Prologue to Harem Sister – My experience discovering and writing about a past life

A former life knocked on the doors of my consciousness. Resounding through the depths of my being over and over, like the wake of a pebble dropped into a still lake, it called me. Glimpses and glimmers of something slippery that I could not quite grasp with my conscious mind tantalized and teased me for months. 

“Enough!” I said. Enlisting the help of my Wiccan guide, Cerridwen Fallingstar, I asked her to lead me into a trance to explore this submerged, shadowy life that beckoned and beguiled. Cerridwen had used many shamanic techniques, such as drumming and chanting, to journey and encounter allies in the Year and a Day apprenticeship I had taken with her. A year and a day is a traditional Celtic timeframe for learning a new skill, such as marriage or witchcraft. In this case, it was the latter. I had graduated from my Wiccan apprenticeship six months earlier. Cerridwen and I used some of the same journeying techniques, allies, and places of power in this new quest that we’d discovered and used in the apprenticeship. 

The trance began. I lay blindfolded on a blanket, tape recorder spooling silently as Cerridwen knelt by my side. 

“See yourself descending deeply into the inner world, the other world, as you drift down on a series of clouds,” she murmured comfortingly. The clouds corresponded to the chakras and bore their colors as well. By the time I floated on the lavender cumulus, I had fallen into a deep trance state. 

“The lavender cloud is now landing,” she continued. “When it touches down, rise and notice where you are.”

Stepping off the cloud, I found myself at my coven’s place of power: a pearlescent sphere, about four feet in diameter, resting on misty ground fog. My group had envisioned this place during trance, and used it as a portal for our journeying. 

“Enter your place of power now,” said Cerridwen’s voice from far, far away. I shapeshifted into a salamander and slithered under and into the pearl. The pearl’s interior was hazy and white. I could see through the pearl’s edges, glimpsing a rainforest with a running stream in the distance. 

I cast a protective circle around me. It lingered in midair: hazy, blue, and comforting. It was time to call the directions, and enlist the help of allies for my journey. Facing and envisioning each direction to greet it, I met East who took the form of the rising sun. Warming me gently with a pink radiance, East breezed softly over my skin. 

I faced South, and the ground grew shaky. I glimpsed the volcanic goddess Pele peering at me from behind a tree, which glowed, backlit by the tropical sun. When I greeted the West, I was transported to a cliff above a stormy, crashing ocean. Finally, I greeted the North, where I was surrounded by pine and redwood trees and snow-capped mountains. 

In previous journeying, I had met an animal ally: a brown bear named Aku. He now appeared by my side. Through the misted rainforest, the figure of a woman became clear in the distance. She appeared to be Asian and sat harnessed to a nearby tree by a backstrap loom. She wove the figure of a woman into the fabric she was laboring over, rather like Ixchel, the Mexican goddess of weaving, creativity, and fertility. Noticing me watching her, she released herself from her tree tether and rose. As she advanced toward me, armor materialized on her body. By the time she reached me she was fully plated. 

“My name is Neesha,” she said. “The old ones told me you needed my help. I will join you.” 

Aku and Neesha now stood with me in the center of the pearl. Fully accompanied, I was now ready for my journey. I was in human form again, clad in a homespun tunic, leggings, and moccasins. My hair was short, like a boy’s. 

The fog around us swirled faster and faster. I could see nothing of the rainforest anymore. We stood in the murky vortex until a blue door appeared to the northeast. This was the portal I needed to pass through for my quest. Neesha reached into her breastplate and handed me a skeleton key, which opened the door. We stepped through the portal. 

We stood on a desert plain with hills in the distance. Sand whipped harshly around us. Aku bumped me softly with a grunt, and offered me transport on what apparently would be a long trek. I gladly accepted the help of my ally, climbing onto Aku’s coarsely furred back. 

