J. Robin Whitley's Blog

©2025 Handcrafted by J. Robin Whitley

 

“To be an artist is to believe in life.” – Henry Moore

My wife, Dr. Heather Thorp, taught me to make handcrafted books a couple of years ago. I’ve wanted to make handmade books for as long as I can remember. Our sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Davis, taught us how to use contact paper and cardboard to make a cover for our handmade poetry books. Then, she mimeographed copies of our typed-out poems. Wow. In that last sentence, the things that went obsolete since I was in the sixth grade like a mimeograph machine and a typewriter. Though the typewriter is beginning to make a comeback.

We’ve talked about ways that we might be able to sell these books and cover the costs of materials. Once we figured out the costs of paper and paint, we realized that these handmade journals would never be a way to make a little money. Really, the only money we make is simply to cover the costs to create such joy in our lives and in the recipients’ lives when they choose a book. Even those who do not necessarily keep

The Coptic Stitch

journals are pleased to receive one of these works of art and love. I talk to my friends about how I love making the journals for specific people because, in addition to thinking of colors they might love, I can pray for them or sing about life when making the book. The book-making process is both meditative and creative. One can use these books as scrapbooks, sketchbooks, address books, etc. Heather and I have fun talking about all the ways these books can be compiled, as well as what they can be used for.

                     “Art should be something that liberates your soul, provokes the imagination, and encourages people to go further.” – Keith Haring

This coming Winter, Heather will have a table at the Watauga Winter Farmer’s market so that these can be easily looked at and bought once you’ve found the one you like best. The Winter Farmer’s Market moves from Horn in the West to the Watauga Agricultural Conference Center in Boone, NC. In addition to various crafts for holiday purchases, there are baked goods, winter foods, and often, local musicians playing some old-time music. My favorite part of the Winter market is having the ability to visit with people from the community that you normally might not see in the winter. Also, because it’s less crowded than the summer markets, there’s more time to talk with the vendors and hear their stories.

Front Cover

 

My journals are often dream journals as well as journals about thoughts and challenges of each day. These books are great for creating letters to loved ones as well. One of my friends shared her book with her family, asking each person to write something in it. I don’t know the contents, but I know that those she contacted to write in it were as happy as she was to receive it.

“The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live.” – Auguste Rodin

One of the things that has to be pointed out is that none of these books can be exactly recreated. Even as we create the paste papers, we are often trying new techniques. Although we often paint these together and with our friend, Tracey, it is rare that any of us can remember the exact process used to create each paste paper. Even when we do remember the technique and colors, the weather plays its part, as does the way we use our hands. This makes each paste paper unique.

If you are interested in a specific size, please contact Robin at robin @ jrobinwhitley dot net and she can give you quotes for the cost of materials. The time spent cannot be calculted because each minute spent with art is precious.

 

 

“Creativity takes courage.” – Henri Matisse

 

The post Handcrafted Books and Other Wondrous Things appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

 

Book Making on the Kitchen Table

Dust begins to fall from the book I’m sewing as the thread pulls through the paper. Heather and I have finally created enough paste papers to start making/sewing books again. As I sew together a book for a dear friend, dust from the thread needling through the paste paper makes colorful dust that falls on my desk. While making this book, I’m listening to a Buddhist chant, Om Mani Padme Hum: Cultivate Love and Compassion. The person to receive this book is one of the most loving and compassionate people I know. As I listen to different meditative pieces, I listen to the book to feel what kind of music would fit the book’s overall feel. Also, I hope that the notes of the music mix with the paints, the pages, and the threads so that the book might vibrate with love. Both the love I have in my heart and the love that my friend and I share.

 

Each book that we make is unique. Once, I tried to make two books the same. However, even though the same paste papers were used for each book, the stitches had different challenges, and the edges too worked differently for each book. A book is similar to a person in that way, we all have our challenging edges and though we may be biologically related, our stitching always remains different. Recently, I sent in my DNA testing to Ancestry.com to trace our family’s ancestry. Yesterday, I listened to a helpful video that explained why my DNA would be different even from my sister’s. Though we get 50% of our DNA from both parents, it’s not always the same percentage for siblings. This blog is about books though, not about ancestry. Making my sister’s book was one of the first books that I made. Though I had poked myself in a couple of others, I had only gotten blood on the one I made for my sister. With each book that I finish, I feel like I need to share that no blood was shed for the making of this book. Other things make each book unique.

