Too Much & Not Enough

Mixed Media

11″ x 14″ canvas

Canvas, tissue paper, magazine clippings, Mod Podge, acrylic and oil paint, Elmer’s glue, computer wires, screws and bits and bobs, coffee beans, sea salt, lavender buds, evergreen needles, and twig.

The Birdman’s Daughter

The Birdman’s Daughter

by Cindi Myers

It was almost one decade ago that I got this book, before I was even of legal drinking age. I bought it for five and a half dollars from a supermarket thinking the main character was a mature woman and the plot entailed mature issues, and that maybe by reading it, I myself would be somewhat mature for it. It’s been sitting on my shelf all this time, waiting, and I wasn’t missing out on anything special. In a nutshell, Myers wrote a lukewarm, non-committal story in a perfectly coherent and straightforward (if not generic) writing style about equally lackluster, unoriginal characters. There was no real strife, only inconveniences and discomforts. No real drama, only cumbersome family exchanges. I found myself counting pages to see how long until the end of the chapter, where I could take a break from it.

Our main character, Karen, is a conservative, spineless woman looking after her stroked-out father, Martin, and attempting to reconcile the chasm between them; a woman to which I could hardly relate. Forgive me, but isn’t middle-age kind of late for someone to come to terms with the fact that a parent can only do their best with what they have to work with? Seriously, folks, that’s what this book is about. While children in this world are starved, beaten, molested, and dodging bullets in bad neighborhoods, we’re expected to empathize with Karen, whose daddy was never emotionally available as she grew up.

What bothers me more is that, in this story, nobody actually grows, nobody changes. Karen’s relationship with her mother remained the same, such a minor character that there was no change for her to have either as her ex-husband suffered and deteriorated. Karen gleamed a bit of insight into the inner workings of her deadbeat brother, Del, who remained undeveloped and uninvolved in the fate of his father. The relationship with Karen’s two sons was pointless, other than her realizing she needs to let them grow up and be individuals—I roll my eyes at this woman’s obtuseness. Even the youngest son, Casey, who took more than his share of center stage, remained unaffected—and listening for a minute to some alleged hottie encouraging him to study harder at school hardly constitutes as change when he himself never voiced the resolve to heed this advice, and even if he did I wouldn’t have cared because he was, all in all, a pampered layabout. Then there was Karen’s relationship with her husband, which doesn’t add up for me. Tom enters the scene at the last quarter of the book, after Karen has reconciled hers and Martin’s differences and similarities. Tom storms in like a bull in a china shop, establishes his place in the plot by accusing Karen of being cold and detached just like her father, then storms out. And for all his machismo, Tom apparently harbors a twenty-year-old suspicion that Karen never truly loved him as much as he loved her and that their marriage was merely a matter of convenience for her, all of which is assuaged in one telephone call. Yes, she apologizes to him and he suggests professional counseling, and we all skip merrily into the setting sun. The only redeeming aspect of Tom’s presence is how he put his foot down on Martin’s crippled-ass tantrums, but his sole purpose is to pout that Karen doesn’t give enough of herself to him. I marvel how Myers expects her readers to accept that a woman can invest her whole life in tending to her marriage, his business, their children, as well as her debilitated father, all to the neglect of herself, hobbies, and friends, could be accused of not giving enough, or caring enough, and that such a charge might hold water. Whatever. The single relationship that was the most revolutionary, I mean 180º change, was that between Karen and the dog, Sadie. Go ahead, laugh if you want to, but I’m serious. At first Karen was completely adamant against taking in the dog, but by the end of the book Sadie is her only friend as she sobs and cleaves to the beast, finding solace in those canine sensitivities.

And just like our main character, this whole story failed to develop an emotional bond with even me, the reader. The entire writing was devoted to introspection, no action. Just as a confrontation tilted toward emotional inclinations, the exchange promptly concluded and the scene ended. If Karen and Tom’s situation didn’t convey my point, then take Karen’s confrontation with Martin, when she finally musters up the gall to admit her feelings of neglect to him. He types a little response on the computer, they exchange physical affection, and viola, old wounds are healed. No affinities melted my heart, no insults cut to the quick, no confessions liberated. For this reason, it feels there was never a climax, nothing was ever truly at stake, our protagonist never stood at the precipice of complete disaster or loss, and there was no defining moment of truth. The pace was uneven, there were more pages devoted to fishing trips and evenings at the race track than any character or plot developments; just as quickly as issues came to light, they were resolved, and suddenly everything veered to an end—an easy end, I might add, which felt more to me like a cop-out when the author can simply wipe our hands clean for us. No more mess, no more worries, no huge decisions to be made. It’s over. Just like that. I hope Myers enjoyed the process of writing this book and that she felt some form of release by doing so, for my own singular relief is that I can finally release this book from my collection and be rid of it. There’s a reason The Birdman’s Daughter was only five and a half dollars at the supermarket, and now I know why.

