here, is my groping with an idea, with imagining different ways of being part of creating an equitable society where safety is not based on racial privilege. I have yet to reach a conclusion, but I am in process with my own blocks and biases. 

I say I am a pacifist. 

I say I am an abolitionist. 

I am still working on my commitment to both. 

Sculpture on the grounds of the EJI Memorial for Peace and Justice. Artist: Hank Willis Thomas.

*I refer to tear gas as any chemical substance that acts as an irritant to the eyes.

References: https://www.sciencehistory.org/distillations/a-brief-history-of-chemical-war; https://www.cnn.com/2020/06/08/us/military-tear-gas-protesters-trnd/index.html; https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/jun/05/why-are-some-us-police-forces-equipped-like-military-units

Two Narratives | by Holly Hudley

I was listening to the audio version of Austin Channing Brown’s I Am Still Here in which she writes about being pregnant during the course of her book. She knows she is having a son, a black son, and is overjoyed. As I did and I’m sure many other mothers, she loved him before she knew him. It is inevitable that parents have hopes and dreams and wonders about their children, who they will become, how the world will embrace them, and how they will change it back. 

No parent likes to think about how the world won’t embrace them. 

Channing-Brown writes about how she and her husband avoid talking about fear, avoid talking about when they will have “the talk” with their son, when they will have to hold him because someone called him the N word. I didn’t know before I married Josh about “the talk.” I didn’t know that almost ritual like, black parents sit their children down (and not just once) to teach them how to engage with police. “Hands on the wheel. Do not reach for anything. Yes sir. No sir. Announce your every move. No hands in pockets. Stay calm. And pray. Just pray that it works and you come home in tact.” Josh had to school me in this ritual, one he first remembers at age 11 when he was presented with photos of a family friend who had been beaten unrecognizeable by a cop for “a busted tail light” on his way home from a DJ gig. My kids first heard it when they were 5, 6, and 7, when my youngest pointed a water gun at a security guard and made “pew pew pew” sounds. He thought it was so funny, then. 

There are two stories in America. 1) The cops guarantee your safety. 2) The cops won’t guarantee your safety. Josh and I were given different narratives. 

I have had many parents, white parents, say to me, “Shouldn’t we all reach our kids to respect authority?” Yes, sure. But I don’t know a single white parent who teaches this respect so that their sons come home alive. They teach it out of reverence, not fear. 

I did not know this before I married Josh. I thought the beating of Rodney King in 1991 was unusual, a single occurrence. It was the first televised assault I had seen in my lifetime. I was 15, just learning to drive. No one ever said to me, “Here’s how you engage with police” because there was no expectation I would have to. I have since had roughly 15 encounters with police, during none of which I felt afraid, even on the one or two times I became defensive and threw my hands up. I have never had a gun trained on me as I reached for my glove compartment. I have never had to walk a cop through my every move. I have been laughed at by a cop for acting “smart.” But I was not perceived as a threat. If Josh has acted this way to a cop, he might not have been given the same grace. Even if he behaves perfectly, he might not be given the same grace. 

I thought the grainy photos of cops pulling out their billy clubs and fire hoses and tear gas were a thing that got solved by the civil rights movement. I thought that got fixed. I was wrong. The same year of the Rodney King beating was the year Josh was shown in another state, in another month, at another dining room table photos of his family friend with deep purple bruises on his back side, his arms, his ribs. Bruises darker than the color of his skin. This beating was not televised.

I write this not to dismiss the difficult job of the police. I write this because we need to know that there are two narratives. We all need to talk to our children about the reality of why, and we need to work to build a single system that prizes everyone’s safety. Everyone’s. 

As I’ve been re-reading James Baldwin, diving into Buddhist ideas of Interbeing, I agree completely with the principle that we are wedded, each one of us to everyone else. I agree completely that harm done to one is harm done to all. I agree completely that white America on the whole needs a soul examine. We need not turn away from suffering and claim innocence. We need to understand that suffering inflicted, permitted, or denied damages both parties. Suffering acknowledged, held, and healed is a balm to both parties. 

Gravis | by Holly Hudley

We are in a disorienting time. I am aware that anything I write will inadequately capture the complexity of our individual and collective feelings around the most recent events sparked by the killing of George Floyd. Protests are the means of the unheard, a tool for bringing attention to an issue, in this case the continued killing of unarmed black men and women without accountability. The protests, however, do not need our criticism and attention as much as the repeated incidents that lead to them. The protests are a symptom of something much larger.