 

Heather (my wife) and I most often paint the paste papers with our companion artist, Tracey Thompson. Making the paste papers is the most creative and fun part of making a book. The process, however, is time-consuming and messy. It usually takes an entire Saturday morning to make the paste, the paste paint, and set up the table with tools and protective coverings. We then spend hours painting, stamping, and choosing various color palettes for our choices. Even though we are using the same colors, each of our paste papers looks different. The book I’m making now is for my friend who likes the beach. Trying as hard as I could, I made paste paper hoping to evoke a feeling of the beach. The truth is, Tracey should have made the papers for my signatures (inserts) because her choice and mix of colors better represent beach colors. I tend to paint more of the jewel tones which are often darker.  Heather’s choices are much different than either Tracey’s or mine. Once we put the papers to dry on the drying rack, the next day, it is easy to tell whose paper is whose. There are times when one of us finds a process that the others like. Though we may try to imitate a swirl or a color, our hands move differently, and I believe that our eyes view colors differently.

 

Just now, I stopped sewing because I had misplaced a hole in one of the signatures (inserts). I have two choices. I can unthread what I just sewed and make a corrective hole (which might tear), or I can leave it as it is with a visible glitch in the spine. All of my books have mistakes even though I wish it weren’t so. When I make a mistake (as the novice in the trio), my hope is always to correct it so that it looks like an on-purpose rather than an error. Sometimes this works out and sometimes it doesn’t. When making my books, I’m always praying and remembering the person for whom I’m making the book. Though that sounds religious/meditative/spiritual, the mistakes also mean that there’s a fair amount of cursing when I make a mistake. The error I made just now is a huge one for me since I take pride in how the spines look. Now I must work to find a way to correct my error without causing damage to this particular signature. In addition to correcting the sewing hole, correcting this mistake also means unthreading the needle. Although the curved book needle has a larger eye hole than a sewing needle, it is still tricky to thread string with eyes that are 63 years old. So now, I need to give thanks that I can still see since I know my mom cannot even do this simple task.

 

The dog has stopped chasing rainbows that dance on the floor from the window. The mediation music nears its end as I begin to sew on the last cover. There’s no way that I can write out the entire book-making process because it’s a long process. It’s taken me months to do this book because I didn’t feel that my paste papers were painted in beachy colors. Finally, I had Heather look at them with me and pick out some that were close to beachy. The cover is a color I’ve seen in the Gulf of Mexico. Some of my signatures are the color of the sun. Now the dog snores softly behind me as the music stops and solitude descends. The book has its final cover, and another work of love is completed only to begin again.

 

 

“It is right that you should begin again every day. There is no better way to complete the spiritual life than to be ever beginning it over again.”~Francis deSalesPaste paper 2024

The post Book Dust appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

I was finally able to go with Heather to Rocky Knob this morning. In the past few months I’ve had a few more health challenges keeping me off the trail. Though I couldn’t make the entire trail, it was still powerful to be on the way back to hiking. As always Heather was her kind and gentle self walking much slower than her normal pace and patiently waiting as I took a picture of a new plant unrecognized. Still, at some point, I had to give up and turn back. It’s the challenge of “hiking” as a disabled person. You always have to check and make sure you can return to your original starting place. It’s something that takes a while to figure out too.

Heather and I know Rocky Knob well enough now that she can go ahead and walk the entire trail as I head back. The first time we did this, I was disappointed that I couldn’t make it. So when I saw this sign near the end of the trail, I felt mocked. It didn’t help that Heather came off the longer trail shortly afterward, though she would never mock me. I do that for myself.

Today however, as I saw the sign, I smiled. It was a smile of a new acceptance of my place in life but also the knowledge of all that walking slow these past 8 years has taught me. By walking slower, I have seen more. By taking my time, I have discovered new plants and ways of being. By slowing down, I see others just like me who are smiling too and oh, is it beautiful.

 

Lupine leavesApple mossRound yellow violetsColt’s foot

The post Slow is Beautiful appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

Me with the red hair, my sister, and my mom.

Years ago, when I first started working as a pastor in churches, I asked new people that I met what they did for a living. The question seemed less intrusive than what I considered a more personal question like whether they were married or if they had children. Also, because I was single, I didn’t want to ask questions that might give church matchmakers the idea that I needed them to set me up. Every church has matchmakers even though we don’t give them a title in this day and time.

The first time that I asked that question and someone was offended, it caught me off-guard. The response was something like “I am more than a job. Why do people always ask that question?” Don’t quote me though. This encounter was over 25 years ago. The response didn’t offend me even though it caught me off-guard. I’ve always appreciated directness because one knows where you stand in such situations, and you know that the person with whom you are speaking will continue to be direct in the future. Even when I first met K, I thought her question was insightful and I thought about it with each new person that I met in the years following.