Holding Hands

8" x 10" oil on canvas

8″ x 10″ oil on canvas

undeveloped hearts

this world is a ward for premature loves, cradle after cradle of them, weak and barely breathing even on life support. The parents of less fortunate loves wail the loudest, but nobody wants to hear them and we tell ourselves, “That won’t happen to me.” We each rush in all too sure and, it turns out, our own hearts aren’t able to carry the love to full term. “I’m sorry,” the doctor says of the little pink, withered thing. “She just wasn’t strong enough to make it.” As if that’s simply what happens in nature. But every parent needs someone to blame and so the couple implodes. “You didn’t try hard enough. You didn’t care enough. You weren’t there enough.” Enough. Enough. Enough. Then we invest in new partners and hope again to conceive a better, more fit love and point fingers when that one perishes, too. Weak, undeveloped hearts that they are.

Myself & My Self

For the past year I’ve been gone on a journey. This has taken me far away, far from myself. I nearly lost all contact with my spirit. But if I thought the journey was harsh, the return is even harsher yet. Although I see more clearly how much grief I cause myself by getting in my own way, I’m not sure I’m ready to rise to the next step. This transition is difficult, it feels like settling into new skin. In coming back into myself, I’m also breathing new life into my business, revamping the work I’ve conducted for years now as a licensed massage therapist. With that, I am having to reinvent the professional image which I present. In asking the simple question “what can I do to be of service to others/how can I help?” I find myself revealing more honestly who I truly am for all to see. This is a very vulnerable position. I am having to be more honest with myself about myself…For Everyone To See. For instance, I’m sitting down to write a resume, reflecting back on all the work which I’ve been trained to do, the things I’m experienced in, and the services I’ve provided in trying to heal and help others. But then I stop to reread what I’ve written and I’m horrified by what I see.

All the lies I was told as a child come to the forefront of my inner dialogue. “Who do you think you’re kidding? You can’t do all that. You’re the biggest liar.”

And I panic. I’m scared. I don’t want to put myself out there. I’m uneasy about presenting myself as an energy- and spirit-worker. I’m nervous what will happen when people start to expect it of me. Will I be able to deliver?

Then a quiet voice from the deep ripples over me: But you have done it before. You know how. And when the time is right you will know instinctively what to do.

I’m shaking inside. This new phase is all about giving away; my time, my spirit, even my artwork which is a hard thing to part with when it’s very much a piece of me. But I have to be brave, I have to be unattached. Being in service to others, making myself available to help in every single way that I can with a heart for the community, is fulfilling my purpose and strengthening my medicine. (Oh, Turkey medicine, what a curse.) This revelation and transformation has given birth to spirit-hands.com

And really, anyone who has taken a plunge, gone out on a limb, started a new business, or put themselves out there has faced these feelings and survived… At least, I hope they have.



8 3/4″ x 6″ shimmering watercolor and graphite

Sister Hummingbird, who travels through this world from one beautiful flower to another, you know only love and joy.

Teach us to move gracefully in all directions, inspire us to find the beauty that is everywhere and to taste the sweetness that is all life.

Divine Mother

It was a laid back kind of weekend, nothing was really happening around town, and I suppose Red wasn’t looking to go back home just yet so the car kind of moseyed itself into the parking lot of the little second hand shop around the corner from where I work. I think he regretted this idea later when he saw how many coffee mugs I fell in love with (the saleslady had to fetch me a basket). Passing by the jewelry counter, I noticed a round basket containing an ugly tangle of rosary beads, all kinds. White ones, plastic ones, homemade ones, glow-in-the-dark ones.  Even though I’ve never been of the Church, I thought, “How disrespectful! To discard sacred tools in such a thoughtless heap!” and set myself to the task of undoing the spaghetti mess, setting each string of prayer beads in their own neat pile, when out of the bundle tumbled this odd piece. It was dingy with aimagege, a thick 24″ chain that felt peculiar in my fingers and a solid, weighty pendant of 1½” with a comforting presence about it in my palm. If you’re familiar with older posts, then you have some idea how I’m drawn to the iconography of Mother Mary. I told Red, “I’m trying not to be attracted to his one,” but I couldn’t just leave it there. It was calling to me. I warred with myself whether or not to get it; I figured it’s just going to end up cluttering my jewelry box amongst all the other fascinating pieces I simply never wear…but for two dollars, I’d rather regret buying it than regret leaving it behind. This necklace had a strange allure about it. I didn’t want the clerk to take it away from me to bag it. Not yet out the door, I couldn’t pull it out and rip off the tag fast enough. I thought, “I really should smudge it first, who knows what kind of energy could be attached to it,” as I eagerly pulled it on around my neck in spite of the chunky turquoise piece I had earlier chosen to wear for the day. All that night, my fingers invariably found their way to it, needing to be reassured it was really, truly there and I tried to be discreet when gazing at it, mesmerized by its aura. I was overwhelmed by this intense sense of certainty that through the pendant some consciousness was there, aware of me, loving me and confirming that I was headed in the right direction. Even my grandmother commented, “It makes you wonder where it came from.”

Then I made the mistake of polishing it up, rinsing it off. As soon as it passed through the stream of the faucet, I felt it as distinctly as if someone had flipped a switch; the deep, solid connection was gone.  All that energy, that certainty, that very strong female presence, gone. It’s still a gorgeous piece. It’s still weighty and reassuring, and I love keeping it near me. Even as I sleep at night it is on the nightstand beside me. But the magical spirit is a ghost of what it was, diminished in strength, reduced now to a faint memory. I suppose it’s up to me to give it a new memory now.