Extra innings

They said, “It will happen”. They said, “It was inevitable”. But like all children, I heard these words and inwardly whispered, “Not for me”.

Wrong.

Three weeks ago when I was photographing the crescent moon for a blog on lunar script, it was approaching the 845th time it would have phased in and out of my life. Translating these moon cycles into the solar calendar, today June 27, makes me 65 years old. Ouch.

Well, to be humanly honest, more than an ouch. In the midst of beauty, a palpable grief knocks on the shutting door to the one life I can call my own. And there are no words to describe how I will miss this human animal sensual erotic connection to all things earth fire water air.

As my sight dims and things become progressively blurry, rather than rage against the encroaching darkness my desire is to capture whatever light remains available and to count my blessings for a human life well lived and still lived.

See the face in the heart shaped stone? A stone head that is a little battered, chipped and broken. Birthday portrait of me.

More importantly, can you see the heart aura surrounding the stone? This heart aura only came about because the stone itself exuded heartness. The lesson here is that the face we present to the world ripples out across the world and shapes it, for better or worse. I, therefore, pray that I remain a heartist in the coming years even as the harsh teacher Gaia, with whom I have chosen to have a lifetime commitment, continues to instruct me. .

Today, on this very significant birthing day, I simply wish to state the following about what it has all meant:

There are many favorite poems of mine that I could pick to celebrate my 65th birthday. Let me share this one as it best exemplifies why I have chosen to live my life the way I have.

The Man Watching

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can’t bear without a friend,
I can’t love without a sister.

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wresters’ sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel,
(who often simply declined to fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Robert Bly)

As I have been sculpted by this “great harsh Hand”, may I continue to sculpt artwork that is technically and aesthetically pleasing, to be sure, but not shallow. Engaged and deepening is the art I’m after. Art as life and art as sculpture. Where both promote a human presence on this earth that is environmentally sustainable, spiritually fulfilling and socially just.

Time for some cake. And an extra piece or two. Keep those candles coming.

The only other blog on my birthday was eight years ago in 2003. Well worth a read.
Birthday