On Silence, Epiphanies and Insurrection
Last night I awoke to shuddering winter wind rolling and tumbling from the north. The sleeping loft in my cabin whined through imperceptible spaces in the window pane. I was having a very vivid dream that ended abruptly. When I finally relented and looked out the eastern window I saw a break in the cloud cover and the whole net of stars, the milk of the Milky Way spilling out and then the moon, a coppery crescent low over the horizon. Soon the clouds and snow returned. I am staying at Playa Summer Lake, a residency for artists, writers and scientists on the edge of the Basin and Range territory. The day before was bright and clear, the namesake playa sparkled. This morning I awoke to blowing snow, a driving icy wind and a slate colored titanium white world. It is beautiful.
When I first arrived, after unpacking I walked out to the playa at near dusk. I didn’t notice at first that the crunch of my boots on the frozen mud and then slooshing sound of the clay sucking in my steps obscured the silence. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky. It is a time of day in these desert spaces that is bright but veiled, an iridescent Payne’s gray screen that precedes sundown. I stopped walking. The buildings of the residency were hidden behind the ochre-colored grassy hills. The silence hugged me. A weighty greeting. Silence is not just the absence of sound. It is a presence. In the silence you can hear. The wind has a voice. The land has a voice. Any composer or poet will tell you that silence is as important if not more than the notes and the words.
We’ve created a world that is absolutely terrified of silence. We cocoon ourselves in a sonic blanket. Once removed I am made conscious of how noisy the built world is. In an airport I become hyperaware of the incessant loudspeaker announcements, notification dings from hundreds of phones and the strange echo of such a non-place. In Portland where I live, I become inured to the constant hum of cars and sirens, electrical systems and airplane traffic. No wonder there has been a rise in people walking and riding their bikes with their music blasting. They are trying to carve a space for themselves. Others bury themselves in noise canceling headphones shutting out completely unexpected sounds. Add to this the light pollution of industry and cities and a growing paranoia of each other and the night creatures who depend on darkness suffer. Our own earth and moon bound body clocks also depend on darkness and silence.
I write this on Epiphany; January 6. Epiphany is one of the oldest Christian holidays. It closes out the Christmas season and celebrates the Magi’s realization of Christ’s divinity. These days the word epiphany is more commonly associated with a sudden inspiration: an eruption of an idea from frozen ground. Epiphanies can be described as lightning bolts of discovery but what is revealed had already been latent in the field. Eruptions, explosions and bubbling over pots do not occur without context. They are energies coalescing unseen. Epiphanies might come to us as a breakthrough but they carry responsibility to alter one’s course based on that revelation. It can be painful to have an epiphany as much as it is a relief. Epiphanies are meant to wake you up with important information.
Today is also the third anniversary of the January 6 insurrection. The insurrection was a prelude to the attempted authoritarian take over of the United States. It is still underway. Many have said this over the past few years– we are living in mythic times. In fact we have always lived in mythic times. It is just the mechanistic hubris of the past couple of hundred years that has obscured (or attempted to kill) the mythic. Something exploded three years ago. A bubbling over from the shadow of American culture. Maybe it was calendrical coincidence that the vote was to be certified that same day as Epiphany but I don’t think so. Meaning, we live in a world of metaphor and interconnectedness no matter how much we try to deny it. The image world that we created has been broadcasting that such an event would occur. This is not belief in a cabal of manipulators but the irresistible tug of an interconnected gravity. We couldn’t or we wouldn’t heed the warnings. We could not hear over the distracting din. One thing that our techno-market culture does brilliantly is distract, erode and gaslight.
Back to the silence. In that first, brief dalliance with the quiet of the land I felt my whole body and psyche drop its weight. I could remember. I could think. Must it be that one needs to make a special trip at great expense to be in silence? Because the silence I speak of is in direct communion with land. Yes, this land where I currently am is remote and stunning but everywhere is land. Everywhere is Earth. So many emergencies of the times stem from a lack of access to quiet. Silence should not be an enclosure for a few. It is the very ground of the world. The squawking net of media that so distracts us is not the result of vitality. It is a field of noise meant to rob us of autonomy. It is meant to increase anxiety and to sever ties with land and each other. We will succumb to authoritarianism and ecological ruin if we can’t find the space to really listen. Everywhere. Not just listen to each other’s woes and complaints. Not just listen to the drone of news programs but listen to the world and ourselves. And so today on this tail end of Christmas and awful anniversary we need to face the epiphany, the lighting bolt, the overflowing ferment. The land has a voice, the earth has a voice, the wind has a voice and you have a voice. They all vibrate along nets of connection. They have news if you’re able to hear it.
