Sun rays shining through ethereal steam and forest in the Norris Geyser Basin, Yellowstone. Photo courtesy Neal Herbert/NPS
"The Gift."
This was the suggested theme for an artist-and-writer group I belong to in northwest Wyoming, meant to give us a prompt to take where we will via painting, photography, poetry, essay, fiber craft or sculpture.
As usual, I am stumped at first for an idea.
When I google "the gift" with a Lewis Hyde book in mind I get a bunch of ads for a movie. If I google "gift" alone, I find a couple of definitions that involve physical items that are offered without expectation of reciprocation, then another barrage of ads telling me when the Black Friday cybersale started.
I recall my excitement as a child over the prospect of opening gifts. How little interest I have in them now. Donate to a cause in my name, send me a little goodie to eat, but please, no more stuff. Besides, as much as I appreciate small gestures of friendship—a bar of soap, a bag of cookies—the real gift is the friendship.
I mull this idea: what gift is so singular it should be referred to as “THE” – a gift that comes from a source beyond ourselves? Life. Each breath, each moment of consciousness so familiar that we fail to notice in our habitual manner of constantly doing. Stopping to be, or to “simply be” as we like to say – even though the state of living as a self-conscious entity involves the most complex mystery of the universe requires effort.
Those who meditate can tell you that keeping your mind on your breath isn’t easy.
In lives filled with activity, moments of non-busy-ness are gifts we give to ourselves, when we can find that restful place inside and remember who we are. Walks in the quiet snowy woods can do it for me.
Taking a pew in the back of an empty church can do it for others.
Absorption in creative work is a state of being while doing. It creates joy, in which I not only reap the benefits of my own small gifts but conjure something new to pass on to others.
In contrast to the Webster definition that gifts are meant to be received without an obligation to return the favor, the real gifts, if we honor them, inspire us to make an offering in return: to use and share them.
Like focusing on your breath, it’s not always easy to recognize and accept such gifts. For writers and artists, the inner critic pipes up with the usual complaints: “That’s no good.” You quickly translate: I’m no good. The memory of a teacher returns, underscoring the shame you’ve kept all your life after she held up your art project and announced to the class that you ruined it.
Like focusing on your breath, it’s not always easy to recognize and accept such gifts. For writers and artists, the inner critic pipes up with the usual complaints: “That’s no good.” You quickly translate: I’m no good. The memory of a teacher returns, underscoring the shame you’ve kept all your life after she held up your art project and announced to the class that you ruined it.
But as in meditation you accept the words, dismiss them, and move on. The gift, however small, is not meant to be wasted.
But what happens when the fire burns low and the enthusiasm you once had for creative pursuits begins to wane? The impulse remains but you’re tired. Sometimes you feel your gift is gone.
I only have so much energy anymore, and the ways in which I spend it can create internal friction as one part of my brain rubs against the other. I seek to create art, to sit with myself in calm peace and write inspiring words.
But earlier in the day I spent hours crafting a rebuttal to a flawed rationale published by the United States Forest Service regarding a project that will, if implemented as proposed, have a profound negative impact on our town.
As I wrote, using as a reference the same arguments I made a year ago when the scoping notice first came out, the anger rose. My comments, along with those of many others, were ignored. This state of mind doesn’t leave room for joy and creativity, but how can I walk away from it knowing that a public agency is not doing the public’s work with intelligence and integrity?
I must use another gift, my knowledge of how certain laws and regulations are supposed to work, to try to change the trajectory of this project.
That keeps my mind off other gifts, ones that give back to me.
By the end of the day I’m a bundle of conflict—determined to execute my citizenly duties while equally determined to give myself spiritual space.
I’m not very good at shifting from one state of mind to another—the events of each day leave their emotional detritus long after I have stopped thinking about them. They affect the way I write, paint, hike, make dinner, and read.
As the fire burns low you come into yourself, saving energy for what matters. Material things that once defined my way of life are cast off: I’ve given away dozens of canning jars and I cull my closet once a year. With sadness I finally sold my weaving loom after letting it sit in the basement for years, unused. I don’t have room to work, and sleying the heddles for a new project is too much for my aging eyes, back, and patience.
