The levers to the bells above.  Thumbs not required.

July 4, 2009
5:22am, sunrise

I played a G.  The bottom octave.  I would have played more, but my impression is that normal human beings are sleeping at sunrise, particularly on Saturday, and my intention is not to tread on anyone's sugary dreams but my own.  I have decided to climb the old ladder to the bell tower 108 times, fit nicely as fourfold over 27 days, July 4th until July 30th, during moments of transit - sunrise, high noon, sunset (a longer bell session moving into twilight) and high moon (check your local listings; this one is a bitch) - with an intention of calling all those who are in transit, in the in-between spaces of being, to freedom from, let's say, gray-area syndrome.

Gray-area syndrome is something I just made up, which covers afflictions like confusion, adolescence, blurry vision, fear of commitment, mediocrity, seasonal affective disorder, indecision, facebook, rut-cycles, graduate school, sleepwalking, addiction to memories, numb resignation, and not being able to get through whatever this is to whatever is coming next (the last one being particularly relevant to those in the bardo of becoming, meaning, um, ghosts).  There are specific and powerful remedies for all of these little obstacles, I realize, but often those who suffer from gray-area syndrome, by definition, can not seem to grasp them.  Are you thinking you are not sure if this could be you, but aren't ready to look into it?  The bells now toll for thee.

I woke before my alarm, at 4:45am, afraid I might sleep through my own practice.  Twilight had already brightened the stained glass above my bed, and I was relieved not to need the flashlight and umbrella that some anonymous angel placed on my desk for me, along with a hot pink flower in a bowl of water.   It is good to be with others who support you in creating excruciating works that you yourself can not be sure are worth supporting.  On Sundays here at CAC, we visit each others studios and offer eyes and ears of reflection to one another about our journeys of practice.  Last week, when I told the group about the 27-day work I wanted to do, unsure whether it was art or devotion or heartbrokenness or something else, someone told me that the very idea of my project was already moving something around inside of her, and someone else said I should never doubt whether I should passionately walk forward into my destiny.  Well, ok, she said, "don't think about that shit and just do it."  And I let that feed me this week, all the way to this morning, this Independence Day at sunrise.  Someone who had visited my studio Sunday knew it could be very dark this morning, and, if the last week were any indication, monstrously rainy, and offered me a hand.  By the grace of god, or America, I didn't need that particular hand today.  The floating fushia petals, however, woke a part of me I'd forgotten about.  A sleepwalking part.

Not long ago, I came down the stairs from my apartment in Chicago to find a friend standing at my gate with a bunch of slightly wilted supermarket flowers, and while the context here is huge, this action was monumental to me, having weight and lightness like finding a $100 bill in the jar of change you were about to take to the Coinstar for groceries (which has also happened to me, by the way, because maybe its true that god takes care of fools and children and deeply passionate people with perpetual gray-area syndrome).  It's possible my flower-bringer had no idea what he'd done, because when I clutched his neck, sobbing in disbelief, he assured me that getting flowers for a person is incredibly easy, doesn't cost much, and can be done with relatively little forethought.  And he is right.  Picking up flowers for someone takes about as much effort and money as getting yourself a tub of hummus, and can often be done at the same location.  The power of the gesture is amplified by its intention, and by the presence in time and space that those actions line up and brighten so nicely. 

Ages ago I used to practice music, and then performance art, and then yoga, which are all the same to me, not just in that they demand the use of my right thumb, but in a certain way, ultimate way, that they are each practices of presence and awareness.  I believe that is all that is required to see miracles and experience transformation, to create a rich spiritual life. I am reminded now of a Bible verse, because sometimes I have these little hauntings from my spiritual upbringing which challenge me to expand my scope.  It is from Micah: "He has shown you, O man, what is good.  And what does the Lord require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?"  I think the justice and mercy part is a bit of a no-brainer, but this walking humbly with your god business is pretty much presence and awareness, which, albeit simple, is no small order.  The way I see it, walking with god can happen in one very specific location only (the judges do not accept "along the beach as scenes from my life flash across a dark sky"), and that is here, now.  I think the now moment is so very tiny, it is hard for us to get into it with our big awkward bodies and minds.  And it is unfortunate that we spend so much time elsewhere, because I'm fairly certain that tiny tiny spot of now is actually the tiny tiny front door of god's studio apartment (he's a live/work space kind of guy), and he keeps it unlocked.

So when, before dawn this morning, I shuffled down the spiral staircase with my contacts and my toothbrush, every yawn gaping with doubt that a single strike of a churchbell could carry any value whatever to the thousands of people who would sleep through it anyway, I went to my studio, to check my email of all things, for a message from god* saying that I was on the right track with this.  Instead I found a flower in a bowl of water, and I was so suddenly there, and so awake, and that was enough.







*I set up an email address for god some years ago, to help this along, but so far its all inbox, no outbox.