Another Kind of Light


If I look deep, into the night, there is another kind of light. I saw it on Christmas eve. Everyone gathered around in our tiny sunroom, opening presents, reading the poems I had written and given as gifts. As I sit here in the morning soft light, I remember. My lovely daughter, her amazing husband, their two children, my grandsons, and my son, Donnie, rolling in with his big, big heart. He parked his van in front of our neighbor's drive. They didn't mind. They hardly ever use it. It made it so much easier for him to lower his ramp.

For my birthday Donnie gave me a tall candle and for Christmas, he gave me a bourbon barrel candle holder that he designed and our friend, Malamin, built. Unique and precious. Dana, Gary and boys gave me homemade chocolate chip cookies and a chenille throw, rust color, to compliment the olive, hand-me-down loveseat and chair. Cozy for keeping warm.

We didn't take a single picture. How did that happen? Gary brought his selfie stick. In a minute, I kept thinking. It was as though I never wanted to leave the moment.


Transporting Stories


In the beginning, I knew my grandsons would get many toys for Christmas. I decided when they were babies to give them art. I continued that tradition every year. A few years ago, feeling momentarily guilty, I thought I should choose something else. Would the boys like something from LL Bean? I asked my daughter. That's not their style, she said. And, they have come to expect art from you. Yes! Going through possessions due to my upcoming move and downsizing, this year's theme is containers. This is what I have written to accompany their gift.

An object to contain or transport something.

The memories and the stories our ancestors told, hold and shape the person we are, and are to to become. They carry us forward. Do not hold them too tight. Stories are always suspect. They are meant to embellished, researched and rewritten.

This bowl is from my grandmother, Stella Butterfield Tilson. She was raised in Oklahoma and West Texas. Andrew, her compassionate father, and Gabriella, her strong, outspoken mother, were missionaries. Gabriella was referenced once in a book that written about Andrew and the missionary work he did with the Indians. He converted over 500 to Christianity. She said she didn’t like what the soldiers were doing to the Indians. She didn’t like that they brought the children to the shcool in a chicken-wire covered wagon.

When I asked my aunt Eugenia about this comment, she said, “Oh, now you’re getting political.” And said no more.

This bowl is also strong. It has lasted a long time and is now ready to contain your poems and stories, carry them forward. I have added Frank Walker's book of poetry. He gives you history way before FB. Read it and ponder. Then write yours.




Even though it is cold outside and I have made a fire, I crack the window to hear the hoot owl. She has been out there for several hours. 

Going through boxes, I found two tiny Christmas cards my mom sent to her mother and father from Japan in 1956. Her note inside is in beautiful penmanship. It tells me a lot about her desire to share and her love for her parents. She was living on Tachikawa Air Force Base where my dad was stationed. They had four children. I was the oldest. We traveled by ship to get there, plane to return to the states.

In the note she explains why she has chosen a yellow tie for her dad. My grandfather became a magician when he could no longer cotton farm in West Texas. My grandmother accompanied him to the many schools and civic organizations. Once, as a little girl, visiting from Kansas, I was his assistant.

        "Dear Daddy, we picked this tie because we thought you could maybe use it in your magic costume someway. A magician is usually in black and the yellow tie would show up on the stage and a touch of the Orient is always mystifying."

In the note to her mother she explains why she chose the carved ivory earrings and cameo.

         "Dear Mother, we chose Ivory for you again because it is different and to me it means excitement and adventure. The earrings are carved so delicately by hand, and the cameo too."

Knowing what to rescue of your parent's possessions when they are gone is important. My mother knew to retrieve the small pieces of jewelry. After she was gone, I found them in the bottom of the hand carved wooden jewelry box she had also purchased in Japan. While there was not an excess of money in our family, my parents didn't know the value of fine things.

My biggest fear is that no one will be able to find my fine things. And they will end up at Calvins, an antique and junk store in Monticello. And, that no one will know the story. I have a lot of searching and writing to do.


