The Photographer

The Photographer

"You're alluring,"
says the man
photographing my art.

"Would you consider
letting me
shoot you
sometime?"

Standing behind my painting
I consider
his offer
for a moment.

Standing behind my painting
I consider
(for a moment)
how nice it is
to be seen.

- Amy L. Alley, 2011

Poem - Good Junk

GOOD JUNK

Cleaning the silver jewelry
outside on a summer day.

The tarnish yielding
to an almost white shine.

I look at the ring I bought when I was 12,
and have had repaired at least a dozen times
(because I'm really too rough
to wear delicate things).
It's been with me a long, long time
since I discovered it in a $2 pile
at a local thrift shop.

And then, the pendant
that was actually an earring
discovered in a box of junk
my dad decided
was good enough to be picked up
and picked through.

It was black with tarnish
and had no mate,
but I saw the Many Goats signature on the back
and knew that meant
something.
As did the beauty
of the stones
that spoke to me
through layers of grime.

I polished the earring
then broke it apart
(because it had no mate)
and strung it on a necklace.
I wore that necklace during winter months
when I was sure I'd spend the summer ones
in Teec Nos Pos, Arizona

I ended up in Helsinki instead
Blown just a little off course
from the American deserts
to the edge of the Baltic Sea
(and the edge of
a lot of other things as well.)

But I've always had a knack for
veering off course.
Just like I've always had a knack
for changing the shape of something.
And being able to see
beyond the tarnish
to the white shine.

I slip the necklace on
It's cold against my skin
I'll wear it in the summer months
and wonder what winter will bring...

Trust Lessons from Stray Cats and Wandering Hobos....

The cat has been hanging around the house for months. I've tried many times to just get close to him, but he's always bolted like a rocket.

I'd try approaching him quietly, talking in a low voice, but he never seemed to appear at a time when it was convienent. It was always when I was coming in from the supermarket or on my way out the door to somewhere else. And the appearance of my energetic, almost seven-year-old son bounding out the door joyously (as he always seems to do), would usually send the stray cat bolting if my own  presence hadn't already managed to do so.

Until a couple of days ago when, inexplicably and in an unprecedented display of a sudden decision to trust, the cat not only let me get close to him, but let me pet him as well. It was morning, and I was on a stroll around the gardens, cup of coffee in hand. It was early, my sacred morning time (which I accomplish only by rising at 5:30am),  and I was almost startled when the cat suddenly appeared, strolling out from the sunflower patch where he'd been resting. He caught sight of me and I expected to see a flash of tail and black-bottom feet disappear around the fence corner, but this time....he stayed. And as I whispered softly to him, he twitched his tail, blinked his eyes, tapped his front feet up and down, and made some low sounds back to me.

This is all communication...cat-speak for, "I want to know you."

I went back inside, grabbed some dry food, and returned.. He was still there, and I shook the cup of food a few times before putting it into the kitty bowl. Then I knelt beside it. This is all communication, too. Offering food to a stray animal is human-speak for, "I want to know you."

The magic worked. After circling me and meowing several times, he finally approached the food bowl, despite it's dangerous proximity to me. And when I reached out to touch him, he didn't slink away, but remained, allowing me to pet him. I couldn't believe it, and  I couldn't stand this strange and wondrous new development on my own, so I slipped into the house and awoke my son, telling him that "Gray Kitty finally let me pet him!" I told my son how to come out the door quietly (as opposed to his usual 'bursting forth into the world') and to slowly approach from behind me, making no noise or sudden movements, and he did it all just right. As a result, he was able to pet Gray Kitty as well, which was the equivilant, to my animal-loving child, of Santa Claus showing up unexpectedly in mid-July.

And so it has gone on and on. Every day we have some time with Grey Kitty, who we've 'named' Lamington Deer (don't ask why, please...) and who occasionally still bolts away for no particular reason I can see. But he also has climbed up into my lap, allowed me to pick him up and hold him, showed me his belly and allowed it to be rubbed (ultimate sign of trust for most animals as it's such a vulnerable spot), and allowed my son (who approaches him now with the quiet grace of a Ninja Warrior walking through a motion-activated security field) to pick him up as well. He doesn't know it, poor kitty, but once he's tame enough for me to put him into a carrier he'll be taken to the vet for shots and a slight 'alteration' to his manhood, for he on occasions gives my little female kitties an unnecessary chase. But bottom line is the question that my son asked me last night: "Is he going to be ours now?"

"I'm not sure," I replied, "It's really up to him." And this is true. He's never been 'owned' before. He may not want to hang around in one place after at least a few years of stray nomadic-ness. It's a tough qeustion to answer. I remind my son, however, that what matters is not him becoming 'ours' in the end, but that we are showing him kindness and love right now. This small creature has decided we are worthy of his trust. And I'm not only flattered, I'm honored, because there is no greater judge of a person's character than a stray animal. This is universal knowledge to the point that years ago, travelling hobos used the image of a person holding out a bowl of food to a dog as a symbol for a house where one might find kindness. And in Medieval Europe, the image of a woman with a bowl of food surrounded by cats meant the same thing. These drawings were usually crude and stick-figurish, but there is a truth behind them than animals seem to know, and the down-and-out can sometimes see through to the soul of a person and know a truth about them that others often miss because thier vision is too clouded with a sense of thier own grandeur.