The challenge, of course, is finding a question that encourages conversation. Asking nothing can make a conversation with a new person awkward. We always can talk about the weather but that doesn’t lead to deeper conversation. This morning, as I was asked what I was going to do today, I found myself thinking back to K’s question and how it might apply to me or not. Who am I these days anyway? I’m a part-time chaplain, part-time musician, and full-time disabled person. That doesn’t mean I’m always sick, but I always must be aware of prevention precautions and energy, or I will be sick all the time. Turns out that working 24/7 when I was younger did nothing to move me toward being a better person in life. It prevented me from being a good friend, and I oftentimes put family on the back burner. Then, the body wears out eventually, as is natural.

I was a workaholic. I loved working because it seemed to give value to my life. I’m not talking about a paycheck though we all know that matters. It also mattered to me as a young adult to have talent, intelligence, and an ethical way to use my gifts to make a living. As I’ve tried to move away from my workaholism, the question kept coming up, “What if you are enough?” I never had an answer for that and still don’t really. Why? Not because I’ve avoided pondering the question. There are journal entries and my counselors’ documentation through the years to prove that time and again I’ve struggled with the question and always come up with the answer – Well, I’m not enough…and that was before I became disabled.

My answer comes up that way because of whatever circumstance life presents. You know what I mean because life is everchanging. One day you’re successfully working at a vocation that you love and the next, the church has kicked you out because you came out as a lesbian. Or perhaps you think you have a marriage made in heaven and then your spouse asks you for a divorce. Sometimes a longtime friend takes umbrage at something we’ve said or done, and no amount of work seems to smooth over the troubled waters. Then there’s family and families are always tricky. At least, I’ve never met a family that did not face tricky people or tricky moments that cause one to question everything. Also, perhaps in the relationship with the friend, we triggered some family wound that none of us might be aware of if the friend has not done deep personal work.

My partner, Heather, likes to say, “Humans are incredibly flawed and amazingly resilient.” Isn’t that true? When she and I were talking about some recent life challenges, I told her I’ve always said to G-d that if we were supposed to get along and love each other, perhaps we should have been made less ornery and prone to miscommunication. As a person trained in counseling, Heather also understands how we are all wounded people in a hurting world. I got in her car the other day and she had been playing one of my favorite CDs by Carrie Newcomer, “Kindred Spirits”. All those songs talk about the beauty and brokenness that we all are.

Newcomer’s song, “Bare to the Bone” was the only song that expressed what it felt like when I was removed as a pastor for being a lesbian. For many years, that was my favorite song because, in that song, I felt heard and seen. Her song “Geodes” is one that I think everyone can relate to because she talks about the beauty found in what is common. I’ve had this CD for many years, given to me by a blessed Spirit Friend. It first came out in 2012, so she either gave me her brand-new cd or not long thereafter. That CD has healed much in my heart. As I listened to it again this past week, the song that has been calling to me is “My True Name”; especially this line, “But you saw to my center past every imposter, and you whispered My True Name”. All week, I’ve been wondering what my true name is.

The song is clearly written for a person. However, for me at least, there are also overtones of the holy. I feel that holiness or sacredness in most songs anyway (unless the lyrics are racy or explicitly other). Music is one way that Spirit speaks to me. It’s always been this way. I only tell you this because as my beloved asked me this morning, “What are you going to do today?” I found myself resistant to her question. The question was not loaded with expectations (like of former bosses, exes, or parents thinking of chores) but was a simple curious question about being interested in my day. Heather is very loving and kind and is also supportive of my art and music. When I can’t work because I’m sick, she doesn’t put me down. We’ve also been reading Pema Chodron as a morning devotion practice, and we have deep conversations about everything. As I reminded my inner child and workaholic of this, I found myself returning to K’s original question and changing it to this. “Why do we always ask about doing, but never about being or becoming?”

In a new setting, that would be a conversation killer for most people. That’s why I’m writing it here if you’ve been brave enough to read this far. Instead of asking you what you are doing, I’m asking you, “Who are you becoming?” We need to ask ourselves this question more often I think, and I offer that the plumb line of guidance should be one of love, kindness, and justice for all creation. How do we measure up then? I know we must pay bills to feed the family, and buy medicines, but is our work on earth only that? As human beings, who hold humanity above all of the creation most often, why wouldn’t we be aiming higher?

