Highest and best use is a term used in real estate. It states that the value of a property is based on the use of the property with the highest and best use being that which produces the highest property value. I thought a lot about this idea after reading several comments on Facebook recently, comments related to the perceived decline of Athens, Texas. I was admittedly at a loss when it came to sorting out the opposing and sometimes accusatory comments, so I did not add my voice to the mix. Instead I turned, as I usually do, inward. I turned also toward the things that comfort me: art and literature. And since Athens was so named because it was hoped that the town would be a center of culture and learning, perhaps this was a good place to start looking for an answer.
I have a habit of reading many books at the same time. And I am often astounded when I find connections springing up between the various texts. I have listed below the things I read today. They will undoubtedly influence not only my art, but my life as one member of the community in which I have lived for over thirty years.
In The Essential Jung I read, “Jung of course accepted that man is a social animal, and realized that the majority of mankind are content to live in accordance with the collective, social conventions of their time. But the people who really interested him were not those who were thus adapted, but the exceptional individuals whose own nature compelled them to reject conventional ways and discover their own path. The development of individuality, the discovery of what an individual really thinks and feels and believes, as opposed to the collective thoughts, feelings and beliefs imposed on him by society, becomes a quest of vital significance.”
This brings up the following questions: Is not a successful community one in which a variety of individuals can co-exist, each following his or her own path? What is the obligation of a community with regard to the individual? And conversely what is the obligation of the individual to the community?
In her book, Painting from the Source, Aviva Gold writes, “Our culture and education system brainwash us into believing that painting is open only to a handful of uniquely talented individuals worthy of the title ‘artist.’ Yet indigenous peoples all over the world understand that every human being is an artist. In Bali, the same word means both ‘human’ and ‘artist,’ and making art is as much a part of everyday life as planting rice.”
I would like to see the arts become more a part of the lives of everyone in my community. What can I do to make the arts more accessible?
In his Guide to Yoga and Meditation, Richard Hittleman writes, “Whenever you catch the machine-like ordinary mind playing the record, distracting you, filling you with useless thoughts which consume your valuable time and vital energy, order it to stop! Tell it in no uncertain terms that you are not interested in these superfluous, meaningless thoughts and that you do not want them to arise again. If you will issue this order whenever you observe the ordinary mind involved in its antics, it will soon stop forcing your attention upon these things.” He goes on to say, “Also, during your leisure hours, notice if your mind is cluttered with idle day-dreams, wishful thinking, repetitious thoughts of the past and fantasies of the future. Such workings of the ordinary mind sap our life-force and lend substance and reality to the illusionary way in which we see the world and ourselves in relation to it. If you use the above methods of suddenly, unexpectedly getting the ‘feel’ of your ordinary mind, of observing the thoughts which are passing through it at various time of the day, you will become very aware of how much these thoughts include useless concern, false anxiety and foolish daydreams.”
Would it not be a wonderful environment if everyone would take even a few minutes each day to transcend the clutter that takes up so much of our mental space?
In Wild Mind: Living the Writer’s Life, Natalie Goldberg writes, “The mind is the writer’s landscape, as a mountain scene might be the landscape of a visual artist. Just as a visual artist studies light, perspective, color, space, we write out of memory, imagination, thoughts, and words. This is why it is so good to know and study the mind, so we may become confident in its use and come to trust ourselves.”
Goldberg also says, “Let passion burn all the way, heating up every layer of the psyche, the conscious and the unconscious. “ She advocates the following as a writing exercise: “Write about something you really loved, a time when you felt whole and complete in an activity all for itself. It could be something as simple as learning to make a grilled cheese sandwich, or a time your uncle taught you to tie your shoelaces into a bow. Something you concentrated on as a kid because the ability to concentrate is where the bliss and love come from. Be specific but don’t forget to throw in a detail about a cloud out the window as you bent to tie the shoe or the chandelier above your head as you leaned down. This is good practice. While you concentrate and narrow in, you are also aware of the whole world.”
So this is how I spent my time today, concentrating and narrowing in, becoming aware of the world. Not everyone contributes to a society by joining a committee. Some simply do what they do, quietly and with determination. It takes so many types to make a town. I am one of many. I have no answers. But here is some poetry, a few pieces of myself that I send out into the world today, thankful that I have a safe place in which to pursue my own highest and best use.
“Blue Blood” is the result of the Goldberg exercise while “Seated” comes from the type of meditation discussed by Hittleman. “Prone” is sort of a combination of the two, childlike appreciation combined with a deeper realization.
BLUE BLOOD
Tree frog on the back door screen,
strangest frog I’ve ever seen.
The back porch light seeps through your skin
illuminating life within.
Aortic arches filter light
against the backdrop of the night,
while renal arteries branching, curve
like thin blue fingers through tangled nerves.
Your tiny pumping heart shines through
and your life-blood surges, clear and blue.
Translucent Blue Blood, tell me true,
could you be my prince?
SEATED
you have taught me
to sit strictly
with my arms
rotated
turned against
pain and pain and pain
until I learn
there is no strain
the body
cannot
withstand
then when the vibrations begin
as I push pain aside
pain aside with a burst
till the flower unfolds toward night
till I am darkness on the
left and pale shadow on the right
I am right then
right there
right next to that edge
right next to the leftovers
cold squash in the Tupperware
then the door shuts
and the lights
go
…off
PRONE
Light beams paint bright streamers
when I move my head this fast.
But once the fog rolls in, the farthest grave
no longer makes a good landmark.
From where I stand on shore, the boats glow white.
They soar serenely, oars like dove’s wings stroking up
then down. Sometimes I like to think you’re lying near,
amidst a sea of shimmery grass, your parachute
draped casually round your hips, your silver plane
against the hammered clouds enticing me
to grab the sun before it hits the earth. I’ve always
loved you with the vigor of a flowering weed.
I like the heavy doors that close the church, the sounds
they make, their thunder. And I like to shake my head
to swirl the stars. Come with me to the lake.
There is a ladder by the well. Or we can climb the dried up tree
and take the single peach that dangles like a teardrop
from a spindly limb. Come climb with me and see.
Fade or multiply, we all diffuse,
and I won’t hang on this cross very long.
So we better sing while we can,
burning, flames in our hands.
Look close enough to see my stamens.
Sigh loud enough to make the candles dance.
'Cause there’s a hole in the sky, and I’m gone.
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