So whether or not Lamington Deer becomes ours, he's giving me a lesson in trust that I find heals my spirit. My heart leaps when I step outside and see him there amidst the sunflowers. It makes my soul smile each time he lets my son and I pet him. I needed this lesson, I know and perhaps the kitty knew as well. Or rather, I'm sure he did. He'd observed me from afar for quite some time, after all, and cats are considered healers in many countries both in the past and today. My Reiki-practitioner friend has told me that cats naturally do Reiki because they have an ability to heal hurt with positive energy. I can feel this happening in me, with each closeness that he allows. (Why did it need to happen? View my other blog at http://www.boldnessinitiative.blogspot.com/ and look for the 'Sad Eyes' post.)

And now my son is awake...the sacred morning time, so fleeting these days, is suddenly filled with, "Can I have breakfast?", "Can I watch cartoons?" and now the new mantra, which pleases me greatly: "Can we go outside and see if Lamington Deer is still there?"

"Yes," I say to all three.

Bonsai and the Art of Not Being Tame(d)

Wild: Being in a state of nature, i.e. not tame.

I was feeling bad about uprooting the small tree that had taken root in my flower bed, but it could not be left to grow there, so close to the house. Still I was surprised when a nieghbor suggested that instead of replanting it, I try my hand at Bonsai.

Bonsai is one of those art forms I'm on the fence about. It's essentially about restricting growth. Controlling and taming the wild until what should have been towering and free can fit into a tiny pot is simply not my cup of tea.

I can appreciate the history and technique behind the art, but I can't help feeling like Bonsai are the 'Stepford Wives' of the tree world. They look the same as thier wild sisters, only they are celebrated for being smaller. Which is odd to me, because what they become, essentially, is merely what someone decides they should be.

It's hard to ignore the fact that the art form originates in the same area of the world where women were forced to wear shoes that basically cobbled thier feet until they were so ridiculously small the women could barely stand, let alone walk...or run free. And it's hard to ignore the fact that man's ability - and need - to tame the wild seems to be the purpose of both of these customs.

Trees and women share a sisterhood. Julia Butterfly Hill (http://www.juliabutterfly.com/) lived in the canopy of Luna, an ancient Redwood she was determined to save, for 738 days. She came down in 1999, after she and supporters negotiated a deal that saved Luna, who still stands today.

In Cassie Premo Steele's novel Shamrock and Lotus, (http://www.cassiepremosteele.com/books_02.php?id=350) there is a story told of several village women in India making a human chain to hug the trees in order to spare them from governmental deforestation.

And of course, there is the profound history that has linked women and trees for centuries....we've both been curtailed, trimmed back, put into tiny pots because of a misguided belief that in being less wild we were more beautiful. That a tidy, tended yard was more worthy than one with a pumpkin vine blooming wildly in the hedges. But to me, there is no beauty in a mighty oak tree living out its life in a 5" pot.

Perhaps it was ancenstral memories or being controlled, contained, curtailed...or maybe recollections of pictures of women with feet forced into a tiny shoes...or maybe it's the being told that one is too independent, too liberal, too smart, too intimidating (what the heck is THAT about?), too strong-willed, too creative, too successful, too much of this, that or the other to ever fit into the ornamental, complacent 'little woman' mold that so many men seem to find attractive that made me look at my nieghbor as if he were quite insane. And then I headed out to a small wooded area and replanted the seedling tree in the ground where it could grow freely, alongside it's wild sisters.

I can appreciate the ancient art of Bonsai...but I celebrate the need to put one's hands into the soil and work the earth without gloves. I celebrate the need to be out in nature, to feel the earth beneath one's feet, and to pick up the feathers that one finds on the ground. The need to sit out on a deck and watch the night sky. The need to wonder, to feel, to lie back on the grass, to watch a bird's flight. The need to live life on my own terms, not follow a blueprint of proper experiences, complete with timeline and ettiquette rules. The need to watch my son hoot and holler with delight as he falls in love with nature, exploring every inch of the outdoors. The need, in me, not complain on the days he has to have the mud hosed off before he can even enter the house to shower. He'll never be a kid who is seen but not heard, and who cares? I celebrate my son's need to grow freely, even though it might lead to a life lived outside the box that so many others conform to fit within.

In other words, I celebrate what is, essentially, allowed to grow free, not what is ornamental, carried, complacent, contained...but what is living in a state of nature.

What is not tame.

Art: Egg, Feather, Nest Mandala, Amy L. Alley, colored pencil on paper

A Handful of Surprises

I reached into a black widow's nest today.

