Category: Medicine Basket

So, I missed a lot of history lessons as a kid.

Maybe it was all the moving from school system to school system.

Maybe it was my preference for reading Little House on the Prairie over doing homework.

Here’s what I do know… a whole lot of my early awareness of the world had to do with music.

I was born in 1958.

I had older cousins who played guitars and sang. Much better than I did.

And they were folk rock fans.

As were my summer camp buddies.

So, when Women’s History month appears on my calendar, I start humming. (And, yes, I’ll spare you the audio!)

In fact, I woke up about 4:30 yesterday morning with The Age of Aquarius echoing in my mind.

Which was, in typical Muse fashion, followed by a bit of math on the days when women could not hold bank accounts in their own names or get a credit card without a man’s signature.

In the USA, that was mid-1960’s on the bank accounts and early 1970’s on the credit cards. Canada was about the same time frame. The United Kingdom was even later. Which I’m pretty sure means that Elizabeth II was crowned Queen about 20 years before it was legal for her to hold a checking account.

I’ll admit… progress has occurred.

And the limitations of the past still remain in the mists of our culture.

Here’s how I know…

We, you and I, were raised by adults who were raised by adults who thought men being able to sell property their wives had brought into a marriage was just the way things were. And so on and so forth, back to the days when women were property.

It’s no wonder this stuff is hard!

And it’s not that they didn’t mean well. Most of them. It’s just what they knew.

That’s less true these days. Now we know more.

And it’s time to get unstuck.

It starts with getting conscious about being stuck.

The next step is recognizing that our inclinations toward blame and shame are human but not truly helpful.

Then, it’s on to new tools because, no matter how bright and strong and committed we are, the huge majority of us could use some help.

And, yes, that means Medicine Basket your way… unsticking stuck money stuff!

We start April 5th.

Except that we’re going to go ahead and start right now, with a massively important question…

What do you want those who come after you to learn from the ways you deal with money???

And if – just maybe – you’ve got a bit more work to do before you’re where you want to be…

Get the answers you need and ENROLL NOW!

It might just be the best investment you’ll ever make!

ps… what could you do that really matters if your money stuff got unstuck?

pps… and whose life could be better if you did???

…or what my crazy project is actually trying to accomplish!

A week ago, I invited you along on the journey to make my space work better by re-using a bunch of stuff we already had and not taking out a reno-loan.

Well… welcome to the scrapbook of what actually happened. And is still happening…

The photo, above, is where things were Thursday night, after a whole lot of noticing and wondering, and some great help from the Legendary Husband and our favorite Fix-it Wizard.

What you can’t see is all the stuff that needed to be un-done in order to get there.

And all the times I changed my mind!

You see, I am not a visual processor. In the land of neuro-linguistic programming, I am a primary kinesthetic with a very strong auditory/digital back up. The visual stuff kicks in much later, for me.

Translation: emotions and movement and touch – or in this case – reach, come first. Then the words to explain what is or isn’t working. Then what it looks like.

The challenge is that, while all that information is already jumping up and down inside me, it takes me a while to engage it consciously.

This can be difficult for folks trying to help!

So, re-imagining!

And moving. And glazing. One step at a time.

By Saturday night, when I was home alone – well, except for the Studio Angels – I had time to start nesting. And then the lights came on in my spirit!

Yes, I needed to reach this better and have more space for that and all that kind of stuff.

But what I was really doing was externalizing my prayers for the world. Creating, if you will, a 3-D, functional sculpture of what matters most to me. Of what sustains me.

Suddenly, there was another voice in my head.

Porter Osborne, Jr. The anxious adolescent narrator in Ferroll Sams novel, run with the horsemen, which I have adored since the summer I did my student intern ministry in Pulaski, TN… which was also my first trip to the old South!

Porter described himself as having been “raised right” in the kind of family you might imagine in the rural South between the World Wars. The only son of an autocratic father and a (perhaps excessively) tolerant mother, deeply centered in the Southern Baptist church and a sharecropping economy.

I think I related to that so much because I, too, have been “raised right,” though by other families and traditions.

Part of me imagines some of the voices of those traditions looking at my project of intentional, externalized hope and suspecting they failed.