A tent appeared in the distance. We approached the sizable, billowing structure to find ourselves face-to-face with a scowling, bony man who stood by the entrance. Aku and Neesha telepathically suggested we go in. I told the man we’d traveled far and would like respite from the scouring sand. He did not respond. With sudden insight, I produced a goatskin of water from my tunic for him as a gift. He accepted it as his leathery face lost its scowl for a moment, and placated, let us into the tent. 

Inside the incense-hung darkness, men reclined on silken cushions on one side of the large structure facing a harem of women. As my eyes adjusted to the lamplit interior, I found myself irresistibly pulled toward one of the women. She looked at me searchingly. The girl had a tiny, heart-shaped birthmark just below her collarbone. I began merging with her, but, frightened, looked to Aku for reassurance. Aku indicated that this was the past life I was searching for. Reassured, I allowed myself to become the woman with whom I felt my essence blending. In a moment I was sharing the graceful body of a slender, caramel-brown girl. I bore many gold bracelets on my wrists and ankles. A richly beaded thong-like object encircled each second toe and spanned up over my instep to hook behind my heel. I wore a magnificent, diaphanous, jewel-encrusted gown, and felt precious, frightened, and wise for my years.

My name was Amat. At the age of 15 I’d been abducted from, or sold by my parents into a harem. A year later, I lived lonely and desperate in this seemingly pleasurable place. The other women pretended to be happy for the sake of their lives, but weren’t. 

A performance was about to begin. I had just arrived at the entertainment tent with the other women. In my year at the harem, I’d learned to dance, draped in veils, breasts revealed enticingly by the tight wrap of a shimmering gold gown, fine jingling chains at my waist and ankles. I’d learned how to channel my gazelle-like teenage energy into something smoldering, snakelike and seductive. I’d painted my eyes with kohl—far more than my mother had ever dared allow—and my lips with henna, to arouse and promise. 

I stand now at the entrance of the entertainment tent with the other dancers, as I do most nights: nervous and self-conscious. I have the worst stage fright of all the girls and can’t seem to get over it. Will I remember all I’ve learned? Will anybody laugh at me? 

“Relax,” whispers Pasha beside me, sensing my nervousness. “Just keep smiling and let your body follow the music. You’ll be fine. Besides, you can’t dance worse than Nezreth,” she giggles. Overhearing this last comment, Nezreth turns from the front of the line and glares at Pasha. Nezreth walked out with the dancers, but because she couldn’t dance, poured wine for the men and walked around with trays of sweets while engaging them in conversation. 

“At least I know how to talk with men,” she sneers. “All you know is how to dance and throw your legs up in the air!” This final remark hovers like a wasp between the two women for several heartbeats. 

The menace is broken by Esmet, leader of our troupe. She claps her hands. “All right, ladies, let’s dance,” she chirps brightly as she ushers our group out into the expectant circle for another night’s performance. 

The golden lamplight illuminates the cinnamon curls of a newcomer tonight. I decide he will be the one. He reclines on his elbows in the center of a group of five men. All visitors. They gaze with awe, with lust, with curiosity, and wonder at the beautiful show before them of curves and swells and jingling hips. Of unveiled black hair snaking down the architecture of a back. Of ripe breasts presented as Inanna would—here by an exquisitely jeweled and transparent gown. Flat bellies, round bellies, gleaming arms, promising lips, and long-lashed eyes. 

The men break the women down into their body parts and point and whisper as they attach value to a pair of breasts or a face or a backside. This is what I hear them remark to each other as we dance among them. I appreciate my sisters as the sum total of their bodies and spirits and personalities, and I fall in love with them each time we dance together. I am in awe of the artistry and diversity of the female form. Yes, this camp has great wealth! Kamal (my “adopted” brother and fellow slave) and Esmet smile encouragement at me. Kamal is drumming as Esmet dances, shaking her sistrum. 

The young man with the cinnamon curls is staring at me. I slink over and dance for him. His friends’ eyes all lick my undulating body, but I have decided that only he will feast on it tonight. I always get the consent of the one I pick. That makes it slightly more bearable. I feel sorry for poor Mekresh—she misses her husband who was killed when she was kidnapped and enslaved. She loathes the touch of other men. And she is stunning, except for her nose. Some men that she chooses just can’t get past the unfortunate beak. 