I Gotta Have It


Larry has been at our dollhouse on Darley for the past two nights. He is preparing the side yard for my she-shed-studio. We want to be sure it is set far enough back so there will be room to haul dirt or other building materials. I stayed at the cabin. It may have been a mistake watching the opening scenes of "Voyeur." GayTalese takes us through his office. He saved everything. And it's very organized. The secret ingredient for making anything artful. And "Voyeur" asks provocative questions. Who's life is worth exploring? How do we weed through truth and lies in personal narratives. Is telling worth it? And can there be redemption for subject and writer? Whoa! That's a lot to process for one evening.

As I pack up to move into a smaller home, I now realize I can't toss things in plastic boxes. My packing must adhere to the principles of organization. All my handmade journals go in one box. Art and artist books go in another. Books and magazines I've been published in go in their own box. Books inscribed by the author are their own collection.

Spike Lee's new series of "She's Got To Have It" is equally thought provoking. Following a young black woman's perpetual implementation of her feminist agenda is welcome. Nola never misses a beat. Intellectual and hot. She is clear about who she is and who she is not. So far, my favorite song is in the second episode at 12 minutes. I replayed it several times. Dancing as I washed dishes, Netflix cut me off from too many rewinds. In episode three it is clear our choices as women need never be questioned. I look forward to wearing my LBD at my party. And taking my own advice. Add color.

LBD with color

LBD with color

Secret to Slow Transitions


We drove up to Lexington from the cabin yesterday morning. Made it in two hours. Unloaded one bookcase and four heavy plastic boxes filled with art and books. I'm so glad I read the article by Jessica Stillman about the value of having more books than you can read. Unread books are even better than read. We dropped off one of the old oriental rugs to be cleaned. It will go in my studio-shed, or in the attic. A perfect place to put the books and curl up and peruse, deciding which to take down to the comfy chair and read.

While Larry tuned pianos Marcie and I wen shopping. I bought a glittery fuchsia wreath for the front door for $5.00. And came across the perfect mannequin. Every good designer needs a mannequin in her living room.


Later, on the way over to Donnie's to fix supper, we stopped by Joe and Elise's for a peppermint tea break, and to pick up newspapers for the wood stove at the cabin. When there, morning fires are a must.

Being paralyzed is not easy. Donnie has it down. "Get all your ducks in a row," is his motto.  He bought chicken. Larry sautéed while I put in a load of laundry. Over dinner we discussed plans to purchase a 3 x 4' 3/4"plywood for a ramp for him to be able to get his wheelchair into our tiny new house. After watching "Longmire," I cleaned up the kitchen. 

"Can you throw me in bed?" Donnie asked. Larry reached for the sliding board needed to transfer from chair to bed. 

Back at our dollhouse, Hignlin' greeted us, tail wagging, seeking a walk. Too cold. Too late. I'm grateful for the picket fence dog yard Larry built. We sat for a moment by our fake-fire space heater. "I'm exhausted," Larry said and went to bed. I took my nightly hot bath. The secret to a slow transition is maintaining rituals. 


Unraveling Leading to Change


 There are two flights of stairs in my cabin in the country. The loft is where I sew. The basement porch is where I dye fabric. On the main floor, I visualize. In the hammock on the front porch, I take breaks. On some days, I am exhausted. One day I said, in 10 years when I am 81, will I be wanting to climb these stairs several times a day  in order to earn money to supplement my Social Security?  And, if my husband, Larry, goes first, will I want to live alone in the country? These decisions lead us to buy a little house to begin a slow transition to the city.  

The second decision was choosing to live in a location near downtown Lexington where  millennial's were renovating and establishing new businesses. They have values I align with. "But mom," my son said, "you're not a millennial." I know, but I like to be around them. Feel their energy. Hear their ideas.  

The third change was seeing the need to  get more inventory in my online boutique, promote it, and establish other forms  of income which would come from selling what I know in addition to what I create: books, tutorials and retreats. 




At last night's dinner party we had conversations with our cabin friends about moving. It was bittersweet. Something that seemed a long-term plan is becoming more eminent. This is not going to be easy. 

"We will miss you," friends said. "We understand."

