Of Attics and Inheritance by Mara Buck

                                  

     My mother was an only child, a careful girl preceded by an only-child mother, equally docile and precise, so their toys and books were in remarkably pristine states when I came along.  I was also an only child and there any similarity ended.  I was not destructive, not wanton; I merely was interested in how things were made; their components.  I did in fact write on pages of books --- I had taught myself to read at a rather precocious age since I heartily disliked the laboriously slow process of being read to --- and I created my own versions of new books from the old, a pastiche of childish chaos, and a truly unfortunate choice for any potential collectible resale. 

(Whatever was I thinking?) 

    

     Left to my own devices in the attic, rummaging through boxes of books, old magazines, any printed matter I could find, I devoured, gobbled, gorged.  By inheriting so-called children’s books from another age, I inherited the stilted vocabulary of those authors as well.  Unfortunately, my family’s storage was heavily slanted in the direction of the “moral” tales of Pollyanna, Elsie Dinsmore and the Bobbsey Twins, all loathsome for myriad reasons.  I was temporarily rescued by Alcott (whom I still found insipid despite Jo’s gumption), was distressed by the cruelty in Black Beauty and Beautiful Joe, and thoroughly enjoyed Jack London and Frank Buck, and the nature-adventure life they portrayed, although I suspect if I revisited them today I would find the tales seeped in prejudice. 

     From kindly neighbors I was given hand-me-down Golden Books aplenty which seldom interested me since they were so short (a five minute read at best) and also decidedly lacked drama and character development, and moreover they were “pleasant” and I’ve never been particularly good at pleasant.  Then I discovered 'Twain' as if some guilty secret under the covers:  The Prince and the Pauper, Tom Sawyer and Huck.  Here was some stuff!  Boys got to do things beyond playing with dolls and keeping their clothes neat.  What a fabulous idea!  I still have a soft spot for ol’ Sam and I did indeed once build a raft, which floats forever in my memory.  A lovely metaphor, but in actuality, it sank.        

    

     Perversely however, as is my penchant (that Edwardian vocabulary again), today I would award favorite childhood book status to the story of Miss Flora McFlimsey by Mariana, bought specifically for me (not inherited!) by my grandfather, who on the Christmas that he died, gave me the accompanying doll as well.  A thoroughly charming story, Flora was a forgotten doll in the attic (I could identify) that was resurrected as a Christmas gift and freshly-beloved thereafter; lovely illustrations without becoming too saccharine.  I believe there was a mouse involved ---isn’t there always?  Contrary to Tom and Huck, Flora delighted in tiny lacy handkerchiefs, buttoned shoes, and arrived complete with a trunk full of feminine foibles to tempt even the most stalwart of denim-wearers; a book and a doll that I did not destroy.  Flora was mine alone, she was instant memory, and you do not destroy memory.       

   

     Irrespective of their literary value, the characters in children’s books burrow deep into our subconscious, and sometimes we unwittingly parrot their personae, even into adulthood.  We are Peter and Wendy, Tom and Huck, Jo March, Dorothy, Christopher Robin, and even some of us (I say with a shudder) Pollyanna.  I myself shall always tiptoe out of that attic alongside Flora on a magical Christmas Eve to a place where there is a happily-ever-after fresh start, despite wearing the costume of a discarded century. 

    

     Flora, the doll, rests resplendent in tissue in my own attic, along with her book.  The photographs of my grandfather are downstairs, with me.

Mara Buck writes and paints in the Maine woods. The manuscript for her novel Highway To Oblivion was named a Short-Listed Finalist for The Faulkner-Wisdom Prize.  Recent prize-winning poems appear in Carpe Articulum and in Caper Literary Journal, with other work included in Vwa: Poems For Haiti and on Poets For Living Waters.  She is the creator of the gallery-sized installation “A Year In Oblivion” a daily art chronicle of the life of a breast cancer patient, examples from which will soon be published in Drunken Boat.

 

More of her writing may be seen at:  http://www.redroom.com/member/MaraBuck

Her videos may be seen at: http://www.youtube.com/user/marabuck

And, an art/poetry/video for the World T

Owls by Danica Davidson

Danica Davidson is a writer who likes to write on all different topics and in all different fields.  She also enjoys changing her writing style to fit with whatever she's working on at the moment.  To date she's sold a few hundred articles for places such as Booklist, Publishers Weekly and the nature journal Whisper in the Woods, which is where this article on owl folklore was originally published.  She's also written the English version of Japanese books for an American audience.

Danica wants her next step to be into the realm of fiction.  She's currently looking to sell her YA novel, which is a sort of "mythology meets high school" tale.  Please visit her website at www.danicadavidson.com 

Owls 
by Danica Davidson

In folklore, owls are images of wisdom or symbols of doom, along with everything in-between.  With their peculiar looks and nocturnal habits, there is an air of mystery about them that lends to all sorts of legends.

The symbol of owls as intelligent, while seen in various cultures, is most famous thanks to Greece.  In ancient Greece owls were often perched around Athena, goddess of wisdom.  To the Greeks the sight of an owl could mean good luck, a sign Athena was watching over them.  As time went on her sacred animal continued to be used for concepts of smartness, giving way to the Western World’s notion of the Wise Old Owl.