Tonight it’s the cinnamon one—I always try to pick the ones who don’t look cruel. It is only when the Sheik doles me out like sweetmeats to some random visitor that I get beaten or abused by their strange sexual tastes until I bleed. 

Esmet’s sistrum shakes a final rattle. The djembes drum a loud and final roll. The last note of the sitar hangs in the air. The nasal reedy flutes, which remind me of geese, die away. The dance has ended. I reach down to the cinnamon man and smiling, he takes my hand and rises. 

As his hand touches mine, blackness engulfs me and I feel myself separating from Amat’s consciousness. Floating in a void, I hear Cerridwen’s voice calling me softly from far, far away. “What did you believe as this young woman, that you still believe now? Which of Amat’s beliefs are hurting you?” 

Clarity pierces the darkness, as I realize I carry with me some views that were learned during Amat’s limited existence, that sabotage me now. 

“Release these old beliefs to the scouring desert wind,” she continues. I see these thoughts as a handful of white doves, which I toss to the breeze, and watch as they scatter with the blowing sand.

“What ritual could you perform later to honor this past life of yours?” Cerridwen asks. With that suggestion, an idea forms in my mind of a tribute to honor this incarnation: an altar, burning with three red candles to honor the blood Amat shed so many times in her brief life. I would work a spell, binding the candles with knotted black cord, to represent the void into which she passed, and emerged from, to inspire me. My spell would bind me to Amat’s valuable lessons—so I would never forget them—while releasing me from thought forms that worked for Amat, but do not work for me. This past life had just shed some healing light on my present one, and it needed honoring, processing, and ultimately, releasing. 

I rise up through the series of chakra clouds, finally floating on a crimson nimbus. Each cloud that Cerridwen leads me through is connected with a healing, a message, and a path to integrate this journey with my current life. I emerge from my trance, eager to start writing all I’d learned of Amat. While only given a glimpse, I felt filled with the rhythms of the drumming, intoxicated by the harem dancers’ perfume, and longing for more of the story.

 ___

A frenzy of journaling brought back prodigious, yet spotty memories. I retrieved a great deal—much more than just the dance scene—yet I knew some important pieces of this life were still missing. Three months later, I found one of the pieces. I was hired for a new technical writer contract at a software company in San Francisco (it was the seventh year I’d had this particular “day job”). For three weeks I had no supervisor as I began the first-ever documentation of the company’s products. I was their hero. My work was appreciated, and I enjoyed my new job. By the fourth week, a manager was hired to run the department that I had started. On his first day he called me into his office and verbally tore apart the manual I had created. “Tech manuals don’t need an Introduction. Why did you put one in there?” he snarled, as my fight or flight reflex kicked in. 

I argued, futilely, that an Introduction was a standard component of most publications, tech manuals included. He had other bones to pick with my writing as well, many of which were as illogical as the Introduction example. Something felt odd. The more I tried to defend my work, the angrier he got, until he delivered his final statement to me, “I was going to fire you on the spot, before we even had this meeting, but I was urged to give you another chance. You have a week to shape up, or you’re out of here!” 

I was amazed at the hostility of the man, but set about implementing the changes he wanted over the course of the next week, contrary to my better judgement. Whenever we encountered each other in the hallway, I suppressed my strong dislike for him, and attempted to be the cheerful, compliant employee. I got the distinct impression he was putting on a false smile for me too, as we played the office game. A week later he called me into his office again and said I just wasn’t measuring up. I was fired. Confused and seething with anger, I went home. It was a mercifully sunny day and the deck of my house beckoned me to the blissful forgetfulness of a nap. I was emotionally exhausted, so I indulged in the escape. 