I keep saying to people that I just want to be a person of love and kindness in this place. That isn’t enough for many people. People place expectations on each of us in ways that we’ve never asked and perhaps never wanted. That doesn’t mean we have to follow through. We can be responsible AND live up to our “True Name” when we meditate on that way of knowing our inner life and how that knowing manifests in this world. I have ideas about my true name I can’t tell you because words are insufficient. I’m going to work on music, drawings, books, and other creative venues to see if I can bring that true name into being in my days to come. Now I want to ask you, “Whom are you being today? Forget doing? Whom are you going to BE today?”

“When we look into our own hearts and begin to discover what is confused and what is brilliant, what is bitter and what is sweet, it isn’t just ourselves that we’re discovering. We’re discovering the universe.”
Pema Chödrön, “Where Is Buddha?”

 

 

The post Who Are You? Who Are You Becoming? appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

Cosmic Cliffs – Webb Telescope

READINGS
In talking about Psalm 23, Cole Arthur Riley states in her book, This Here Flesh:

“I find it beautiful that in the face of terror, G-d doesn’t bid us toward courage as we might pereive it. Instead, [G-d] draws us toward fear’s essential sister, rest – a sister who is not meant to replace fear but to exist together in tension and harmony with it (for Fear’s origin is not evil though evil certain wields it against our souls daily).”  Page 86, This Here Flesh

“finding out what connects us, revelling in our differences; this is the process that brings us closer, that gives us a world of shared values, of meaningful community.”  ~Bell Hooks

You Are Dust – Be Dust

1st Question (harsh) – “You are dust” – If I said that to you like that, what would you think or feel? Why?

2nd Question (gentle) – “You are but dust” What about that? What would you think or feel then? Why?

 

Human life is made up of particles. We call these particles many things. With scientific words, we use atoms, molecules, ions, quarks, etc. Religious scripture speaks of humanity as creatures created by a Divine being and Christianity, in particular, reminds us we are fading like flowers or dust. Many scriptures talk about humanity as being born from G-d’s own hand out of dust or as a creature of dust brought to life by divine breath. Let’s talk today about what this means for us in this challenging time when it seems we ARE only dust to be wiped away when the world is through with us.

 

Y’all, I got something to to tell you!  WE ARE STARDUST! We are made of the dust that dreams are made of; songs and poems sing of us. Poets and lovers ask for our blessings. Angels, fairies, godmothers sprinkle the magic of our lives across the universe. Think of the new Webb telescope images being sent to earth now and shared with all of us. Our eyes have seen something no other century, decade, or eon of humanity has ever seen. Now, we are seeing this with our own eyes. To those galaxies, our planet most likely appears like a speck of dust, invisible to the human eye.

 

What in the world does this have to do with every day you and me? Most of all, what does this talk about dust have to do with a talk on “The Power of Being You”?

 

1st – Be like the dust in my house.

Just hang outDon’t worry about the big people because they want to ignore you because acknowledging you might mean more work for them!

2nd – Dust has no wish to be something else or be a different someone else.

Has anyone ever heard of useful dust?Is a doctor’s dust smarter than an idiot’s dust?Is a billionaire’s dust richer than a poor woman’s dust?

Joking aside, Just BE.

 

It is good, right, and healthy to do nothing sometime. Rest is healing, empowering, and restorative. It’s also one of the hardest things to do for most of us in this busy world that values “busy-ness”. One of the blessings of my disability is that disability is teaching me the true POWER of rest. Though rest can make us feel vulnerable, rest is actually for empowerment.

 

We can parse the title of today’s talk in several ways but what I want to focus on is how Being you is an act of Social Justice.

Be – Look for ways to embrace self-acceptance as a person who is loved

Being – Live within that self-confidence. Move with your bubble of gifts or shield of light through a dark and hurting world knowing that by BEING, you bring value to the universe.

Act – Act kindly and lovingly even when those around you make other choices.

Act – on behalf of others, act from your resting self-acceptance

Act – because of your self-acceptance.

Being love in all that you do and all that you are activates:

Social engagement (community)Connections (relationships)And CAN MOVE us toward or become justice.

 

LOVE is the catalyst for change.

Being is the cocoon for forming us and re-forming us.

Be in that moment, that struggle where the caterpillar is formed so that you are given wings.