It wasn't intentional, of course. I realized my hand was covered in dozens of tiny, pale gold infant spiders about the time the mother waved her many arms at me, making her presence known as she defended her brood. I shook the babies off my hand and went inside, grabbed a bottle of eco-friendly Raid (yes, they make it), and annihilated the lot of them.

Then I felt a pain in my hand and realized that it might be in my best interest to call poison control. I can proudly say now that, most likely, I am more knowledgeable about Black Widow spider bites than anyone I know.


I say it all the time, but there is a truth that is universal, always with us, always asserting and proving itself: Life is, blessedly, full of surprises.


Was I bitten by the big spider? Really, I don't even know. I'd been gardening for an hour or so when I reached into the nest, and there are bites, scrapes, and pricks all over my hand because I like the feel of working without gloves and rarely wear them. There was pain, yes. But whether my symptoms were real or psycho-sematic, I do know I'll be okay. Any severe reaction would have occured by now.


For the most part, I just know that I sat down to plant cosmos and ended up having an adventure I'd not planned for at all. Which is funny, because on my mind all day had been the concept of adventures, how they can happen suddenly, and how they can lead us in directions we never expected.


Reaching into a nest of a venomous spider was not quite what I had in mind to do this afternoon. Still, that's the thing about life, it is full of surprises. The key is to remain ready...and unafraid.

Photo courtesy of National Geographic.

Precious Gems

A friend was showing me her collection of semi-precious stones today, and I was reminded of this short story that Paulo Coehlo shared in his recent blog (http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2011/02/12/the-stone/)

A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream.

The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food.The hungry traveler saw the precious stone and asked the woman to give it to him.

She did so without hesitation.

The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the stone was worth enough to give him security for a lifetime.

But, a few days later, he came back to return the stone to the wise woman.“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back in the hope that you can give me something even more precious.

Give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me this stone.”

I share this here because it sums up, nicely and neatly, what I was hoping to write about tonight. I am not sure who I admire most in the story, the wise woman, for giving so freely, or the traveler, who was able to recognize that within this wise woman was something more valueable than precious gems.

I only know this: We are always demonstrating to others what truly lies within us. But it is important to remember that we are also always being shown, by others, what truly lies within them.

And it's also important, as the traveler learned, to recognize something precious when it is handed to us.

Measuring A Year...

I'm pulling out fabrics and thread, yarn and patterns. I'm tearing images for collage, and ordering new art materials. I'm starting to slow down a little from the routine that has guided my days for the last 9 months. I'm watering my garden in my night attire at 10pm just to show myself that, despite the trials and stresses of the past year, I am still the boss of me.

Summer has almost officially began.

I don't measure summer from the start of a set date. For me, as a teacher, summer - and all the promise it holds - is measured from the last day I work in May until the day I return in August. And I don't measure years by days on a calendar.

I measured this past year by Friday afternoon cups of coffee at an uptown cafe, and by the times I turned the pages in my son's school journal and watched how the August scrawls turned into legible words by December. I measured this past year by paint strokes on canvas, and by knits and purls and laughter with the group of friends that gathered in my home every other Saturday night. I measured it in moments spent coming to term with things I could not change. I measured it in books I read, in emails I sent, in letters I recieved. I measured it in hours spent waiting on to catch a plane, and in the memory of the moment I stepped off the plane to a destination I'd dreamed about for years. I measured it in days spent at the pool watching my son learn to swim, and then to dive, and then to dive deeper. I measured it in moments I forced myself to dive deeper, even when I didn't want to know what lay beneath the surface.

I measured this year in choices I had to make, difficult ones. I measured it in articles and blogs I wrote, in animals I rehabiliated and rescued, in the bursting forth of life from seedlings I planted. I measured it in hugs from students, in bills I managed to finally pay off, in goals I accomplished. I measured it in moments I realized that out of all the attributes a man can possess, courage is the one I value most, and it's okay for me not to accept someone who is less than bold. I measured it in moments I took risks, and in moments I realized that there are some people who live within fences that they'll never have the courage to leap.

I measured it in moments I held my son close, and realized that he is the best thing I have ever created. I measured it in moments I knew, without doubt, that raising a child is the noblest of goals, and, modern woman or not, I am a mother, and it is the job most worthy of all my effort and energy. There will be plenty of time for writing, for painting, for waxing poetic over coffee in cafes with friends...but there is only one period of time that my son will be a child, and it is now. I measured this year in skinned knees and fairy houses, in lego castles and in times my son got back up on the bike after falling....and in long evenings spent watching him ride after he finally learned how.

So I let this year draw to a close. Summer, with all of it's promise, is about to begin. For me, it's only 3 days away! I close with one of my favorite songs from RENT, a favorite musical.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcSDli-Byn8&feature=related

Painting: 3o Minute Peonies, Amy L. Alley, completed in college for a class assignment, dug back out of the closet for a Feng Shui experiment! :-)))