living memory

Written on the occasion of the unveiling of “Here is Magic,” a 32-panel collaborative mural designed by artists Amy Tingle and Peter Walls and featuring the work of more than 30 Maine artists who created works on 4’x4’ hexagonal panels. The poem is in six parts to correspond with both the number of sides on a hexagon (6) as well as to reference the 6 stages of change (according to the transtheoretical model of change): precontemplation, contemplation, preparation, action, maintenance, and termination (result / outcome). The mural is installed at Waterfall Arts, a nonprofit community arts center located in Belfast, Maine.

1.
It begins with an instinct.
A bright color, say, or how the wildflowers
wave back and forth in the breeze, or the feeling of
hearing loons for the first time, and knowing
you are right where you need to be.
So you linger, notice the inklings of delight like dew,
a comfort that feels delicious, almost mythological,
as if you are floating in clouds and are also at the same time,
you are the clouds, floating.

2.
And then, you want to say something
about what has happened and what you saw,
not just to yourself but to someone who is listening,
someone who understands how fragile and ephemeral it all is -
the particular blue of that moment’s sky,
the songbirds’ pulse, the emergence of oyster shells and tide pools—
and recognizes these places as medicine,
as declarations of survival and protection.
Someone who breaks the boundary of isolation and crosses
a fogbank to sit on an island to submerge
into an ancient conversation, which is part music and part
starflowers and part dreams.

3.
You assemble the palette, line by line.
Sometimes it is a simple shape, an intersection
of leaves. Sometimes it takes the form of lake swimming
in clear, cold water. Sometimes it is an abstract archeology,
or an idea of what is happening beneath our feet. And sometimes,
when the light is angled particularly, it is a matrix of roots,
or a grove of birch trees,
or a beehive.  

4.
This is feather and stitch and a constellation
of sunrises and the ebb and flow of real life.
This is the buzz of hands threading seaweed.
This is the smell of evergreens and a weave of cattail reeds.
This is a whale, briefly surfacing, and a beaver’s
indigenous sovereignty. This is a distant mountain,
and how not distant it feels
from the sightline of an empty beach. This is
the flick of a seal’s whisker, and the echo
of a cormorant’s call, and the squawk of dawn
in a rooster’s throat. This is the slow peel of bark
through a long winter, and the dim rattle of seed pods.
This is every euphoric arrival in the garden,
and the untold stories in the riverbed. This is
the space between a nest and a water line.
This is how to breathe deeply. This is how
to connect. This is how to live in a peaceful world.
This is how to live.

5.
And now,
the invitation.
Build a home, then protect it as you would
a living memory. Nourish the space
so that others can remember its layers.
Create a map to bridge the tenuous places.
Make creativity your coastline. Imagine joy
as a canvas you can keep returning to,
and then return to it.

6.
What happens next is anyone’s guess.
Entire sections of woodland are under
corporate management. It is easier to destroy
than to replenish, easier to dislocate
than to kneel at the feet of our own
humility, easier to starve our courage
than feed the vein of connection.
But while the bees are alive,
let us hum with them.
While the paint shines wet,
let us trace a path with the still-
tender skin of our fingertips. Let us swim
in the delirium of clouds that return us
to the wisdom of our own hearts,
and the songs of red-winged blackbirds
that return us to our true voices, and the dreams
inside of us that feel like magic, and the space we make
for magic to come.