 

My challenge offered to you (if you’re willing to accept this mission) is an unusual one because it may go against so many natural tendencies and societal norms. This is actually a harder challenge than you will realize but I hope you will at least consider it as you go forth. Stop doing so much. Take time. Breathe. You are enough. Breathe. You are a gift. Dance a bit or sing if that helps. Sleep and nap. Write down your dreams or draw them. Be you. Look at yourself reflectively, honestly, and with gentle compassion. Then say, “Hm. Interesting.” Just observe your thoughts. BE some more by writing, meditating, walking, and journaling. Go sit in the woods or at one of our beautiful outlooks. Think on the world and send that world LOVE because it is a screaming, raging, hurting world that is terrified and trembling. Then, remind yourself of this humbling thing – you are not in control of others. The only one you can control is yourself. Now, a harder thing. Let it go. Let go. Let go of as much fear, worry, angst, and anger as you can. Scream if you must, but not at living creatures. Scream to God or the gods or no god. Then go back and BE YOU. Love you. Love one another. G-d loves you so much that you are a speck of stardust brought to life by the very breath of G-d. Cry whenever you can. Laugh often. Sit in the woods or on a beach.

 

Do whatever “being” gets you back to that place place where you know what it feels like

– to be loved and rested

To love and accept love in return

Below is a poem I wrote as an art gift. This poem is just one in the new poetry collection from Napping Dog Press called “For the Brokenhearted”.

Gold in the Darkness

Once the night was darker

than oblivion.

Holding my hands before my eyes,

there was nothing.

I was invisible…

… again.

“There is gold in the darkness,” the wise ones said.

Instead, there was only dark

Wandering with disappeared hands.

Yet, the hands felt the trees,

Found sticks to build fire…

Until one day, there was light again.

My hands, transformed with pain & grief

Painted words on paper

Paint on canvas

Music on instruments

And flowers on land.

“There is gold in the darkness,” they say.

Now I hand it to you.

For when we love with ALL of our beingness, we will change the world. In those loving places of being – social justice then comes to its own birth. The work is love and the place to start is with you.

 

“Rest, in its simplest form, becomes an act of resistance and a reclaiming of power because it asserts our most basic humanity. We are enough. The systems cannot have us.”  ~Rest is Resistance by Tricia Hersey

The post You Are Dust – BE dust appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

I found this poem I wrote while living in Sylva, NC, and participating in City Lights Bookstore’s Writer’s Group. This poem was written over 5 years ago.

Point

What is the point?
Why am I doing this?
The questions come as always before,
But now…
There’s a long empty blank of not knowing.

The sharp memory of my father’s death,
pins me to my mortality.
Getting from point A to point B
Takes so much effort that at times I think
Why bother?

Make a point of staying still
Long enough to be remembered
As a point in time….
That can never be truly pinpointed,
That may never have been a point at all.

~JRW

©2022 Michele Jack, Graphic Artist, UK

When I read that poem this morning, I was glad to have found it today because, on September 4, 2022 a new poetry collection was released by Napping Dog Press. I have a few poems included in the book but the thing that makes me happiest is the joy I had in compiling the collection and working with so many poets worldwide. Finding this older poem this morning was serendipitous for two reasons. First, I totally forgot that I had written it on a google note. Reading it again gave me hope and healing because, since the writing, it’s come to my attention that LIVING is the point. The second reason finding this poem today is good is it is an example of the poems that will are featured in this collection. The above poem was not at my fingertips when we were compiling the collection so it is not included.

When I first started the collection, it was an attempt to find my way through grief and loss on top of a broken heart. Wisdom pointed out to me that I was not the only one in the world with a broken heart. All human beings have suffered a broken heart in the period of a lifetime. As a result, I began to reach out to other poets I love who might contribute to the collection. I was clear that this book is more of a project than anything. I think I even warned them that I was the compiler and my only other helper was Birdie, my dog. When I shared my vision, they contributed wholeheartedly. I was humbled and gladdened.

As the collection began to take shape, it became clear that it was too heavy-hearted. Though we must grieve our broken hearts and losses, if we get stuck there, that destroys our joy and can even destroy our lives. I went back to these poets and asked for poems that also talked about how it is to get through a broken heart. At first, the collection was only poems of poets who I have become friends throughout the years. Then, I read other’s poems posted by friends (Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer), on websites, and even an essayist found on TWITTER (Dawn Wink). I got brave and asked these more well-published if they might also contribute a certain poem. My second cousin posted one written by her dad, Noel Allende-Goita who graciously contributed his poem in English and Spanish. Pamela Kallemanis suggested the poetry of one of her friends who she knew would fit into the vision and we gained another NYC poet, Paul LaTorre. Kate Barletti became a friend of mine via a Facebook group and offered some of her poems from New Zealand. We have queer, straight, religious, pagan, who have all created works that I think will touch your heart or your friends’ hearts. These poets have healed my heart in ways I could not have imagined when I asked for their contributions.