They didn’t. It’s just that now I know more. And I suspect that they – many of whom have walked on – do, too.

So, Madonnas and crystals and essential oils. A blessing bowl.

Symbols, each in their own way, of my prayers for the world. Hope. Fierce Compassion. Peace. And space for things that have been true since the beginning of time. Even the ones we thought we had to turn away from to stay “raised right”.

Your symbols could, quite rightly, be different than mine, for your path has been yours.

Here’s the thing… we are able to choose.

I choose with 2 granddaughters growing up in this world.

How will you choose?

ps… if you relate to this adventure, the Intentional Grandmothers Archetype Quiz might be your next step!

pps… just in case your choices might take – well – money, click here to check out Medicine Basket your way… unsticking stuck money stuff. We start soon, and we’ve saved you a place!

Today is designated as International Women’s Day 2022.

With a deep breath and a good dose of hope, I decided to leap over the obvious issue of there being just one day for recognizing the women of the world, and let my archetypal Intentional Guide Grandmother take over this blog.

She is, apparently, in a past – present – future sort of mood.

First, the beginnings of a poem I wrote during the 2016 US election cycle.

Grandmothers Lament

All over the world, children are crying.

Bleeding children in Syria.

Hurricane victims in Haiti.

Poisoned children in Michigan and the Dakotas and too many places to count.

All over the world, children are crying.

Children robbed of their families by gun violence.

Children robbed of their futures by disease.

Children robbed of their health by toxins everywhere.

All over the world, children are crying.

How do we shut out their cries?

How do we not act?

Are we heartless?

All over the world, children are crying.

We who do care are helpless in many ways.

Rendered voiceless by the power of vested self interest.

The power of greed.

All over the world, children are crying.

Hungry children.

Homeless children.

Abused, molested, victimized children.

All over the world, children are crying.

It is not our own greed that renders us helpless.

At least not mostly.

And yet we shout, silently, in the face of those who love power.

And a brief time out for the news break we cannot ignore in this moment… on this day when many of the world’s women are fleeing their homes with children and elders in the face of yet more lunacy…

All over the world, children are crying.

While the mighty grow rich waging war.

While the mighty grow rich selling power.

While the mighty grow rich killing the Earth.

All over the world, children are crying.

Let us take our fingers out of our ears.

Let us open our eyes in the light of day.

Let us shout until we cannot be ignored.

All over the world, children are crying.

Let us dare to hear.

Let us dare to hope.

Let us dare to act.

Amen. Amen. Selah.

Are you up for the dare?

It’s likely to take some tools. And a medicine basket.

It’s likely to take getting in touch with YOUR way of hoping and acting in the world.

So, tool number one… The Intentional Grandmothers Archeytype Quiz!

If you haven’t taken it yet, now is a great time. It’s free. It’s fun. It’s important.

If you have taken it, you might want to take it again! (The whole context thing might have shifted your perspective…)

And, no, you don’t have to be an actual Grandmother to take the quiz. Aunties, Scout leaders, teachers, even very brave Grandfathers… if you care, you’re welcome!

Take the Quiz!

ps… the lovely lady, above, insisted on joining the party today, even though she dropped in recently. With her quilt piece that reads, “In the image of the Divine, I create,” I could hardly say no!

pss… intrigued by Medicine Basket??? Stay tuned. Journey #2 is starting soon!

Okay, in the cosmic scheme of contextual challenges, maybe the dysfunctional stack of stuff next to my favorite hatching chair isn’t a big problem.

Maybe, the reason I’m obsessed with it just now is that it feels like something I can change in the face of so many things I can’t .

In any event, it isn’t working. And the more painting and coaching and teaching I’m doing, the more I need it to work better.

There are, of course, constraints. Space. Time. Mobility. Resources. Lingering reluctance to go to Ikea!

And, if the truth were told, I’m picky.

So, furniture Legos!

After debating a couple of other options, this is the winner for the base.

Gorgeous old wood my friends at Kudzu tell me came from Hungary. Oddly hinged seats I kind of prefer not to think too much about. Currently feeling lonely on our front porch.

And a clever, handy sort of friend with power tools due Thursday to help.

Experience suggests that having help also requires having an answer to my all-time favorite question:

What are we trying to accomplish?

