tiny ghost stories

over here i am deep in the stories of my ancestors.

this personal history work feels urgent right now, so i am meeting that urgency and exploring my lineage.

i had no idea how a sense of curiosity, good research skills, a subscription to an online geneology service, and a dna test would bring together these pieces of me.  i've been consumed with uncovering the lives of those who came before me.  each new find opens a new (old) chapter and another piece that feels familiar and known and lived is clicked into place.

there are mysteries to be sure, and stories yet to unearth, but these are undeniably my people.  they are scots and quakers and apaches; immigrants and pioneers and mothers. they are warriors and english ladies, farmers and teachers; seekers of gold, seekers of survival.  there is love and adventure and murder and mad life skills. their trauma and their resilience live in my dna. i was shaped by each of them, biologically and spiritually.
i hope my life honors theirs.

here are a few tiny stories, in no particular order:

elizabeth, b.1731:  not to be out-badassed by her little brother (wilderness hero daniel boone) elizabeth was a courageous human in her own right.  her family lived within a fort deep in indian territory. they learned of an impending raid and wanted to give the natives the impression that they were unsuspecting, so daily fort life had to appear normal.  protected only by her wits and nerves of steel, elizabeth led a small group of brave girls from the safety of the fort to fetch water at a distant river, like they did every single day, with the knowledge that the indians were lying in wait, watching them.  this show of faux obliviousness boosted the confidence of the marauders and they attacked that night, and were met with a well-prepared and ultimately successful defense.

william, b.1725:  raised in the scottish highlands, william was a jacobite rebel, fought in and survived the battle of culloden.  he came to north america shortly after.

alzira, b.1830:  graced with dark exotic beauty and a foreign name, alzira made the covered wagon journey to san francisco during the gold rush with a months-old infant.  failing to strike gold, her young family settled on one thousand acres in sonoma county to work the golden land instead.  her husband died in california and she returned east to be with her family.  she had four husbands in her lifetime.

uncle cy, b.1903:  the "turkey king of oklahoma".  enough said.

wyatt, b.1856:  wyatt was a cattle rancher in indian territory.  he was killed in a saloon shootout and his case was the first murder trial held in indian territory.

mollie, b.1860:  mollie was accidentally shot by wyatt and carried a bullet in her shoulder the rest of her long life.

john, b.1578:  schooled at oxford and cambridge, john had a "reputation for learning" and spent some time in "the clink" in london for pesky "independent thought".  he migrated to north america in 1634 aboard the griffin, his only recorded luggage:  "his books".

sarah, b.1646:  lived to age eighty, which was an accomplishment in the 18th century, and was noted in historical publications as "never had an aching bone or decayed tooth."

sea deliverance, b.1744:  she only lived one year, but pretty much has the best name ever.

_____

also:  where i'm from

art lately

loves, it's been a super hot and humid summer.  and while i miss all the hiking and hammock lollygagging and other outside frolicking that this prevents for me, i'm loving all the indoor painting time.   i've been busy splashing some color on canvas in between dayjobwork and organizing the studio and all the other bits and pieces of life.

the piece above is a reworking of a practice canvas (the surface on which i try out colors and marks and techniques).  it's always funny to me how they end up being some of my favorites; probably because i'm not thinking too hard about what it needs to be.  the stage above is the hardest part of the mixed-media process for me:  when i am in absolute love with the way it looks, but i know it still needs some evolving.  i don't want to let go of any of it.

that sounds a lot like life.

i finally made the decision about which parts would show.  what i love about this process is that all of the beauty and mistakes are still there inside and the piece wouldn't be or look the same without them.  this one is still in process, resting, waiting for more inspiration.

i finally got a proper mixed media journal.  and above is my first spread.  i love that the background is completely comprised of leftover paint and paper from other works.

i am completely in love with the stage of this work.  it's the biggest canvas i've worked on, a commissioned piece.  i'm stuck here and completely in love with the colors.  it keeps telling me it wants to be something other than what i intended.