Michele Jack is a master of all trades and lol, I guess a jack of all trades too! In this instance, however, she has been the wonderful graphic artist who created our beautiful cover. I sent an idea and she make it come to life! Michele is also the person who talked me off of IT cliffs when some format issue freaked me out or when uploads to the printer did not work. She is a gem, a trusted friend, and a long-time Soul Sister of mine.

When the compiling of writing was done, and the cover being polished, it felt there was one thing the book needed but at first, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then one morning, I saw one of Andi Gelsthorpe’s posts of her art on her Facebook page. That was the last gem needed for this book to be completed. Andi graciously offered three of her prints to be added between the last three sections as the book moves towards a more healing tone. Hope we have more good news to share about Andi’s work later because she creates beautiful prints.

This kind of announcement, kind of thank you, would not be complete without thanking the editors who helped me make this book beautiful, legible and

one that won’t cause English teacher to pull their hair out. First, Sis Kinney was my first editor. She is the one who saw the draft collection when all was a jumble and mess. Through her experience from previous editing jobs, she caught things I missed often because I was so focused on the poem or essay. Through Sis’s work (at no cost to me), the book had form and shape, and direction before sending it to the final editor, Mary Neal Meador. Mary Neal’s name was mentioned to me by my partner, Heather. She told me I MUST work with Mary Neal at Appalachian State University’s (ASU) Writing Center. Heather is an amazing writer and boy and I’m glad I took that advice. Mary Neal had worked with a publisher of poetry in her work history and through her wise guidance, this book has been loved, cared for, and polished. If any errors remain in this book, they are all mine because Sis and Mary Neal worked hard with me to assure that we were putting out a professional book.

Last, but not least, I want to thank Heather for believing in me. I first met Heather because I was looking for a writing friend upon my move to Boone. We’ve been friends for five years, but partners for only 1 of those years. It’s been the most beautiful poem I’ve lived yet. She has listened to my frustrations over getting the book organized, websites built, authors updated, and another good copy editor of the proofs. She has given me the time and space to devote my work to this project and she also loves this project as if it was her own. She has even volunteered to help me pack the orders! She knows my other helper, Birdie always naps on the job. I’m thankful for Birdie too because she was/is my faithful companion and champion whether I’m writing or not. You also might recognize her in our project’s logo below.

©2019 Michele Jack,  Designer, UK

 

 

The post A Point – Poetry Matters appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

©2022 “Labyrinth, Joggins, Nova Scotia, JRobin Whitley

Your past and your “future”
collide
co-exist
intersect
in the NOW.

What does it mean to focus on now?
If you choose
NOW
over
past
or future,
You will be
Present.

©2021 Present, JRobin Whitley
All Rights Reserved

The post Present appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

The raspberry vine speaks to me. The first story she told me was of her beloved Monica. Monica Pombo was from Brazil and my partner’s wife. Monica planted the raspberries, the blueberries, and blackberries so that my partner and their son would have fruit for food when she died. The raspberry vine tells me she is an ancestor of the vines that Monica planted but that the love in her veins and lineage remains. Monica died of cancer 10 years ago, so I’ve never met her, yet, every time I touch the vine or pick the berries, I feel Monica’s kindness there as a presence.

Monica & Alex

Yesterday, as I picked a bowl of blueberries, I think of how Monica’s love remains and brings the fruit of love and kindness to our present day. Can we be fruit and multiply love through plants? I think so.

Another time I picked berries, I thought of my dad. Though he didn’t grow raspberries, he grew grapes, muscadines, and scuppernongs. He always had a garden too, but mostly the vines remind me of the time we last stood in his vineyard. He was so proud of his grapes and standing there with ripening fruit, I felt the love of my dad for nature and me, but I also felt the sacredness of the moment. Lingering at our feet was a black cat that deddy said wasn’t “his” cat but that cat followed him everywhere at his barbershop and in the vineyards outside there. “That old cat” is all I remember dad ever calling her, but in the mornings, he bought my sister’s dog and that cat a sausage biscuit every day for breakfast. Love and fruit are communion with nature, animals, and humans.

Later, after lingering in the memories of dad and wishing I knew Monica, another wonderful memory came to me in the raspberry patch. As I picked the berries, I remembered a man from my church in Charlotte at Advent Lutheran. He was a big gardener and faithful church leader. Once when I visited him and his wife, Mabel, I saw how beautiful his garden was as well as bountiful. At the time, I was trying to start a square-foot garden in my small city lot. The raccoons, possums, and birds thought I planted it all for them. So, I asked June how he kept the birds and others from eating everything. He smiled at me in the sunlight and said, “Oh, I plant enough for them and me.” That memory is at least 30 years old. Did the birds sing it to me? If so, did June whisper in their ears to remind me to leave enough for the birds of the heavens? That love of gardening and nature courses through the earth. Like my dad and Monica, June died many years ago. Yet, that love, that fruitfulness, that kind love of the earth remains humming through the vines, singing from the thrush, the cardinal, the sparrow.