First, I need it to hold lots of stuff.

My laptop.

Stacks of journals. Tissues. Remote controls. My phone. Essential oils. Symbols and meaning galore. Really, really dark chocolate.

Books, of course. An archaic paper calendar. Space for breaker bars and cords.

Also, accessibility is a must.

Oh! I also need a place to paint in here.

Which is kind of a separate issue, though not really.

So… tools I understand.

A measuring tape. Good, heavy paper. A soft, grey pencil. And a BIG eraser!

Two days of serious measuring and pondering, a couple of discarded options, a crazy dream, and several hours of sketching later, here’s where we are:

With the exception of a can or two of chalk paint, the whole plan is based in re-investment of underused resources. (And no antiques will be harmed – or even painted – in the making of this miracle!)

The prep work (ie – I can’t take it apart until all the stuff that’s there now goes on vacation!) starts tomorrow. A significant amount of dusting will be involved!

For this moment, though, another really helpful question…

What wants creating in your world?

I really hope you’ll share your answer in a comment or email me and let me know. suesvoice@gmail.com

Here’s the thing… creativity and hope are the best antidotes to fascism I know. And now is surely the time for that!

ps… planning for update pics next weekend.

pps… my sister-in-magic, Natalie Moyes, and I are gearing up for the next round of Medicine Basket… unsticking stuck stuff. And this time, it’s money stuff! (Stay tuned!)

Today, in my part of the world, is Ash Wednesday.

That sounds like a pretty simple statement. It kind of isn’t.

In fact, there’s a whole lot of math, and interpreted traditions, and even some astronomy, behind it. Or maybe it’s astrology. (I’m still learning!)

Anyway, Ash Wednesday, marks the beginning of Lent which, at its most basic, is a reflective journey toward Easter.

Whether you ate pancakes last night, or danced in the streets of New Orleans, or contemplated bridges and strategies like we did in Medicine Basket… unsticking stuck stuff, today is a movement toward newness. Every day is.

And newness does not always come easily.

There are a great many ways of marking this day. And a whole lot of we’ve always done it this way!

As is so often the case, we haven’t really always done much of anything the way we do it now.

I find that liberating, because it makes room for choices about both meaning and practice.

For me, what matters is intention.

My intention for this inner journey is to live healing and hope and fierce compassion, as best I can, in the world where we are.

My practice actually began on Sunday, when Bill helped to carry a badly broken favorite piece of art in from the porch.

She’d been hanging there for a while, after an unfortunate fall and a not terribly successful attempt at repair.

The photo, above, is what the world feels like to me. It’s not newly broken. It’s just that more of us are aware of it in these days.

Which might just be the beginning of hope!

For now, though, she’s been warming up. Adjusting to way less humidity, which is important for the repairs to come.

There’s a whole lot of work to do!

The cleaning starts next.

Here’s a better idea of where we’re starting…

Some of you may recognize her. She was born a painting.

Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus.

Some of you may know other stories about her.

Here’s one you don’t know…

She followed me home from a vintage & collectibles store, eight years or so ago. Along with a Miss Piggy lamp.

Really!

I knew why I needed Miss Piggy. My girls were coming to visit and I was fluffing up some space for them.

A very heavy statue of a Roman goddess rising out of the sea in a clam shell was not in the plan.

Oddly, though, she insisted.

So, Lent. Repairing a statue.

With my hands. And a YouTube video about this particular kind of surgery.

With my heart. And as much being fiercely compassionate hope as I can manage, even amongst the brokeness.

You’re invited along!

ps… for you Medicine Basket folks, 5 times around!

pps… stay tuned. Medicine Basket… unsticking stuck money stuff starts soon!

…or, dreaming under a Codex painting in a time of war.

According to some of the experts, it’s called lucid dreaming.

Those dreams where you know you’re dreaming and may actually have a bit of editing influence on the dream, itself.

I’ve been spending a good bit of time in that land lately. Generally early in the morning, when the paintings wake up.

You’ve seen bits and pieces of this one lately. Last night, it was the whole team! The masculine and feminine voices of the Creator of my understanding, leading a tour of memory lane.

First stop, Hungary. January of 1989, before the Eastern block fell. A handful of seminary students, one of our professors, a guide from the synod office of the Hungarian Reformed Church, and a very patient driver.

