Spirit whisks me away…From my studio in the center of Tucson, within days, I am relocated back to a brand new Quietude. Not a log cabin in the woods, but a casita in the desert: it is small but spacious; simple, with all of the comfort I desire. I work, not in the designated studio end of the casita but in the kitchen where the natural light streams in from a north facing window of the kind of privacy glass one cannot actually see through. Air conditioner off, humidifier on: my studio is my sweat lodge. It feels right. I sweat profusely. This sensitive process just cannot bear the forced, cold, unnatural air blowing over the clay. It is quiet work; sometimes undertaken with loud music.

The problem that arises is the formless nature of the form the Elephant Spirit takes. Once I realize that these pots are not intended to be bowls in the form of elephant ears but are to be in the form of clouds…I feel the liberation of knowing that I am right on course. (For the elephant has long associations with the clouds and Her trumpet calls in the rains.) In that moment the issue becomes the formless nature of clouds. Someone please tell me, is a cloud more round or more oval? Is the form of a cloud more fluff or more mist? Are the edges of a cloud more raggedy or more smooth?

Ganesh smiles gently, “I am asking you, as my hands, to surrender into my spirit: that I might show you the nature of my formless form. It is my essence I wish for you to bring into form. I have made you very happy and comfortable here in your new Quietude at the base of Elephant Head Butte, have I not? Now I need you to work on this special challenge: to give my formless nature form.”

“I will do my best, my Beloved, but normally I am given a form to bring into form: like the five petaled flower of the Badger Spirit or the four toed track of the Spirit of Dog. Your formlessness is something I understand and accept in my heart. Your formless form is not a hindrance in our personal communion…but is it possible for me to give form to that which has no form?”

“My child, you have been doing it all along! It is my essence I am asking you to breath into the clay. Thirty years of practice does not mean you will not be required to challenge yourself and continue to practice! You have always said that this work is your practice…allow yourself to dissolve. Merge with me, dance with me, surrender. There is no place for worry or expectation in this situation. Merge with me my child and let us explore together the formless nature of form.”

X

Saturday I woke up. Agitated. I began to fume and rumble. Ranting and bickering with myself and the Gods. A wrestling match one will only win when the Gods are good and ready to concede. At last I heard myself proclaim… “I just need to make pots! I want to make pots, pit fire and get enough work together to have a show! I want to move back out into the desert and live at the ceremonial pit firing site!” I was a little taken aback. I knew that was what I wanted, but was waiting for the go ahead from Spirit. In that instant, I knew I had it. I was going home. Back to the land. Back to the wildness where I truly am at home. That was Saturday. This is Tuesday. I am almost done with the move. BEEP! BEEP! And that my friend is why I am called Shar Shk Buk. Because the Road Runner can change direction, time and time again, on a dime, at a moment’s notice, while all the while doing the dance with Old Man Coyote. Six months of preparation in Green Valley…two and a half years in the big city of a million people… And now Spirit is taking me home! Gratitude in abundance.

Jennifer Sordyl’s photo from the road
Allah is good and great!

Three days ago I had the magnificent urge to write something beautiful. Something beautiful about the sunflowers blooming in my precious little corn patch. But once again the balance has been tipped. The pain and suffering of the world comes a calling and settles in for a spell. Way too close to home, it clutches me by the heart and dares me not to look away.
My dear Vincent, I have always wondered, “why the sun flowers?” But just three days ago when I laid eyes on the first sturdy stock, taller than myself, covered at last joyously with a dozen diminutive blossoms (as diminutive as sun flowers go!) Beaming delight…I got it, I got you, Dear Vincent. You and your suffering. You and your search. Your struggle and search always for God.
The sunflower reaching up to Father Sun, reflecting his golden, divine light: the herald of a bright new day.
Allah is capable of all things. Allah is great and good. We ride this tipping balance daily, like surfers riding waves.
Balance is not stillness. Balance is motion. Check, recheck…check, adjust…Check, position…check, reposition…We move through this world feeling sometimes like surfers on a forty foot wave. Eyes wide open in suspense of what the future will bring!
You Dear Vincent are the epitome of this struggle. Again and again you transform your pain and suffering into divine uncommon beauty. Always you remain, Patron Saint of the artist, Patron Saint of the self-healer.
The sublime beauty of your irises, there at the Getty Center in LA… beauty blooming in all its glory and grace from the dark humus of human suffering. I imagine you bearing your easel like Jesus bore his cross. All the way to the end.

P.S. The Solstice corn harvest is a great success!