For the rest of the evening conversations continued about whether to stay in the country or move. They lit like little wild fires around the wood stove  Family. Water source. Steep roads. Mowing. Walking. And then there's the who goes first consideration and the other is left alone. It's not that this is a new conversation. When it starts showing up on your horizon, it feels different.

Larry made the best chuck roast. I made Mushrooms Berkeley from the first edition of "Vegetarian Epicure." The pages, ragged, and falling out, tied with hand dyed organza wrapped around. There are many versions of this recipe, but this is the best.

Kathy and James brought kale salad. Harvested from their low tunnel garden on their mountaintop. Tim and Ellen brought corn casserole and homemade bread, baked in the oven. Dewey and Barbara brought dessert. The table was set with candles. Later, the guys pulled out their guitars, the cabin shook, and we girls talked over. 

I never clean up immediately after parties. I prefer to sit and savour. I like the quiet afterwards. The remaining candlelight. And remembering. Expressing all the way to the grave goes by fast.


Scenic Gaze


The decision has been made. The shed has been ordered. It will be delivered in two weeks. It's not an original design, built from scratch. It is affordable. We will embellish it later. And it's only two feet less wide than the one I have in the country. Just the right size for my inventory and current wearable art collection. I will be able to keep my colors organized and if you stop by, I can show you my latest designs, my newest color combinations. It's all about color. A way to add a little beauty for others to look at when you walk down the street. When things have gone dark, there can be a tendency to go gray.



The decision has also been made where to put the shed. In the side yard, instead of the back, where it would interrupt our scenic vision through the glass sliding doors when we sit in the overstuffed chair and gaze, sip coffee or tea, and stay warm by the fake-fire space heater with its red glow on late evenings or before dawn. This is where my ideas simmer preparing my ship for sail. Clarissa Pinkola Estes says, "When a great ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are built for." Make color your sail.

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For Your Viewing Pleasure


I was carrying several pieces of art to wear to the car for my trip to Lexington. The man who had come to work on the cabin stood nearby. "I never know what to wear," I said,  "so I'm taking lots of clothes."


He smiled and lightly shook his head. "But your beauty is on the inside. It doesn't matter what you wear."  I smiled, thinking how sweet for him to say that. 



I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing it for you. I am the pallet. My wearable art is my paint. I'm creating a beautiful composition for your viewing pleasure. 


Expressing My Womanness


Yesterday we had a big discussion about the shed/studio at our new dollhouse. Larry wants to wait. I don't mind waiting, but not too long. He said what if I don't like the dollhouse? I have to like it. Of course there's always a chance there may be something but we cannot be cavalier. We need to approach this as the right decision with the right options given our parameters.

This is how it turned out. We have worked, lived, and raised children, near and from afar. This is who we have become. What we can afford. And the timing is right. That's the most difficult. Timing. There is an ease at the cabin, for me more so than Larry. In four months he will be 79. He comes in huffing. Tired after a few hours working outside. He hates that fact. There is more firewood to gather. We like to build a fire on cold mornings and see how seldom we need to turn the furnace on during the winter.

The shed is an issue because it is what I need to continue my art to wear operation. Even with a studio elsewhere there is much I need to do at home. (The wind has been blowing hard all night. There is a banging against the house. What is that? Who will do the repair?)

Today I am reading Austin Kleon's blog. He's writing about Virginia Woolf and "A Room of One's Own." He’s emphasizing the money part. “A room of one’s own is nice, but if you can’t buy the time to sit in it, what good does it do you?” Virginia had an inheritance which I don't have. I'm working on a 20 year business plan instead. When I am 91, I want to make art to wear, wear art and express my womanness.


Create the Future


"The best way to predict the future is to create it." Abraham Lincoln

It is remarkable. We are going to go from a 17 acre farm with a 1700 square-foot cabin, a garden shed, and a studio and move into a two bedroom 1000 square foot dollhouse with a 10,000 square foot yard. "I can manage this," Larry said.

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It sounds like a, "how could you?" Truth is, we must. I do not want to be blindsided. I want to control my move away from the cabin, much as I love it. Neither of us could manage it alone. Age is upon us. I'm into thinking positive, mindfully. All the mowing, and I know I would not want to live there alone. It would be too stressful. We will keep our books and art, guitars and music. We will have a bedroom with a queen size bed and a guest bed to escape to in case of snoring. I can use the living room as my atelier, or find another studio nearby. Strange, yes. But a must.