But I recall the days when I wanted to do nothing so much as to sit down on the bench and get to work on another weaving.
I loved watching the fabric form and lengthen, loved the residual scent of wolf lichen from the homespun, home-dyed yarn, loved the gentle slap of heddles as I moved the harnesses to create my favorite broken twill pattern, and the sound of yarn furling from the bobbin each time I threw the shuttle. I loved using my homespun yarn to create woven gifts: scarves, a baby blanket, placemats and table runners.
Image courtesy needpix.com
We have a small house, and when a new writing desk displaced the loom I packed it up with its accessories into a basement corner. Worried that the joyful memories of weaving would go with it, I couldn’t bear the thought of selling it.
Last summer I put a notice on the front door of Knit on Pearl, asking about half what the loom and various reeds, shuttles, and other accessories were worth. That afternoon came a call from a young woman visiting from Colorado.
The next morning she and her husband loaded the loom into their car and drove away.
My sadness evaporated under the influence of the woman’s enthusiasm, and I imagine her now weaving the way I used to, probably making scarves and placemats for friends and family too. I imagine the loom as happy as she is. That’s what passing it on means, letting go. Letting another take over.
Letting the loom go was also a gift to me.
My dyslexic typing and even longhand writing keep me constantly correcting errors, so I am glad to not have anything more taxing to my manual and mental dexterity than sitting in a chair with a pen in my hand. I have gained the gift of no longer feeling sorry for the loom in the basement, waiting for me to come pay attention to it again.
I
’m still myself without my old and unused stuff. I still have many gifts for which I am grateful:
Dear friends, old and new. They listen, share their stories and don’t judge or give advice. I recently went through the contacts list in my email to delete defunct addresses and as I worked I put together a new group called friends—people I treasure more than merely liking them as fond acquaintances or those I interact with professionally. 85 names are on the list.
An aunt, the child I met before grade school who is still my confidant, a neighbor, and many I have known over the years who have enriched my life. How fortunate I am.
I’m grateful for my health, not bad for my age. And for this spectacular wild country I get to live in. And for my continuing desire to create and the ability to do so.
I have enough to eat, and the ability to eat well with healthy foods, not junk and fast food as the only option.
Marsh shared this photo on social media to friend and accompanying it was this observation: "Just now, after an unsettled day." Photo courtesy Susan Marsh
I have a home and a small aspen forest for a yard that is my retreat.
I’ve benefited from many years in which to learn and grow. Some people have great potential but their lives are cut short. Some don’t have enough capacity for introspection to understand and learn from their mistakes. It takes most of a lifetime to become an authentic person, and I’m glad to have gotten that chance.
It must be added that I’m thankful those many years are fewer in the future than in the past.
My life has spanned the period following WWII, the age of generosity and abundance in the nation of my birth, from which I have never been displaced as a refugee. Though I have often felt a sense of undeserved privilege, wishing I could share my advantages around the world, I have loved each day.
Now I fear the earth is going to change radically and quickly due to climate change, the end-point of capitalism, the rise of hate groups, and the violent nature of our species. I am glad I won’t be around for what is to come, and sorry that my generation could not see fit to leave something better for those who will follow.
Last, I’m grateful that after a day of busy-ness and complaints to the Forest Service I now have a chance to sit and think and write. Reading over this list of all I’m grateful for brings each of them into sharp focus.
Gratitude is indeed the prerequisite for joy. It’s my hope during this season of natural darkness and human celebration that others will find their own kind of gratitude.
I’ll wish all happy holidays with a quote from a favorite poet that seems fitting to this solstice season:
"To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings." From To Know the Dark by Wendell Berry
EDITOR'S NOTE: MoJo columnist Susan Marsh is the author of several nature-related books. One of our favorites is her memoir A Hunger For High Country: One Woman's Journey to the Wild in Yellowstone Country and tells of her experiences as a young woman finding a career in the US Forest Service and her awakening as a advocate for nature. A great holiday gift, it is available through local booksellers.
About Susan Marsh
Susan Marsh spent three decades with the U.S. Forest Service and is today an award-winning writer living in Jackson Hole.