Just as I dozed off, a sharp realization took hold of me. I suddenly knew who this now-former manager was, and why we both hated each other so much right from the start. I had never felt so sure of something before. This man—who had so pushed my buttons and so puzzlingly and illogically criticized my work, while all others had praised it—was the Sheik of Shiraz: the person who had the most influence on me in my former life as Amat! 

As I absorbed this realization, I began to hear a story telling itself in my head. It felt as if someone was reading a book to me. The archaic words and manner were entirely different from my usual storytelling style. The life of a 15-year-old Persian girl began unspooling like the whisper of an angel in my ear. Amat’s story. This time the tale included her connection with the Sheik and her ultimate lessons and struggles. It was a beautiful story. A sad and violent story. My story. Realizing the miracle of what was occurring, I stumbled up in a haze, grabbed pen and notebook, and began to write. I wrote and wrote until the voice was finally silent, filling page after page with Amat’s tale. When, at last, I set my pen down, I was certain of one thing. I needed another trance! 

My next session with Cerridwen retrieved the more difficult aspects of my life as Amat, and I was able to outline my book and write the ending. Later, I spent two weeks at a phone-free cottage on the East Coast by which my pacarina flowed (Peruvian Quechua for sacred river closest to one’s place of birth). Over the course of those two weeks, I examined the passage of events in between the “easy” narrative flow of the first chapter, which had been a gift from the Goddess, and the ending, which I knew all too well. Embodying a different character each day, I wrote with their voice, and behaved as they would. Alternating between heady greed, expansive wisdom, and cringing cowardice, I wrote the chapters of my life as Amat. 

The Short Life of the Seafoam Green Lemon

Last summer I posted about the new moped I was so excited to buy. I figured I'd thwart the overzealous extortion by the rental car industry that was rampant in 2021 (and apparently is as well in 2022--a month and a half car rental from Logan Airport is $4,000 this year). But I digress...

It seemed a perfect and brilliant solution, like all things ill-considered and latched onto in the heat of the moment. What I couldn't have known, was that extortion was and is pervasive in every aspect of the transportation industry. 

I'd originally found a rental car through Turo (the Air B&B of car rentals). A guy in Worcester, MA had a Fiat 500, as I have in San Francisco, with a very reasonable rate posted online. I snapped up the deal, congratulating myself that I'd be saving thousands of dollars for my hometown wheels. Then, two days before my flight to the Right Coast, he contacted me, saying the car had a bogus problem. My local Fiat mechanic said they'd never heard of what he'd described to me; the car always indicating that the gas tank was full, even when it was empty, and not allowing the driver to add fuel. He couldn't get the car fixed in time for my pickup, he said. (When I looked up his car days later on Turo.com, it was in perfect shape with the price marked up significantly.)

So I sucked it up and at the last moment, booked a rental car for two weeks at full price. That's when I hatched the plan to buy the scooter; to save money on car rentals and amortize my investment for years to come.

Other things I didn't know going into this:

• That both my ignition and kick start would fail shortly after I bought the thing. 
• That the warranty only covered the dealer fixing any problem.
• That it was non-returnable, or so they said at first...
• That the Buddy 50 weighs 200 pounds and, once dysfunctional, would need me to muscle it around significantly with my 61-year-old, 5'3" body.

Reminding them of the Lemon Law changed the dealer's tune. Making it clear this was out of the vast kindness of their heart, they bought it back...for $1,000 less than I'd paid. Worn down from all the stress, I caved.

My 85-year-old aunt had even asked, when I'd visited her assisted living home en route to registering the green beast, "Aren't you a little old to be riding a moped?" Should've listened to her. 

I used my bicycle for transportation during the two weeks of my scooter's death throes, while I began wheedling the dealer to take it back. This happened to be during 90 degree, 90% humidity weather. My first grocery shop, up the steep hill of my rural hometown, felt like a problem to solve, and I returned to my cottage, laden with provender, and feeling triumphant. The second just felt sad and exhausting.

But the fun didn't stop there...