The kitchen opens onto a tiny sunroom with glass sliding doors. Hard to keep the heat in. I'll miss my wood stove. I'llwrap up in a blanket and get one of those space heaters that glow like fire. Cozy for early morning gazing into the backyard with two large trees and an old shed. "A tear down," Larry said. "I can fix it," he added. There is enough room for another shed for inventory and supplies, if necessary.  


The goal is to sell the cabin, come spring. Pay off the mortgage on the dollhouse. In a way, it will be our own tiny assisted living with family and friends nearby. 




Much to my dismay, most of my children don't want what I have saved; school papers, writing, art, stories, poetry. I have begun to throw them away. When DJ was here visiting from California, he didn't even want the plate with his name on it. I must reassess.

I gave to Goodwill all of Johnny's soccer jerseys. They are very nice and will be a real find for the right person. I saved all the patches earned from the soccer games. Many were long road trips we took together. Why am I saving them? In some ways I feel I earned them as much as he did.

"Photos," DJ said, "all I want are photos."

That's good information. Since my Swedish death cleansing has begun, if the kids don't want these mementos, I must let go. Each item, from this moment on, can be touched only one more time, then ripped from my heart and placed in the box of giveaways.

"Tell the story that goes with them," my daughter, Dana, said. 

Yes! That is my next assignment.  

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This bowl and dish are very old. They came from the small frame house where my mother, your grandmother, grew up in Whiteflat, Texas. Your great uncle W.R. Tilson, an early settler, named the town. When he stood on a ridge and looked out over the land full of prairie grass he said it looked white, flat. These are the photos of family gathered around the dinner table in that tiny kitchen.  The round table took up the entire room. Your great grandmother, Stella, was known for her crispy fried chicken which came from her own flock. Gravy and mashed potatoes. Green beans and sweetened ice tea.

Letter to my 17 year old self


My dear Laverne, 

Soon you will graduate from high school, travel to Chicago, live with your Polish grandmother and pursue a job downtown as a secretary. Daddy told you girls don't need college to raise babies and suggested you take shorthanded and typing. You were the the short hand wiz and received the secretarial scholarship after Daddy called the base commander because the school had given it to someone else and told us they wanted it for a town kid not an Air Force Base transient.

You also took pre-college class courses, just in case. All your friends were in those classes. You were smart and had no trouble getting good grades. When you never found a job in a law office you used your secretarial scholarship to take elementary ed classes at Wright Junior College. This was your first transgression. It began you're determined life to pursue dreams, no matter what the circumstances. 

You will continue to make unconventional choices beginning with your first divorce in 1976 and letting your children live with their dad. You will be judged. You will know you have done the right thing. That is what is most important to remember. When you make the right decision for yourself, it will be the best for everyone in the long run. Don't look back. Stand steadfast. Persevere.

Me receiving the secretarial scholarship, Rome Free Academy, Rome, New York, 1964

Me receiving the secretarial scholarship, Rome Free Academy, Rome, New York, 1964

Prayer to My Beloved


Dearly Beloved,

I am bewildered by death. Who will go first and have the benefit of the other being there? The other then dyeing alone. Will you go first since you are older? You are so healthy.

Yesterday I got angry at you. I was afraid you were going to eat too much cheese. You put the whole chunk on a saucer. A special saucer that you got down from the cupboard. One for the cheese. One for the pears. I noticed because you never do things like that. Then I got angry and ruined it. "I thought we would share," you said in your defense. I am so sorry, my love.

Every year I love you more and more. You are near perfect. I have no complaints. You deserve to go first so that I may guide you. Care for you in the moment. In my meditation I see you move through your death with ease. Then I will be alone and bewildered. 

"Now I lay me down to sleep," is not a bad prayer, as one writer surmised. It is the ultimate request. "If I should die before I wake. . ." Yes, please. My dear, from this moment on, I shall be kind to you, as you are so kind to me.  