Mostly countryside, between cities. Roads with enough curves to make me feel dizzy in the back seat of the van. And Russian tanks in the fields beside the roads.

A nation of history where any question was likely to yield somewhere between 700 and 1500 years worth of answer. (Even from school children!) And a seminary student from, at that point, Romania, who said, with tears in his eyes, that he grew up checking the news every day to see who was in charge and where he lived now.

It rattled all my filters, then, and it still does, now.

We moved a lot when I was a kid, but we were choosing. Going somewhere with more opportunity. Not imagining the whims of the latest dictator-in-charge.

Next stop, Tennessee. The winter of 1991. The beginning of US involvement in the Gulf War.

I was recently ordained. Recently installed as pastor of the St. John Presbyterian Church. Female. And not from around here.

We all showed up at church that morning… the NASA crowd and the farmers and the tech folks, the city administrators and the solid rocket fuel types and the grandparents, knowing that, by Monday morning, we would be at war. Or not.

And, as so often happened on a Sunday morning, I needed something to say.

I don’t remember the whole sermon.

I do remember trembling in my blessedly flat, rubber soled pulpit shoes, the whole time.

And, I remember, vividly, my last words in that sermon.

May God have mercy on us all.

And then the bombs began to fall, on TV.

This morning, as I lay curled under one of my quilts, all spooned together with The Legendary Husband in the land of lucid dreaming, I began to hear voices from paintings on some of the other walls.

First, my Artisan (or Taliswoman) painting from Color of Woman® 2018. She’s known, these days, as The Fiercely Compassionate Artist.

And then, Bella Mama, who found form during the recent Mexican border crisis when children were being tragically separated from their families.

It was almost as though they had a committee meeting going on and the result was this…

May we, in partnership with the Divine, live mercy in this world. Now.

I wouldn’t be too surprised if you were wondering why I was telling you all this.

And you’re right… it is a whole lot of sharing, even for the writer and preacher who live inside me.

The part of me who trembled her way through that sermon in 1991, is trembling, still.

And yet..

I have 2 granddaughters growing up in this world.

I can’t not say these things.

And they come with a couple of questions…

What is THAT true for you?

And, HOW will you live it?

ps… sometimes asking new questions is at least as important as any particular answer!

pps… in case your walls need something to say, check out the original paintings section at FierceArtWithHeart.

When I finally headed to bed last night, I left that index card on top of my laptop where I’d see it first thing today.

Sometimes, my memory needs a bit of nudging and, well, what with Medicine Basket starting, I was happily energized/exhausted and open to all the help I could get.

Apparently The Muse and Grandmother Moon had a meeting and decided to let me sleep in. They also made a plot!

I woke with a head full of Harry Chapin!

It took several cups of tea – and quite a bit of singing along – to figure out why.

First… a bit more singing along. (You’ll know this one, too!)

Now, for the surprise…

With all due respect to my old friend, Harry, it feels to me like all my life’s a spiral.

Not doing donuts in a parking lot.

Moving outward. Reaching further. Claiming more truth.

And, yes, it can be a little scary, sometimes.

What we’re really talking about here is the notion that, if we truly open ourselves to life, our stories are going to get bigger.

Family stories. Safety stories. Self image stories. Career stories. Possibility stories. Spiritual stories.

And, at the risk of an all-in kind of notion, maybe even political stories.

Our Inner Critic, the Queen of Map of Reality Land, gets anxious!

Which is okay.

Though often better with company.

Which is, when you get right down to it, the Big Why? at the foundation of Medicine Basket your way… Unsticking Stuck Covidian Era/Contextual Stuff, Now!

We started, officially, last night and the magic is already happening!

And, there’s still time for YOU to join us, if the notion of a spiral, in which our stories get bigger, and some other amazing peeps along for the journey, is calling to you.

Here’s the thing… if you’re in, you absolutely have to sign up by Friday, the 25th.

So, click the link. Check it out. And let yourself wonder if, maybe – just maybe – you’re ready to bust out of the circle and experiment with spirals!

All my life’s a spiral!

ps… Thanks, Harry!

pps… Natalie and Pearl and I’ve got you!