Tag: spirit

New Year’s Poem

One year ago,
at nearly this very minute,
i was being rushed
to the hospital.

The bits of me
that were still working
knew i was dying,
and felt grateful
that my suffering
would finally end.

Only, it didn’t.

i survived.

For months,
i was an egg
without a shell,
needing comfort and protection,
crushed by the smallest things,
barely making it through
my obligations.

But my spirit healed.

i have felt more sublime peace
in these past few months
than in the decade before.

It has become the rule,
rather than the exception –
which is why this feels so miraculous.

Today, i have been
unable to focus
on fiction or poem,
on chores or art.
Instead, i have been full
of quiet, thankful prayer.

My bones,
my soul,
have rested
in these thanksgivings.

If i could move
with greater fluidity,
i would be dancing –
but slowly,
to the rhythm
of my heartbeat,
so this spell
of contentment
would not be shattered
by endless nattering thought.

This moment
is a blessing
i almost didn’t experience.

Tomorrow does not come
with any guarantees.

My entire life
gave me the gifts
that led me to this altar
with three candles lit:
one for Love,
one in gratitude,
and one looking forward,
with eager anticipation,
to the miracle
of another year.





Happy New Year,

asha fenn, 1 January 2018

poem: the still, quiet voice

She wanders the desert,
still reeking of alcohol,
unsteady on her feet.

At a volume
found only when
profoundly drunk,
she shouts
what she knows is the truth,
but the barren landscape
is impassive.

It cares not
for any
of her warbling words.

Loneliness paints the horizon,
shades of blue cover the mountains.

A powerlessness pervades
against which
she stomps her feet
and redoubles her efforts
to vanquish her body’s oscillations,
to stand straight and strong.

She will be heard!

She knows where to go,
she can see what needs
to be done,
if only reason

7 november 2015

cognitive dissonance

I took another day off today.  I wrote, I surfed the Internet, watched Hulu, listened to the storm outside my window.  There was no great master plan behind the time off, just pure emotional and psychological need.  I woke up so low this morning, I was having to find reasons to keep moving through the day.  The inertia was crippling, and I could not make it out of the house.   The weather meant firing a kiln was out of the question, so I convinced myself fate meant for me to have another chance at rest and relaxation.

Before bed, though, I started painting.  I blacked out the canvas, letting the darkness of my mood take over.  This is what I came up with:



it it could not be more different from my mood.  Indeed, she is the sibling of another painting, the one I took off the easel because I thought my mood was too desperate to work on something that happy.

Tucked into bed, I am marveling.  I do feel soothed from the time with the paintbrush and pallet knife, and utterly mystified at the art pouring through mt at this desperate hour.  Where is the joy, and the love, and the shining brightness coming from?

art of the broken

IMG_2946 I took nearly an hour and a half the other day and put up all the pen and ink drawings I have created while at galleries and during hours of enfeeblement at home.  Granted, I was moving slowly and talking on the phone at the same time, but there are a lot of these works.  They began to stretch across the walls of my living room – holy spirits, goddess figures, lovebirds, prayers.

This is the art of the broken for me, something I have been doing when I am unable to manage other work.

What amazed me, though, was how much art this broken artist had created.  IMG_2947Seeing it all up on the wall filled my heart with joy – because it turned what had been something that saved my sanity and made me feel less powerless into a landscape of beauty.  Some I like more than others, of course, that is the way with art.  Unlike children, you can pick your favorites.  However, I was pleased with picture after picture.  As I took them out of the bin, I kept smiling.  Some of these just thrill me.  Two more crept into the bedroom, hanging on the wall, more personal prayers than for the walls of the living-room.

IMG_2948The last sequence, posted above my desk, were some broken-hearted musings.  I kept thinking about all the the times love has left my life – and eleven panels of pen and ink and prose poem, I reached the piece that made me feel better.  Those panels will post over the next few days.

Mostly, today, I am grateful that I have the ability to make art even in my brokenness.  At some point, I will be better able to conquer my to-do list and throw my guts out, but for now, these quite, lovely drawings make me smile wildly when I walk into my rooms.




The Holy Spirit and the Goddess

I love the image of the Goddess – in my mind it is the feminine sidgoddessandspirit6e of God. We anthropomorphize the “He” of the Divine, when God is so much more than any gender or form. Still, just as Igoddessandspirit3-150x150 adore the image of the Madonna, this image of the full figured, female God delights me. When I add the Holy Spirit with those magnificent tail-feathers, it just gets better.

At any rate, these images make me smile.

goddessandspirit4-144x300Now I want to draw a couple more…goddessandspirit5-229x300

poem: creative spirit

The clay of my vessel has cracked,
the brilliant burning heat of firing
was followed too quickly
by the frozen cold of reality.
From these cracks,
my spirit leaks out
in huge waves
and tiny drops,
but always pouring forth
into the world.
Thankfully, I have drawn
on a healthy supply of love
or, perhaps, what moves
out of my fingers
has its origins
not in self at all –
but instead comes from
the deepest wells of being.

20 january 2013

at most half

I just found out from facebook that someone kind and compassionate died and it broke my heart a little.  Certainly enough to set aside my personal panic for a moment and remember the gift of wisdom he had given me.

Probably six years ago, in the middle of a terrible time in my life, he made a huge difference with one sentence.  Sitting in his office, we had discussed the various ways in which my body was unhappy, but then we moved onto my heart.  At the time, messages that I was a terrible person inundated me. The only love I had believed in was being stripped away and I felt worthless. This lead our conversation to memories of people who had hurt me and how I always had this lingering fear that I was actually as terrible as they said – or that I would suddenly become abusive and cruel despite all my efforts to do no harm.  In a way, this cost me having children of my own – for not even my then-husband felt believed I could get past the anchor of biology or that I had anything worth putting forward into another generation. These forces had broken me down. Without judgment, this doctor listened to my worries and fears, and then smiled at me with compassion as great as I have ever known.

“At most half of who were are is from our parents, from our biology – but our soul comes from Spirit.”  I remember that he gesticulated first up toward heaven, then all around us.  Sunlight streamed in through the windows to his right, and his hand passed through them – as though he pointed out the divine permeating everything.  He smiled again, warm as the sun, “Spirit is what makes you who you are.”

With that one sentence, I felt like hope had been poured into me. No longer was I condemned by the past or by DNA. Quite literally, everything about how I thought about my life and myself changed.

And that was one sentence during one appointment.  How many lives did this man change?

Thank you, Dirk.