I had returned the rental car after buying the scooter, to the Enterprise office in the city next to my hometown. There, I was treated to a genuine Fall River experience. (Once a major player in the Industrial Revolution, the city is struggling mightily with an opioid crisis, even while gentrifying its waterfront hopefully and beautifully.) While I waited in the air conditioned atrium for a taxi to take me to my cottage, in marched a local middle-aged woman and her (I'm guessing) son. As I scanned my email on my iPhone, I could hear her initially sweet talking the clerk for a better deal. I went back to my email, but was roused from it when the trainee called over his manager, who said to her something to the effect of, "We usually call the police if people refuse to return or pay for a car." She responded, "You should know that I was in jail for stabbing someone in the chest!" 

I began peering outside eagerly for my taxi and considered stepping out into the scorching afternoon. But I was also afraid to make any move that might divert her attention to me, so I alternated surreptitious glances with pretending to be really interested in Facebook. Eventually the manager talked her off the ledge, and she phoned somebody for a quick loan and a lift. Before knives were drawn, or blood was shed, my taxi arrived.

As luck would have it, the Fall River experience continued...The taxi driver, slightly younger than me, but much worse for wear, drove his beater erratically for the 30 minute drive to my cottage. I had him stop far away from my destination, in case he had ideas. He demanded $45 for the trip. Fearing my life, I paid him and escaped with my skin, if not my dignity.

After returning the scooter, I rented another car, thanks to my sister's much appreciated transport to Dartmouth (a much kinder, gentler town and sans opioids), and booked a one way flight back to SFO a month earlier than I originally intended (getting reamed once again by American Air and their "pay for your seat", "pay for each piece of luggage" shenanigans). 

There's usually one noteworthy challenge every summer I return to my hometown, but somehow, 2021 was the perfect storm of transportation trials. It took me nearly a year to process the trauma and write this story. Bravely I sail into another East Coast summer...wish me luck!

My paintings are like suns

My favorite Rothko at SFMOMA feels like a fireplace when I sit before it. Similarly, my paintings radiate the love and passion that I put into them, long after they're finished.

Ginkgo trees, and the aspens and cottonwoods of Santa Fe do the same thing. Storing up summer sunlight, they glow in the fall; luminous lanterns to brighten gloomy days. My art also shines back the care that goes into it, I find.

To me my paintings aren't "one and you're done" (and I do sell as well as collect my work). Even when I've moved onto the next piece, I often bask in the bright spirit that lives on in all my creations, and am inspired anew.

Stay tuned for more on my painting technique, approach, and inspiration!

Summer on a Scooter - Part 1

 

I bought my first-ever moped two weeks ago. And then the buyer’s remorse began. Questions keep surfacing… summer on a scooter - does it limit me? Does it isolate me when I need to reach out for cross pollination and inspiration as a painter and writer? What are its freedoms? Will it become a new way to help me stretch and grow?

 

The exorbitant price of car rentals in this pandemic year of 2021 drove me to consider alternative transportation options. Ordinarily I spend my summers in my East Coast hometown for my yearly immersion into a steamy, succulent, and sensual world; quite different from the rest of my year in San Francisco. The rural alternative has always required a car. But this year, with depleted fleets, renting a car for two and a half months would cost the same as a trip to Egypt. I balked, and dug in my heels on forking over so much money and have it just be gone by September.

 

A friend was diagnosed with colon cancer. An idea that I’d toyed with gelled: buy a scooter and not just reinvest but amortize the money I’d be spending on a car rental into an inspired, new type of transport.

 

I became the owner of a seafoam green Buddy 50.

 

My first test drive on my tiny new wheels was exhilarating. I envisioned a summer of easy riding and carefree sun splashed adventures. Then the initial heat wave that greeted me upon arrival was replaced with a soggy, stormy stretch. I realized that even the local gallery opening required navigating a slippery slope of wet roadway. What would I dare or not dare to do on this moped?