AND A REMINDER: For anyone interested in taking the drawing and storytelling workshop Nostos: the Long Way Home at Building Five in 2024 (details below) we’ve changed the dates from the original announcement. For the month of January, the workshop will be $1600, that’s $300 off of the full price. This workshop will be a rich and deep exploration of storytelling, drawing and visual narrative. We give the story of the Odyssey lots of time to open up, expand and allow you to enter into it. Ultimately you will tell your own story about home; whether that is as a native, an immigrant or a refugee. Join me in 2024 to inaugurate this workshop. Go here to register.
The Odyssey is one of the most iconic of Western stories. We look at what the story has to say about leaving home, coming home, and being a migrant in the world. What does that longing in our stories say about our own longing? Who is a migrant, a refugee, or a native? Our stories root us to the ground and allow us to travel over great distances. How do we define home? Can we find stories in the ground beneath our feet that welcomes newcomers and honors the ancestors?
Over the course of the five sessions we dive deep into the story of the Odyssey through oral storytelling and book discussions.
This course connects one’s innate creative spark with deep-time storytelling and straightforward drawing exercises. Oral storytelling, themed readings, and image making exercises are braided together into each session. This course is for teachers, writers, cartoonists, artists, or anyone interested in unlocking their visual storyteller. This is not about technical prowess, but storytelling and expression. The drawing exercises do not require drawing skill or previous training. Participants come away having created their own story based in image and text; gaining tools for telling stories with pictures and thinking in mythic time.
Each weekend begins with a Friday night lecture.
Saturday is a full day of storytelling, drawing exercises and workshops.
Sunday is work time and presentations.
Building Five, NW Marine Artworks,
2516 NW 29th Ave., Portland, OR 97210
APRIL 12-14, 2024:
Leaving Home
The journey begins. War comes to Ithaca. What causes us to leave home in the first place. Odysseus goes off to war. Telemachus grows up with the weight of an absent father, Penelope takes on leadership and grows into her role. It is springtime. Are we setting out with excitement and possibility? With a heavy heart? With regret? We consider the traveler, the wanderer and the tourist. After each storytelling session you draw. We go from quick intuitive drawing exercises to longer more reflective pieces.
JUNE 28-30, 2024:
Out at Sea
Now that the initial excitement of setting off has settled into the day to day, how do we move through the days? Telemachus tries to be a man, Penelope fends off the suitors, Odysseus heads home and is thwarted. What does it feel like to be a refugee and cast from home? More quick exercises, we build on images from the previous session.
APRIL 12-14, 2024:
Leaving Home
The journey begins. War comes to Ithaca. What causes us to leave home in the first place. Odysseus goes off to war. Telemachus grows up with the weight of an absent father, Penelope takes on leadership and grows into her role. It is springtime. Are we setting out with excitement and possibility? With a heavy heart? With regret? We consider the traveler, the wanderer and the tourist. After each storytelling session you draw. We go from quick intuitive drawing exercises to longer more reflective pieces.
SEPT. 7-8, 2024:
Dreams of home fires
We’re right in the middle. Everyone tries to hold the line and survive. Immigrants and natives consider what home means. New materials, longer exercises after the storytelling sessions.
NOV. 2-3, 2024:
The Land of the Dead
Odysseus consults the dead. Underworld musings, ancestors from the other side of the veil come to have a word. One long project after the telling.
DEC. 13-14, 2024:
Homecomings
Odysseus comes home as a nobody. Penelope starts to waver and Telemachus gets a hint from Athena. Not all homecomings are happy. Who are you when you return after a journey? One final work session and a mini-exhibition.