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remembering the children

remembering the children

“… Of course we could try to forget the past. Why not? Is it not natural for a human being to repress what causes him pain, what causes him shame? Like the body, memory protects its wounds. When day breaks after a sleepless night, one’s ghosts must withdraw; the dead are ordered back to their graves. But for the first time in history, we could not bury our dead. We bear their graves within ourselves. For us, forgetting was never an option.” ~ Elie Wiesel  (Nobel Lecture 1986)


moonlight sonata


moonlight sonata by ludwig van beethoven

clouds of glory


For Michèle

Oktober 31, 1969 – September 25, 2013

soul of a bird

Soul Of A Bird

Anaïs Nin, A Woman Speaks [excerpt from her lecture The Artist As Magician 1973]


“We have this marvelous power to escape, but it is not escape in the negative sense of the word. It is an escape similar to that of Olivier Messiaen, who while he was in a concentration camp, composed the wonderful piece for clarinet called “The Soul of A Bird.” That’s the kind of escape I mean. This composition probably helped him to survive that experience, and I can’t imagine one more terrible than that. Whereas when people cannot look over the walls and do not have this story-telling power and perspective, have no separation from events, then disintegration takes place and we despair. We drop out or even commit suicide, like Sylvia Plath. When we have no capacity to look beyond the sorrow or the experience which strikes us, we give up and die.

If you’re negative, you’re going to find causes for negativity. You will yourself build a case. Because we’re very clever. We’re much cleverer than we think we are. We build cases for our own moods. If you are convinced that you can’t make it, and you want to drop out, you’re going to find reasons for it. You can always build a case. There are all kind of things lying around. But if you want to build a case for life being worth living then you build that too.

It wasn’t enough for me to weep every day because there was war. I felt that you had to create an antidote, you had to create another world, which was called escapism because those who escaped were hated. But you couldn’t call “The Soul of A Bird” escape, yet that is what it was, the most beautiful poem of escape. It was proof that you cannot kill the spirit. In the midst of war and horror it was creating something in opposition to the horrors and montrosities.

I have a friend, a painter, who often used to call me and say: “I’ve just read the papers and I can’t paint anymore today: there are such horrible things happening in the world.” And I would say to her: “Paint first and read the papers afterward.”

the goddess maia

“Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade,

Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.”

~Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1837-8

goddess maia

It is May! Well, not quite but very nearly. It is called, deeply living in wishful thinking. But May will come like a storm of sunshine even though April is still on its way. I need for May to arrive. My winter was long, cold, and complex. Winter always is. I was alive but I was not living. April does not mean as much to me as May does so I am going to skip and jump, splash and move into the month of new hopes and beginnings.  So here I will start singing to the Goddess of May though it is still March. I will walk Her path.

♬♪For Rejoice. The time to sing the Song of Songs has come. It is deep spring, the season of rebirth, rejuvenation, renewal, and growth. Colours all ready to burst open and expand into greater and grander forms and colours. Faces look for the sun and find it. Living becomes a joyful celebration, a dance, a song, a fiesta. May gives birth to the desire to give rather than the desire to receive. ‘I would scrub floors for you, oh Goddess of May, if you would promise me to last, to last a million days.’

The Goddess of May, her name is Maia. She is an ancient earth-goddess, and in ancient Roman religion and myth she is the Goddess of springtime, warmth, and growth. The month of May (Latin Maius) was named supposedly for Maia. In Greek mythology she is the daughter of Atlas and Pleoine the Oceanid and the eldest of the seven Pleiades sisters who are stars. And so she has become the first, and the eldest, of the seven sisters I was inspired to create with ink, glue, and paper in my art journal. Everyone can find her in the night sky with a prominent place in ancient mythology and the Pleiades star cluster. Her song of songs is worth singing straight into our spirit hearts for her name has its roots in Latin magnus ‘great or powerful.’ See here Goddess Maia still waiting for her birth month to arrive so she can radiate, dance, blossom, and rise into her powerful sense of life. I will walk Her path.