Image by Ray Zabielski

Image by Ray Zabielski

Creative Lineage

I'm not saying my mother didn't judge. She just never asked a lot of questions. That was her gift.

We lived in Perry, Kansas in a rented farmhouse when I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder. Later we moved to Topeka. I rode the bus to the downtown library, spent hours perusing and choosing between Laura and Willa Cather. Then rode the bus home anxious to devour their stories. Laura lived in Kansas also. Therefore, in my mind, we were connected. In my mind we had a personal relationship. It was 1958.

Thirty years later I read Of Women Born by Adrienne Rich. Her edict for women to write the truth about their experiences no matter how painful became my mandate. I was validated. I wrote short, suscinct poems describing my life, then shared them in a community writing class taught by my feminist friend, Lucinda. Feeling Like a Shitty Mother. Discovering the Other Woman. Defining Rape to my Sixteen Year Old Daughter. Lucinda read my work and said, "this woman has something to say.

I read my first poems at an open mic at a bar. Since a number of my poems were about sex, I dressed sexy. Classy sexy. With a slight edge. Not trashy. I dressed to be seen and to be heard. Tables in the front circled the mic. A spotlight defined the stage. An audience gathered, prepared to listen. In the back, a silhouette of men sat at the bar engaged in a low chatter as the poetry reading began. I walked into the light, leaned into the mic and said in a clear voice, soft, yet firm, "this poem is on discovering the other woman." The entire bar fell silent.

I spoke. I was heard. I listened to the applause. I read more poems. I was serious, and yet I heard unexpected laughter. I paused, gazed at the women sitting at the tables in front of me. Why are they laughing? I asked myself, silently. This is my life. Then I realized it was a laughter of recognition.

Yes, this is my life and it is your life and in the absurd details, we are one. We are connected. We have nothing to fear. I let the laughter wash over me as one sordid detail after another revealed itself. After heartbreaking decisions appeared next to painful despair giving birth to a temper tantrum so outrageous there was nothing left but humor and laughter and the revelation of the degrees to which the absurd rules.

In 1989 I went to the Women Writers Conference at the University of Kentucky. I attended a Spiderwomen Theater performance. In a dramatic moment towards the end the women turned to the audience, pointed their fingers at us and said, "tell your own story." My mission was defined. In 1990 I organized poetry readings. I was seeking women with the courage to walk to the mic. I asked if they wanted to read their poems. I wasn't interested in credentials. There was no editorial intervention. I didn't ask any other questions.

Today, I create art to wear for women who don't need to answer questions.

Botanical Print Silk Devore Crop Top

Botanical Print Silk Devore Crop Top

Her Hippie Wedding That I Almost Ruined

Danielle wore a gold sari. Joel wore a loincloth, a crystal around his neck. The altar was across the pasture in a clearing under trees, between cow turds. Levi blew a conk shell to begin the procession of me and her father walking through the field to the altar where Joel's band played African drums. When Joel came out from behind the bushes to await Danielle's arrival at the altar, his 92-year-old grandmother, the mother of a Baptist preacher, said, in a loud voice because she doesn't hear too well, "Well I never thought I'd see my son dressed like that at his wedding!" Levi’s wife, Bluebird, wove wires in her long braids so they curled up. The rings were on each tip.

Keen attention was paid to food and flowers. No poison was served; no sugar, no alcohol. The bean soup was delicious, except, by the end of the day, since the weather was so hot, it fermented. The cake was delicate and the flowers were left overs from a florist where a friend worked. Danielle passed a stem to the main guests.

I was late in getting there. I was supposed to pick up the Indian woman at 10:30 to dress Danielle in the Sari. I had been involved in one of my mothering routines making sure everyone had a ride and knew the directions. By the time I saw everyone off it was almost 11 and the wedding started at noon. Stepsister, Rainbow, half brother, Donnie and I jumped in the car and rushed over to the Indian Emporium hoping she was still there.

"I'm here! I said as I burst in the door. 

"You're too late," she said in her Indian accent. 

"Too late? What do you mean?" I am confused.