This morning, I waited much too late to pick berries, but I promised my young friend some for her and her sweet daughter. As the sun beat down, I remembered picking strawberries with mom, dad, and my sister in Grandma and Grandpa Poplin’s strawberry patch. I know our grandparents on both sides always did their work in the mornings before it got hot. Was it so hot that the hardening red clay was baking us in a hot summer morning, or was it later in the day so that mom and dad could be there after work? Most likely, it was the latter. I remember the four of us on the ground picking berries while grandma and grandpa walked around the gardens nearby talking to us of harvest, the things they had done earlier in the day. We were visiting with each other, but also communing with the beauty of family, earth, and sky. Their love and care for the earth flows through all of my family who still has gardens, and love family.

As I write, I remember the verses in Jewish and Christian scripture that speak of being fruitful and multiplying. Most often in life, this text has been interpreted as meaning the creating of children. Yet, there are many of us who don’t have children, all of which is personal and often traumatic. What about those of us who cannot have children? How can we be fruitful and multiply? Also, now in this day and time when overpopulation and climate change constantly endanger our earth, is the procreation of children (when so many are unwanted, refugees, orphans, or homeless), how is this good stewardship of our lives, our resources, our bodies?

What if instead, we assure that we multiply joy, love, and respect for the earth as the way each of us choose to be fruitful and multiply? How can we multiply that beauty of life and love that was giving by Monica to her family here, but that also extends to me? Can we live a life that is so beautiful that the vines, the berries, the birds, the earth sings of us? I continue to be an idealist even though it feels the world is being rent asunder. I plant more seeds of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The post Listening to the Vine – Raspberry appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

One of my favorite songs growing up was “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by The Mamas and Papas. The song came out in 1968, so that means that I was 7 when the song came out. I don’t know how long it was before it stuck in my mind as a favorite, but I always remember loving it and also loving to hear Cass Elliott sing it. As I rake my memory to find the relics of past connections, I’m sure that the romantic aspect of the song didn’t affect me until fifth grade or seventh. I always had crushes then, on boys and girls…not understanding that it wasn’t the accepted feelings of the Southern rural culture where I was raised.

This writing is not about the song, but about the dream and the dreamer. You see, I’ve always been a dreamer. Another vestige of song lyric responds “…and I’m not the only one.” (Imagine, John Lennon). In those formative years of life, I was all dreamer and dreamer lyrics, dreamer poetry even. Yes, I was one of the ones who daydreamed in class, in church, in every moment when I was awake really. Then, in the night, I dreamed vivid dreams. I’ve always been a vivid dreamer and started a dream journal in the seventh grade. I’ve kept a dream journal ever since.

I had big dreams of the opposite character as a kid. On one hand, I wanted to be a famous singer and tour the world making it better (the “it” was undefined then) for everyone with my songs and the stories in the songs. On the other hand, I wanted to be a missionary and make the world better by spreading peace and love. As I type this, perhaps the dream wasn’t so opposite after all. I simply wanted to share a message that inspired others. Even in the dream to be a missionary, it was as a musician.

As most adults know, keeping the dreams alive is the real difficulty in life. As a youth, I remember my mom talking about how she had dreams of being a famous pianist. She was excellent too. In those times, I always felt sad for her that she lost the dream…or did she? She always told me later, as I reached 18 that she had to give up her dreams to make a living. That happens to a lot of musicians and especially to women musicians pre-birth control era.

Now, in writing, I find myself lost in dreams again. Yes, I remember my mom talking about her lost dreams and living the reality of Southern life in the 60s. Though I was a 60s child, life has afforded me many more opportunities even as women’s rights continue to suffer setbacks. The dreams I remember were grand in many ways because I didn’t understand that not all musicians have everything needed to pay bills, buy groceries, go to doctors, and find housing. You know, the “real-life” stuff mama talked to me about as I decided to major in music.

Through auditions in my 20s with various bands and for agents, it didn’t take long until I realized that maybe I didn’t want to be famous. At the time, it seemed to be because I didn’t want to show off my body as the band leaders wanted or the agents said. My voice was fine and most liked my guitar work. It was always the same, wear short dresses and wear make-up. They wanted me to be someone I was not. Also, when Grandma Whitley was in the hospital, possibly dying, I was told I couldn’t go see her because it was a rehearsal night. No, that wasn’t going to happen.  Then, it made sense to turn to and continue my work in church music.