three sisters

The world is a dream.
We don’t exist, we only think we do.
So what difference does it make?
(from Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov, Act 4)

unbearable lightness of longing

Honoré de Balzac wrote “an unfulfilled vocation drains the color from man’s entire existence.”  I think an unfulfilled dream has the tendency to do quite the same. So it was difficult to add color to my three sisters. My Olga, Irina, and Masha. They are comparable to Chekhov’s Three Sisters and a bit like the three Brontë sisters. However, these three sisters in search of fulfillment and fecundity in ultra modern times (or is it post-modern or post-post modern times) are all mine. In what way are my three sisters related to those of Chekhov and Brontë? Their dreams, hopes, longings, and passions are the forces that also govern their lives. Can you see? See. They are all tangled up in their potent passions and emotions. Dance, dance, dance through the unbearable lightness of longings. Dance, dance, dance through the unfulfilled portions of life. “If we only knew… If we only knew.” (Olga)

rumi’s dance

rumi's dance

In your light I learn how to love.

In your beauty, how to make poems.

You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you,

but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.


a woman speaks

a woman speaks

“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.”
~ Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934

language of flowers

You generate in me the forces of light needed to curl me open come springtime. To curl me open. To curl me. You generate in me the forces of springtime.

I fade only so I can bloom again and rise in ecstasy in its own time. In its own time, I rise again in ecstasy. In its own time, it happens.

My curves move, my sepals elongate so I can bloom like a rose, a kalanchoe, a morning glory, and a night-blooming flower towards the source of your light. So I can bloom. So I can bloom dynamically despite my incoherent cries.

All desires distilled into three boundless desires. Life, Flowers, and Beauty. To pour forth desire. To pour forth. To pour forth by natural process, desire. Desire that does not curl in but curls out so they will not notice me but notice you who holds and upholds me. My calyx. A fragrant strong path. An impetus for perfect phototropism, expanding acts of poetry, remodernism, and lyrical expressions. And impetus for devine directional growth.

The imperfections, I see. I see the beauty. I see the beauty in the imperfections. There, is the light. The light that shines into me that becomes me. So I become a new way of seeing. I become a new way of becoming, a new language. A language of flowers. A language of light.

I fade only so I can bloom again and rise in ecstasy in its own time. In its own time, I rise again in ecstasy. In its own time, it happens. All flowers will dance, all pedals will bloom, all sepals elongate and rise. In its own time, it happens.

copyright ©2012 naomibacker

ariadne’s thread

“There is enough abundance in the universe for everyone.”

~ my sister to me ~


For my sister

At the park today, I looked up to inhale the cosmic beauty of the trees. In that sky upward tree gazing moment, a door in my mind opened for my thoughts to spring ever green. The colours swirled into poetry and perfection unlocking cycles of self-discovery. And there I saw you in a vision with underlying spiritual meanings, and I thought, perhaps, the trees do reflect the perceptions of our minds.

As the branches of the trees began to dance on this breezy summer day, I realized how you have become a spiritual adult flourishing into a gorgeous tree of life. All your years of development, change, and growth have yielded fruit that nourishes. You have always been there to fill my vessel and replenish my spirit. Your energy and visions, your diligence, motivation, and hard work causes my own soil to shift and wake. Your joy, your wisdom, and especially your giving spirit are a gift, which I prohibit myself to take for granted. And in those moments that I do, I am touched again by the way in which you water my life with buckets of love. There is no path that leads to taking you for granted. No path.

I stopped today to celebrate you, my dear sister. I stopped to feel your knowledge within me: there is enough abundance in the universe for everyone. Stay in the light, you are not alone. In togetherness we can do so much. Your threads, your hands always ready to hold. You connect me to world trees, cosmic trees, and interconnectedness to spiritual learnings. With the multiple insights you offer on how to get through my maze, I restore myself.  I apply you and proceed forward.

Ariadne’s thread.

In the park today, I looked up to inhale the beauty of the trees. I saw you in a vision with underlying spiritual meanings and I thought, perhaps, the trees do reflect the perceptions of our minds.

Rooted in your light, I love you.

~ta petite soeur