"Oh, Danielle didn’t call yesterday. I thought the wedding is next week. My children have already gone to church. I can’t leave. They have no key to get in and I can’t leave the store open."

I try to stay calm. I have really blown it this time. My daughter asked me to do one thing for her wedding and I failed. I try to stay calm and express my disappointment.

"Here," the Indian woman says. "I’ll show you what to do. Then you can dress her."

Well yes, of course, if that's what it takes. I'll do it. That's not my style. I don't want to have to learn this in five minutes or less. I don't want to concentrate on having to get it right. But I will and she walks to the front display case and begins to pull out bangles and beads looking for the right ones and places them in a small brown lunch sack. What wealth, to be able to pull from such a large collection of jewelry. 

"What time would you bring me back?" She asks, suddenly. Startling me. I had already surrendered to figuring out how I was going to pull this off.

"What ever time you need to be back," I said. Anything, I thought, whatever you need, just so you can come. "1:30?"

"OK. I’ll go," she says and finishes stuffing the paper sack. She pulls “For Sale” shoes off a shelf and puts them on. "Just one favor," she says. "Will you take me to my church to get my children so I can bring them back?"

"Of course." I say, glancing at the clock. 11:20. No problem. Being Indian, the church is probably in a room at the University, I thought as I followed her dressed in her black Sari. Rainbow and Donnie were waiting patiently in the car. "Which way?" I ask.

"Rosemont Garden."

Rosemont Garden! I think. That's clear across town. I breathe deep. Don't say a word. Don't let on. Drive safely. I pulled up in front of Rosemont Garden Christian Church. Watched her flow up the steps, her black hair twisted up, remembering the bindi on her forhead. We waited a few minutes then see her come out with two tall children, a boy and a girl, dressed in the usual western fashion. They climb into the backseat. I breathe, we drop them off at the store and head out of town.

I can't resist. I have to ask. "So, what do you do? Blend your eastern religion with the Christian religion?"

"No, I am a Hindu and my religion teaches that you pay respect. So I am in America and I pay respect in a church here. Basically, all religions are the same," she says. "They all teach you to love, to be good to your husband, take care of your children, respect your neighbor, and support your country. So it doesn't matter where you worship. Just so you do it regularly."

"Why did you choose this church?"

"Because they accept us. Other churches we have gone to, the people were mean. Here, they accept us. I was sick last winter. I was in the hospital for one month. I had 700 visitors from this church."

Even though time is of the essence, there is no driving fast on this narrow, curvey, country road. 

"Why did you come to Lexington?"

"My son was sick. He needed surgery. They said go to the University of Kentucky Medical Center. Ten years ago we came. He got better. Never had the surgery. But we stayed."

Danielle was lovely and peaceful when we arrived. The heat was intense. The Indian woman dressed her, then was overcome by allergies. My friend, Heddy, took her home. It was a beautiful wedding. 


I remember when we first moved to the country.  It was our getaway.

I packed silk and dye in preparation for my journey to the cabin. In small, incremental stages, we will put our life behind us, piece by piece. Each trip to the country I carry one belonging with me. Today I’ll take my flower-covered Sadler teapot. I’ll leave one artifact behind; the old wooden porch swing by the back door. I’ve asked each child to pick one thing and take it now; a piece of jewelry that hangs on my walls, a painting from my art class or one of my handmade artist books. 

Today it is my getaway. When I feel the wind on my skin there is an ache in my chest that calls to me, tugging at my arms, pulling me into it’s sensuous embrace. 

Last week we installed the wood stove. Larry sculpted a glistening copper chimney. Later we climbed the roof, nailed metal roofing down, then gathered wood off the mountain. And stacked a woodpile. 

During the evening I processed the silk I had dyed earlier. Wrapped in newsprint, heat set the dye as the silk steamed in the old canner on the wood stove. I love hanging the freshly rinsed silks in the barn, the contrast between the rawness of the wood, its roughness and the softness of the silk, sensuously moving as the wind blows through the cracks in the barn. I am in awe of the individually wrapped and twisted silks, saturated with dye that hang from nails spread across old planks— the way the dye drips on the paper beneath making another artwork all of its own from the colors that bleed and drip into curvilinear lines making soft amorphous shapes. 