summer mornings on gypsy hill are the best.  there is this moment when the sun just peeks over the treeline and rainbow rays beam through the forest.  they are soft and intense at the same time.  i love love love to paint outside.

a few months ago, i wrote a spontaneous poem where i'm from (you can read it here).  i love it so much i've decided to capture a few lines of it in a series of smaller art pieces.  the work above was a piece a did a few years ago which i wasn't very happy with.  i reworked it a bit and now i love it.

the piece below is inspired by the lines, i am from strong women who are not afraid of dirt or silence.  it features my paternal grandma, great-grandma and great-great-grandma before they made the journey west to california during the dust bowl.

sunday grace: where i'm from

i am from strong women
who are not afraid of dirt
or silence

i am from neon purple sea anemones
whose tentacles sway ethereally in the tide pool
and softly embrace the finger of a curious girl

i am from the dust bowl
and the apaches
and the journey west

i am from scorching sidewalks
and mexican paletas
and bare feet cooled in sprinkler runoff

i am from swimming lessons
and tennis lessons
and piano lessons and ballet

i am from the turkey king of oklahoma
and the twist king of california
(no prom queens though)

i am from hee-haw
the bradys, mr. french
and wild kingdom

i am from the fury of the misnamed pacific
the hot santa anas
nights that smell like jasmine and alfalfa

i am from backbends
and banana seats
and clover flower necklaces

i am from afternoon naps
the doves cooing and the gardenia scenting
outside my window

i am from sam and daisy
nikki and patches
and all the lost dogs who found their way to the house on castro lane

i am from teachers
and drill sargents
and photographers and poets

i am from women's lib
and kitchen dancing
and grilled abalone for dinner

i am from skateland
and disneyland
earthquakes and earth shoes

i am from a thousand books
a few broken hearts
summer skin that smells of chlorine and coconut

i am from the tule fog
always there for the girl
who wants to be invisible

i am from mrs. agan
and my fifth grade summer camp counselor
whose name i have forgotten
who saw me
and painted my portrait on a slice of california redwood

{a spontaneous version of where i'm from}

sunday grace

{the backyard at gypsy hill}

where i'm from
by george ella lyon

i am from clothespins,

from clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.

i am from the dirt under the back porch.

(black, glistening,

it tasted like beets.)

i am from the forsythia bush

the dutch elm

whose long-gone limbs i remember

as if they were my own.

i'm from fudge and eyeglasses,

          from imogene and alafair.

i'm from the know-it-alls

          and the pass-it-ons,

from perk up! and pipe down!

i'm from he restoreth my soul

          with a cottonball lamb

          and ten verses I can say myself.

i'm from artemus and billie's branch,

fried corn and strong coffee.

from the finger my grandfather lost

          to the auger,

the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

under my bed was a dress box

spilling old pictures,

a sift of lost faces

to drift beneath my dreams.

i am from those moments--

snapped before i budded --

leaf-fall from the family tree.

___

last year at the creative joy retreat, jen louden read this poem to us and then instructed us to write our own "where i'm from".  this was such an amazing exercise.  even as the memories of those october retreat days grow hazy, the voices of women reading the words they strung together around this theme echo clearly in my mind and heart.  as each sixty second poem was read, i learned more about each of them than if we had spent hours or days or weeks becoming acquainted the regular old ways.

my own, which includes a daughter of apache warriors, pacific tidepools, backyard dinners (a tradition that continues), a roller-skating grandpa, avocado groves, flying dumbos and the smell of my eight-year-old summer skin (chlorine, heat, dove soap and watermelon paleta drips), is treated as a work in progress, a place i go when i need clarity.  and respite.

click here to read some other ideas on how to explore this personal history writing exercise on your own.

when we can gather up and dust off our childhoods and family histories and gaze upon them with the relative objectivity of distance, time and adult perspective; when we can hold them with curiosity, gratitude and possibly forgiveness; when we can claim, write about and share those things that made us and sit with who we are and where we come from, that is grace.