In Native American beliefs, these birds run the gamut from being respected to feared.  According to the Sioux, a mystical owl named Hin-Han stands guard at the Milky Way.  Spirits must pass him in order to reach the blissful afterlife, but before this happens they are judged.  If they do not have the proper tattoo for entrance, they’re cast into an abyss.

From the Iroquois comes a tale of Owl’s creation.  A god called Raweno was creating animals and Owl, still not formed, continued to pester him and show great arrogance.  In anger Raweno grabbed him, pushing down Owl’s head and yanking at his ears.  Owl’s eyes went big with terror, all this leading to his present condition.  Raweno then banished Owl into the night.

According to one Passamaquoddy tale, the Owl isn’t easily good or bad, but a clever trickster who gets what he wants.  Using shapeshifting, precocious plotting and even a magic flute, he’s able to marry a human girl.  At first the girl resists, only to succumb.

These days connotations with owls are usually positive.  They’re seen as beautiful, enchanting birds and mascots for students.  But they’ll always retain their mysterious side, and because of this they’ll continue to captivate our imaginations.

Self-Care by Karen Monroy

Dr. Karen Monroy is a spiritual psychotherapist, economist, author, CEO, wife and mother. She is passionate about teaching Sustainable Prosperity, the Spiritual Principles everyone needs to live fulfilled, joyful and prosperous.

Her book, the 30 day Money Master Mind Make-Over has won a National INDIE Excellence award and her new book for Children, “mommy what is rich?” is nominated for several awards.

Self-Care

Most people are not very good at self-care. We spend wasteful hours trying to figure out why. I want you to know the reason “why” doesn’t matter.

What does matter?  You see the loop of reciprocity between your ability to live joyfully, productively, and with equanimity to self-care. It would also greatly serve you to recognize whether it is the art of motherhood, or the art of writing or painting, there is indeed a correlation between self-care and the demonstration of your art. 

Obvious objections may be Van Gogh and his famous ear incident or Ernest Hemingway’s life and suicide.  Clearly, unhappy artists can do great work. I’ve sloughed through hundreds of studies asking, among other questions, “Is writing a dangerous profession to your health?” and “Are artist’s happy?” Not one study has posed the question:  how much better could the writer or artist have been if they were able to sustain happiness? This phenomena happens everywhere: think of Daryl Strawberry, Babe Ruth, and Mickey Mantel –yes, they were terrific baseball players, but you know the drugs, booze and partying held them back.

Let me ask you this: do your negative emotions and bad habits hold you back? 

I rest my case.

Furthermore, it’s unfortunate that self-care is often confused with excessive, narcissistic tendencies. While preferences in meaningful self-care are to be expected, you don’t have to leave your family, fly to a private resort, or spend money to practice self-care.

Artists and writers as a whole tend to avoid practicing self-care. All artists will experience the ebb and flow of creativity, some even experience severe blockage. I’ve also noticed a direct correlation between the duration of a blockage and the ebb and flow of creativity to their ability to administer self-care.

I teach Spiritual Principles. While form appears different in life for each of us, Spiritual Principles are universal. The Spiritual Principle of Awareness is a requirement for a sustainable, joyful life and the maximum demonstration of your art, regardless of its expression.

Most of the time when I begin to speak with artists about awareness, they think I mean introspection. Introspection is a perceptual organizational tool employed by artists. It’s a way of immersing ourselves deep within life in order to discern the discrete components. The kind of introspection used to describe an experience in detail is not the same awareness that assists us in being able to navigate our experience.

I’ll say that again: description doesn’t lead to navigation. Introspection and Awareness are not equals.

It’s our conditioning, training, and habituations that would have us naively believe we can easily navigate life (and its stories) simply by knowing the content of the life.

Have you noticed the natural inclination toward introspection when you are titling toward misery as opposed to joy? We question our misery, but never question our joy. It’s a paradoxical element of human beings that joy is self-evident but misery is not.

Do you ever wonder why you do not stop for introspection when you are joyful? Why does this feel good? Why do I even think this is good? What do I think this means?

A practice of awareness (quiet mind, meditation, prayer—whatever name you would like to call it) recognizes the differentiating aspects of content and our judgments of “good” and “bad” about the content. Awareness recognizes how little we know about the bad, but even less about the good.   Awareness further distinguishes what you know about the good and the bad has nothing to do with navigation of it.

Our limited awareness of the full spectrum of emotions—the good and the bad—is blockage to good self-care.  All emotions are sacred. We are given all of them as a means to navigate through life. Emotions contain vital life affirming information about the alignment we are in (or not in) with regard to our purpose. All emotions are necessary to create our masterpiece to the fullest expression of our glory.

It simply isn’t true that consulting the jury of thoughts manifesting as your miseries, accusers and rebukers is more helpful to express your art and navigate the content of life. 

Authentic self-care fosters loving, kind, joyful consultations. It breaks the false beliefs that suffering is required to create. Until we practice awareness and learn to harness the full spectrum of emotions, we’ll never know how great an artist we truly are.