It doesn’t matter that the barn is dirty. It does not interfere with the process. I have deliberately chosen a process that can be flexible. These are the things that make the rhythm of my art apparent. The way I swing the big barn doors open and prop them with an iron rod. The way I move up to the old table where tobacco was tied long ago. The way I envision silk eventually hanging like tobacco from the ceiling, blowing in the wind making a silent sound instead of the rustle of dried tobacco leaves. 

I stoke the fire while silk steams, setting the dye, keeping the color brilliant. The hues vary as the seasons change and I gaze through the open barn doors onto the valley and let the colors in the field, the trees, or the reflections in the pond guide me in the choices of colors for that day.

Now we live there full time. I have no need for a getaway.

Notice Everything

I made a fire this morning 

not that it's cold outside 

I just like the glow 

and the little bit of heat 

a small fire brings 

Shibori dyed silk jacquard poncho

Shibori dyed silk jacquard poncho

It is raining 

actually more like a drizzle 

I took Highlin' for a walk 

along the path 

into the woods 

it's our regular walk

the path is worn 

wet leaves have smashed into mud 

Botanical prints,  leaves on silk

Botanical prints,  leaves on silk

I am careful not to slip 

I have fallen three times

a warning to walk more carefully 

well of course 

isn't that what we are always supposed to be doing 

walk carefully 

not as in be careful you might say the wrong thing

make the wrong move 

as in walk carefully and notice


During this morning's walk

there was broken glass 

on a green, moss covered rock  

it was placed there carefully

that is not uncommon 

broken glass on the trail

I frequently place chipped or broken dishes in the woods 

a form of installation

a dinner party 

Shibori dyed silk poncho

Shibori dyed silk poncho

This glass was more shattered 

than my usual place settings 

and it was on its own earthy green rock

I don't remember placing if there 

could it have been Larry

has he taken up my recycling, upcycling, repurposing penchant

Upcycled jean jacket with felted wool and silk

Upcycled jean jacket with felted wool and silk

Could it have been a guest 

should I ask 

should I seek an answer

could it have been a stranger on our path 

that would be disturbing 

I will wait and wonder 


enjoy its beauty 

the contrast

That was the message in Catherine's photo blog

that is her mission 

to notice everything 

just outside her door 

and photograph it 

I will notice everything

just outside my door

I will see with my words

Take Me As I  Dress

Living a layered life is my modus operandi, M.O. By layering everything, as it occurs I let the thread reveal itself.  And it always will if I stay true to myself, my ideas. I embrace the mantra "go with the flow." As ideas arise, I layer them onto my many canvases; my work, my art, my writing. I allow them to be part of each composition. I trust the process. Amy Krause Rosenthal says, "Pay attention to what you pay attention to." (1) I listen to my body and pay attention. 

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi describes this flow in an interview with Wired magazine as, ". . . being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you're using your skills to the utmost." (2)

I made the decision to flow when I first discovered the art world. I didn't come from an artsy family. My father was a sergeant in the Air Force, drove a cab at night. My mother was a stay-at-home mom raising seven children.

Looking back, I see that my parents did have an eye for harmony and balance. A sense of personal style. I can see it in the the way my mother, Grace Laverne Tilson, set the table for Sunday dinner. Or in the dresses she sewed. Looking at her smile I can see that she was proud.

The photographs my father, Ray Zabielski, captured revealed his aesthetic intentions and his values; Japanese children posed in front of their home in an abandoned bomb shelter, Tachikawa Air Force Base housing in the background, Dad's shadow in the field.

My first exposure to visual art occurred right after I started writing poetry. I met a woman who was a painter. Recently divorced, she lived on a limited budget. She had a bohemian style, wearing flowing woolen skirts and long sweaters she had knit.  In her old two story house she kept the thermostat set at 65 degrees. It was chilly as I sat for the portrait she drew. It was different than a photograph. It captured a softness, a tenderness I had never seen in a photograph. It wasn't the reflection I would see in the mirror. I liked it. Her passion and expertise inspired me. 

portrait by Judith Kuehne

portrait by Judith Kuehne

"It takes time," she said, "a lot of time to be an artist."