Words I have heard that might apply to all that is going on:

Heartsick

Grief

Angry

Exhausted

Hopeless

Confused 

Decentered

Overwhelmed

There are more, and they may all be swimming around at once. I think the invitation here is to lean into the emotions, however uncomfortable, one at a time. As they get peeled back and we begin to feel discomfort, it’s an opportunity to examine and go deeper, not distract and dismiss. This is hard for many of us. We are so tempted by the quick fixes and rapid recovery. I say specifically to my white friends and colleagues, there is no quick fix to a 400 plus year old disease, and racism is a disease. 

Two things really struck me in the last few days, from a friend’s Instagram post and from the Jung Center. Both messages are similar. If we get trapped in guilt, shame, or powerlessness, we remain immobilized and we center ourselves in the story. It is good and well to acknowledge and experience these emotions, but to stay there furthers isolation. If we lean into grief, we might be able to place ourselves in community and grow empathy. 

Grief derives from gravis which means “weighty, heavy.” If we allow ourselves to feel the weight of this feeling, we might be able to touch the edges of what historically oppressed people have felt for generations. Transforming grief is an alchemical process, one that requires deconstructing one element in order to create new ones. It requires attention and intention, never carelessness. 

I shared this exchange on the Ordinary Life Facebook page recently: 

“What specifically do you pray? 

What do your prayers of lament, desire, despair sound like?”

 “That is a beautiful question. 

The action of lament and grief, the sound of a wail is my prayer right now.”

Invite the deep grief, for it is a symptom of deep love. We cannot feel one without the other. 

If you are looking for resources, for ways to learn and listen, I’ve seen lists like this circulating around the annals of social media. His blog is thoughtful and worth reading. 

https://www.orenjaysofer.com/blog/racial-justice

It is our souls that need healing. What a beautiful, mysterious, and challenging invitation that could also be the most fruitful thing we do with our lives. 

The Heaven of Your Heart | by Holly Hudley

they asked her,

“what is the key to saving the world?”

she answered,

“you. you are the key. heal yourself, know yourself, make yourself whole and free. release all limits so that your love can flow unconditionally for yourself and the world. this will open the heaven of your heart and it will guide you without fail.”

~yung pueblo 

I am indelibly attracted to writers who commit to lowercase letters. e.e. cummings, bell hooks, john a. powell, yung pueblo. Part of me likes the way they write profoundly about things that really matter with a slight dismissal of the rules. Another part of me just loves the sweetness of the lowercase alphabet. It reminds me of writing my letters in one of those wide lined books in kindergarten. 

In this particular poem, I am struck that yung pueblo calls on the bodhisattva within as the “one who knows.” I also love that she is the one who answers—the divine feminine. This interior space is simultaneously hidden and infinitely apparent. It is reminiscent of the trick Brahma, the Hindu god, played on humans. Instead of giving us the sky, the oceans, or the mountains, he hid human divinity deep within so that we would have to discover it there. It is the part of each of us connected to the greater whole, to the divine unfolding, that we must access in order to live fully into the truth of the truth of ourselves as well as acknowledge it in everyone else. Even if we didn’t ask for it, I imagine many of us are spending more time with ourselves in the last 76 or so days than we had planned. I am finding some rough edges in my being; the parts of me that are impatient with my beautiful boys or the parts that don’t like being so constantly visible to everyone I live with. I am grumpy in the mornings, and I swear too much. 

And yet, the rough edges are my teachers. They remind me continually of what I long to be, how I long for the smallest but most powerful nugget of my being to shine forth and “open the heaven of my heart” to all the world. Well, I would at least like to start by opening that heaven to my people, to my family, but probably most especially to myself. How are you doing with yourself? With the ones you live with and the ones you love? I hope you are finding gentleness somewhere in the fray, even if the day was bookended by uncaffeinated crankiness. However you show up, you are just the one you are looking for. 

This is the piece I won in the recent OL art auction. It reminds me of the Inner Eye. {piece by Susan Budge}

Here we are… | by Holly Hudley

This strange time has been, well, strange. 

Many of us miss our rituals, miss our people, heck we miss hugs. We miss things as they were. It’s difficult to hold that this new normal may be a while when our heads are still spinning about what has changed. What we thought would be a few weeks has turned into months. Some aspects of life are returning to some level of before, but many of us probably have trepidation of exactly what the rules are or how we should be! When I have been around people, seeing neighbors on walks for example, my inclination is to draw near, but my body seems to have already learned how to orbit around one another at six feet apart. It’s strange to find myself in this dance. So much is still unknown. 