That choice didn’t feel like the death of a dream or killing a dream but more a letting go of a dream that I saw as childish. I didn’t have what it took to live the life of a professional touring musician. There are things we lose in life that we can accept when we accept our limitations whether they are financial, physical, or emotional. The truth is, by the time I was forty, I could say that most of my life dreams had come true. I won’t list them because there were many. Some would call the dreams goals, but a dream is a goal and goals can be dreams. Some said that since I achieved all my dreams, that I needed to dream bigger.

Dreaming bigger wasn’t hard since I was no longer interested in fame. However, then I met a different kind of obstacle. These were the dream killers. Of course, there had been people who wanted to discourage me earlier in life but that only served to make me more determined. These dream killers were more sinister because they found ways to attack my spirit, my livelihood, and my personhood and sense of identity.

“Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly.”
― Langston Hughes

No, I’m not going to name names except for the one who was most dangerous and who was least expected – Me. Yesterday, my partner and I talked about dreams of travel. I was hesitant and anxious even though I love to travel. Throughout the night, I wondered why and at one point, realized that because of my health challenges and age, I had given up on dreams of travel.

Then this morning, Heather talked to me about how she didn’t want to stop dreaming because of her age. Suddenly, I could hear myself responding to my ex about disability by saying, “I’m not dead yet.” I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. Through this difficult talk with Heather and struggling with my own feelings, it became clear that in the past twenty years or so, the one who has been killing my dreams was and is me.

There’s more to it than self-sabotage because there were many great losses in the past 30 years. However, it is up to me to realize my dreams and no one else. Yes, I was disappointed in life and when dreams were squashed by others or unfulfilled because my health changed. However, that doesn’t mean I cannot dream new dreams.

During my counseling session earlier yesterday, my counselor noticed that I had gotten off-balance and was dwelling in a negative space even though at this time, my life is beautiful. I have new love and life. I have a wonderful home and good friends. This week, I get to travel again for the first time in 30+ years to a place that I’ve always wanted to go to, Canada. That is a dream that I gave up on. Now, in three days, my new sweetheart and I are making it a reality! That is a type of rebirth of my spirit.

 

“We keep our vibration higher by prayer,
by kindness, by taking care of what we were given to do,
by cleaning ourselves of negative thoughts that originate within or come from others,
by cleaning with water, by humility,
by being in the real world, away from concrete and square buildings,
by speaking only that which holds truth.”[1]
~Joy Harjo in Poet Warrior

Truth is, I don’t know what to think, feel, or do about it. Perhaps the only thing I know right now is that I want to dream more and live more even if I’m 60 and going on 61. Because of this wonderful person in my life, I am being empowered to dream NEW dreams. The past is past. Yet, my dreaming heart and dreaming mind can still dream new dreams in this present. What a gift! Through my talk with my counselor and my beloved, I’m being encouraged to “dream a little dream of me” for myself.

I write now to say that I am up for the challenge. I am alive and love is vibrant in my life. I embrace the dream. How about you? How are you embracing new dreams? It is never too late to dream again.

 

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”
― Eleanor Roosevelt

____________________________________

Harjo, Joy. Poet Warrior: A Memoir. W. W. Norton & Company, 2022, pg. 116.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The post Dead Dreams or Killing Dreams appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.

Anxiety 

The word looks strange as I type it this morning. The truth is, anxiety feels strange. We all know this. Below is a poem I wrote years ago (2008) and happen across now. It causes me to wonder if humanity any longer has the ability to change for the better…or maybe it’s about desire…

Anxiety

The wise ones sought to teach us

    silence.

Stop all activity.

    Be still and know.

      Listen to the wisdom of your soul.

Instead, we choose noise.

   televisions, radios, phones, would make life

 easier we thought; bring us closer to loved ones.

    High-definition television becomes the

Center of family. No discussion

   of fields of wheat

    or how the bees are dying.

We watch and hear

   disaster, war, rape, and

new realms of violence.

In this modern world, Hebrew scripture seems tame.

True humanity is out of the picture.

When a moment lapses into silence,

We turn on the radio to stop the grumblings of spirit…

…but the grumbling continues, assimilates the rhythm and meaning of the words we hear

   And grows into something bigger

And more confusing.

“Something’s wrong with the world,” we say.

I tell you this, “It is us.”

 

 

 

 

 

The post Anxiety appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.