Holy Cow

This is the artist’s statement that goes with Holy Cow debuted at the Fork-Off – Art and Animal Advocacy show at the Ladysmith Waterfront Gallery:

Holy Mother of Cows

prayings for all cows to be honored not eaten
to be marveled at not milked
wishing for all mother cow’s milk
to be offered only to their babies
and for the mammas to be able to keep their babies
and for mammas to not be artificially inseminated
and to not have, over and over and over again,
their calves taken from them
may they be free of
the grief the grief the grief the grief the grief the grief the grief….
may all baby cows know the comfort of their mamma’s love
their mother’s tongues tender cleaning loving,
nourishings of sweet warm white mamma’s milk…
not formula
made and fed by men
whilst babies bereft and confined in small pens
so we may have that which is truly theirs
and that’s the ones born girls
perhaps easier born boy
as suffering over sooner
may they range and roam freely-feeding,
nature-called
may they be safe, protected, held sacred
not scared, scarred hearts grief-struck
may humans respect, love, kindly provide
may the brutality,
of their lives ripped-from-them,
for us to carve
and consume
their bodies,
fully cease.
each cow holy, an individual
formed hoof-by-miraculous-hoof
and horn
and belly
and udder….
by mother
… nature
may their bodies remain unmutilated, their blood unspilled, unspoiled, may their eyes no longer grow-wide-with-fear and terror of no escape
may they feel the sun on their backs and sides and fronts
and their hooves and mouths know the warm-comfort of grass-grazings til their, nature-calling-the-time-and-tune-of-death, deaths
may we cherish their lives: “cow”, on this planet
as we cherish our own living and the living and loving of those we hold dear
may their blood remain life-giving rivers and channels within god-given bodies
and their skin stay theirs

3 in ONE Saint

3 in ONE Saint

“what we are looking for is what is looking”
~Saint Francis of Assisi

…..daring to depict
that which is looking…..

having been spoon-fed
playing it small…

this piece
a weaning
right off
the edge
of small

into
the taboo
of

  1. Big
  2. Bright
  3. Bold

and then
despite the thrill
of free falling….

having to ride
waves of
back-lashings:
this voice – not me – not mine – not I

too loud
too out there
too much
too showy
too overpowering
too strong
play it small
play it safe
keep to the shadows

the limelight, will mean (not kind)
at some point,
a bitter shaming bite

press Mute!

 

this Saint

a Serenade

3-in-ONE:

two profiles
and full frontal

divided
two-sided
and yet
a healed whole

the medicine
in mother and father’s tongue:

  1. Big
  2. Bold
  3. Bright

press Muse!

leave home

leave homeLeave home
Decide to
Even if it scares you
Especially if it does

Leave home
Even if it’s pretty
Comfortable
Safe

Leave home
Learn to love the leap
The abyss
If your heart is not racing
Precariously perched
Leave home

Acquire a taste for discomfort
A curiousity
Explore edges
And ravines
Open spaces
Elevators
Snakes

Leave home
Bring home
Be home
Where ever you are
Is home
Even if it’s on the brink

Drink home in
And then
Leave what you know
For vaster broader immeasurable horizons
For the lost and the forgotten
For the neglected and abandoned
The unlived, the unloved
The feral and the fraught

Don’t be afraid of ghosts
You are the ghost
And you are haunting your own house

Leave home

Burma – 3 week silent retreat in 13th century monastery

Burma NunsPersian-blue-headed birds…
Small emerald-bellied ones…
The plain mouse brown one
I love just as much…

Ecstatic fragility of butterfly
Chatter and scatter of squirrels
Warm ground
Sun-baked dogs
Red-bucket sun-warmed-water bath
Fleeting pleasure and graspings of curry
sticky black rice
Sweet milky morning tea
In small white cup
With small white saucer
Line-dried clean white shirt
One of two
Along with two brown longyi’s.
One night,
A few drops of rain?
Like a dream

Low drone of monk”s early morning chanting
Refuges and precepts
Absorbings of this buddha dhamma land
Offerings as if from it’s very pores
Candy pink and orange Nuns
in the evening
Even little ones
Filing in
On brown wide feet
Silent and slow
As peace
Bowing Chanting
Chanting chanting chanting chanting
Filling all space all time
Taking refuge:
Awakeness, truth, community
Vowing morality and non-harming
Bowing
Filing out
Feet floating
Saint-like smooth heads shining
otherworldly devotion love joy

The days pour forward
We begin to “move like we are under water”
Like molasses we flow in and out and around
This dhamma dance of silent surrender
Until there are no days or nights, mornings or evenings ….just a being carried….a oneness with seemless ever-present flow…

Steven says…”walk until you become a stranger to yourself”

I walk and sit and walk and sit
Wash and eat and walk and sit
Watch cycles of moons suns stars
Settings and risings
Ever-changing reflective light and shadow of
River running
wanings and waxings of
Body’s elemental nature,
fire, earth air water
mental moods like weather systems….hating, envy, greed
despair, comparing, rapture, tranquility, insecurity, impatience
anxiety, fear, panic, joy, love, gratitude, peace, equanimity
attachment, aversion, pleasant, unpleasant, neutral, resistance, boredom, longing, clinging
All
just
non-personal arisings and passings
Watching and noting until
My feet and sandals become
“Strangers to me”
teeth and knees and bladder just doing their thing
Not me, not mine…

I walk and sit until
No one arrives
At the door to my room
enters
seems it must belong to someone long past….
Whose shirt? whose tangle of covers?
Whose sash?, towel? hand-scratched notes?
Whose glasses? Hat?
Whose father’s watch
silently tapping time?
On whose chair? Beside whose bed?
And who lies down for their afternoon nap….

And who sees the silent early morning scene
Siloette of monk sweeping
backlit by golden rosy temple sunrise
It is both no time and it could be any time
It doesn’t exist anywhere
in particular…
Like a stage set
That could be stepped behind….

Whose primitive grinding tool-like teeth connected to whose skull…ahhh this body has death already in it….
Who experiences this chewing, this arising existing and passing of pleasant taste sense-door experience….who sees it’s fleeting nature….it’s unreliability…it’s tendency to fall away…to not offer up lasting happiness…who understands the pointlessness of seeking this kind of transitory happiness…who feels a deeper more satisfying kind of happiness at seeing and understanding this…this a sweeter dhamma pleasure as it has in it the possiblity of freedom from suffering….the taste of freedom from endlessly seeking insubstantial undependable kinds of happinesses….seen is the possiblity of the peace of no longer investing eggs in these bottomless baskets…

And the question then arises:
What is it that does not have within it’s nature…
the nature to fall away?