Part of me wants to return to normal, but I think what was normal is categorically in the “no longer” camp! There is much that needed to change, that needed our attention in order to usher in the “not yet.” The in between is exposing a lot of anxieties and inequities. Certain populations (undocumented immigrants, those who are poor, who don’t have access to health care) are quite vulnerable. I hope we will attend to some of those gaps in meaningful, transformative ways. The in between is also producing a ton of creativity. Imagine what can happen when we approach problems with that same creativity coupled with plenty of time to contemplate. 

Creativity and love are the alchemical components of the in between. In Plato’s Symposium, a long dialogue about the meaning of Eros, the wise oracle Diotima proclaimed that love is in the metaxus, in the in between. Truth is we are always in between. Wherever we are — and we are most definitely very aware of being there right now — it means we have an opportunity to be IN love. We are held there. The in between doesn’t promise to be easy or even particularly gentle, but I do believe it presents us an opportunity to wake up to what is. 

I love our Ordinary Life community. It has always held us in the between, and it has always challenged us there, too. As we’ve grown, we’ve been attune to many not yet moments, which now reside in the no longer! The cycle goes on. I hope no matter where you are or how you are spending your time that you are finding time to pause, to appreciate or grieve or simply notice exactly what is. 

Spiraling | by Holly Hudley

I am drawn to spirals, how they contract and expand. 

Cynthia Bourgeault named the contraction infurling, the process of going inward. Infurling is not a fixed point, a final destination, but a process we go through any time we confront our grief, shadow, depth, or complexity. We grow outward by turning inward. This innermost space is what I liken to the true self, the teacher or guide. In this sense, contraction always leads to expansion as the spiral widens outward at every point. The spiral is a kind of paradox, two opposing forces that exist at once. If we are willing to look, we see that we contain this very same phenomenon in ourselves: a capacity for acceptance and judgement, for love and hate, for light and dark. 

Spirals are present at every level of existence, from the genetic construction of our DNA to our spiraling emotional worlds to the physical universe. A spiral galaxy, for example, is thought to be the only kind that can sustain and create life. They make up 72% of existing galaxies! They are not closed, but have arms reaching outward, perpetually open and creating.

My collage, depicting a conception of a spiral galaxy

 The labyrinth is a kind of spiral and represents the spiritual practice of going inward. It is the maze of our unconscious that when shone upon delights and frightens us with new awarenesses. In Greek mythology, Theseus enters the labyrinth to slay the Minotaur. He is then lead out by his muse Ariadne. Sadly, she was later abandoned by him as she slept. Carl Jung believed the myth to represent our own continual “slaying of monsters.” Perhaps our own betrayal too. Again, not a one time process. 

A depiction of a dream labyrinth from Carl Jung’s Red Book

Hilma af Klint, Swedish artist and mystic, explored the spiral as the foundational image of existence. Before abstract art was popularized, before women were accepted as part of the canon, she visualized through images the harmonic laws of the universe, from the micro to the macro. The spiral as a form goes from the smallest to the largest and contains both. Bear in mind she is exploring the interconnectedness of all things spiritually and artistically as science is discovering it in the physical world through evolution and relativity. 

Hilma af Klint, The Dove; No. 1, 1915

Around the same time, at the turn of the century, WEB Dubois develops a graphic language to talk about the progress of Black America for the World Fair in Paris. Here the lengthening lines of the spiral turn inward to represent the sum total of household and kitchen furniture owned by Georgia Negroes (a term used by Dubois, though one not commonly used today). As the value of their material lives expand, the spiral turns inward, perhaps signifying greater autonomy. It is simultaneously hypnotic and easily read. 

WEB Dubois, Plate No. 25, From Visualizing Black America, 1900

And finally, though the spiral here is a little more subtle, this is my visual conception of how a virus began at a fixed point and spiraled outward. It transfers from person to person with breath, the Latin for which is uncannily close to spiral: spirare. The breath is a source of life and death. For now it is connecting every single one of us.

My collage, Spirare, 2020

I can’t begin to draw fixed conclusions about the spiral, only parallels. Nor can I draw conclusions about this disease that is keeping us mostly indoors and separate from one another, yet united in our fixed attention to this one thing. We are simultaneously near and far.