I became discouraged. Time, I did not have, not with kids and a hair design business. Yet, I also had a"don’t tell me what to do" M.O. I would find a way. Writing was my art form. No matter what, I would write. Even if it meant I could only write short poems in ten minute spurts, waiting for water to boil. I had stories to tell. I was on a mission having read "Of Woman Born" by Adrianne Rich. Her edict was for women to write the truth about their experiences, no matter how painful. Through our words people will know the truth about women. Margaret Atwood call this "the literature of witness." (3)


My great grandfather

converted over 500 Indians

to Christianity,

my mother said.

My great grandmother

birthed seven children

in eleven years.

My mother didn’t know that.

(c) 1989

Flow was clear when I opened Om Hair Designs in an old English Tudor building near downtown. Every view was a work of art. The leaded windows. Archways leading from room to room. We chose a color palette for the decor and for the designers. They made intentional, artistic statements in what they wore. Black, white, burgundy and silver. Our hair design team was cohesive. We studied hair cutting and styling techniques that produced effortless designs. Our clients left confident, our way of saying sexy, sensuous, unapologetically feminine. A look women want but won't admit.

My work was my life, my art. I dressed for the day. I was, as Viola Davis said at this years Oscars, "Take me as I am." I wore the same ensemble to work, to dinner, to meetings, to a party. There was no time for “freshening up.” Take me as I am was my M.O. I wore lots of black and layered it with a palette of colors that worked for me. They enhanced my stance. A stance made manifest in the way you walk, the way you set your eyes on the road ahead, your gaze, accompanied by a smile. A confident smile that says, "Hi." A tender smile that says, "Underneath, I know we're the same. Our hearts beat. Our heart peeks out." It was the same tenderness I saw in my mother's face after she put lipstick on right before my dad came home from work. 


It was the lipstick floating on toilet paper

that gave my mother away.

When she put that red across her lips,

it not only changed her face,

it changed her stance

when she stood at the stove and stirred.

(c) 1989

Even shoes became part of my art form. It didn't take long for comfort to drive every decision. Standing up all day was painful.

First came wedged heels followed by color coordinated tennis shoes. Next came custom cowboy boots, handmade in Matador, a small west Texas town. They were black and matched all my outfits. "Anything goes" became my fashion statement M.O. When I dressed for the day, I chose what to wear from the shoes up. Since I had already defined my color palette, it didn't take long for "anything goes" to always work.

Black polyester jump suit with a rhinestone zipper tucked into cowboy boots worked.

Burgundy red mini skirt, white peasant blouse, and straw hat with cowboy boots worked.

Tight jeans, black chiffon tunic and silver choker with cowboy boots worked.

When asked why he like New York City, German illustrator, Christoph Neimann said, ". . . there is only one city in your life you go to by yourself and you own that place. There was no uncle, no parents that paved the way. It was like my place." (4)

That was my secret ingredient for creating the world that I owned. I had moved to a city where nobody knew my name. I could be anyone. I never had to explain myself to someone from my past. That little voice from my childhood that asked, "Who do you think you are?" Was replaced with, "I know who I am. I am Laverne Zabielski, poet, writer, hair designer."

I embraced the concept: I own this place. Not as in I own the whole city. I owned my identity that inhabited this place. Take me as I dress. In winter I rode my bike with a baby seat on the back to work. I wore a down coat that covered my artsy haircutting fashion. During the summer I rode my bike to the farmer's market wearing a flowing white, gauze skirt. I dressed for the day.

Form followed function. 

Once, I went to a Halloween party after work. Someone said, "You're supposed to come in costume." 

I said, "I am in costume."

Take me as I dress. 

Take me as I am. 


(2) Geirland, John, "Go With The Flow," interview with Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. WIRED, 4.09. September, 1996.

(3) Atwood, Margaret. "on What ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ Means in the Age of Trump." New York Times, March 10, 2017.

(4) "The Art of Design." Christoph Niemann, Illustrator. season 1, episode 1. Netflix, www.