 

My gym, which I’d abandoned for over a year, as did most people during 2020, was now a slow, 40+ minute commute on back country roads, if I cared to rejoin it. Was it worth it? Did weight training matter anymore to me? I’d managed without it through 2020 in San Francisco with aching shoulders, frequent massage appointments, worsening posture, and lots of hot water. Back East, the bicycling, yoga, and heavy lifting required by my summer cottage life (hefting propane tanks and large bottles of water regularly) made me strong. But did I wish to invoke that extra something to overcome gravity’s effects on my 61 year old torso and feel that lovely stretching to the sun that weight training always provided me? That rejuvenating element that lengthens my spine deliciously and makes me feel powerful after pumping iron.

 

It seems this summer has become a series in new dares to myself. Do I settle into becoming an old lady? Or do I push boundaries and continue to grow and find new ways of meeting needs and desires?

 

Stay tuned for more!

 

Hamilton – a Slow-Cooked Love Story

I’ve been painting portraits for the past five years, and just began a foray into landscapes this spring of 2016.  Not surprisingly, it wasn’t until my sixth plein air painting that I finally felt like I was starting to get the hang of things. This 8 x 10 with a bright red background was a breakthrough piece for me on several levels. Not only did it provide a steep technical learning curve, but its genesis involved some truly dedicated artistic commitment, resulting from a difficult choice between one creative path (writing) and another (painting).

I’d been invited to do a book signing for the third novel of my trilogy in my hometown indie bookstore. A long-awaited coup! But they wanted me there in the fall, after I’d returned to my home in San Francisco from my annual Back East summer. I’d found a bargain $350 round trip flight. It still would have been warm enough to sleep at my unheated cabin a mile from the bookstore, but money was tight and I could easily see this ego-stroke turning into a $1K weekend, without much tangible reward. I would also have to lug copies of my book in a suitcase, to be sold on consignment. Lastly, in the hierarchy of author events, a book signing is not nearly as prestigious as, say, and author reading. I’d just read a horror story of a poor writer relegated to sitting at a lonely table at the back of a bookstore for his book signing event. I’d known the support and enthusiasm of a crowd at numerous book readings in the past, where I was able to tell tales and spin yarns to an interested audience that asked brilliant questions and bought lots of my books.

So for several reasons, I remained on the Left Coast and went plein air painting that weekend instead with my painting buddy, Emily; making a conscious commitment to my new passion/profession. We’d been wanting to paint palm trees and Em suggested Hamilton Field in Novato, for its many mature and beautiful specimens.

In any plein air sojourn, there’s always what I call the “thrashing around” stage. The first hour or so you’re scouting out the exact perfect spot to paint, scrutinizing the view, cropping the image in your mind, squinting down the darks and lights, and simplifying all the complex visual information. You’re also catching up on each other’s lives, setting up equipment and materials, and generally flailing around the canvas as you make your first tentative marks. Complaining often happens at this stage too, for example, “I should’ve sprung for the sable brushes!” or “Why didn’t I buy the two lb. pochade (paint box) instead of the 50 lb. one?” (as the tripod collapses).

This is a time where curious bystanders are not a delight, because I have no confidence yet in whatever I’m working on. Well-meaning and enthusiastic passers-by often want to chat or have their photo taken with a plein air painter, especially around the Bay Area’s many iconic tourist attractions, I found out recently, on another outing near the Golden Gate Bridge.

Mercifully, this thrashing around stage gradually gives way to an absorbed focus and flow state as the image starts to “work” on the canvas. (Unless there is wind, rain, or other external disturbance, like the sun suddenly jumping out from behind the shady tree you so carefully arranged your kit under and broiling the artist.)

At the flailing about phase on this particular day, I heard myself telling Emily—who had set up right next to me to catch the same vantage point and scene—that I draw much better than I paint. I try to witness and minimize my complaints these days, after practicing Vipassana meditation daily for 20 years, and mostly because I grew tired of hearing myself complain years ago. On observation, however, this remark struck me not so much as a complaint, but as a piece of wisdom I should listen to.

So I did. I spent the next two hours just sketching the scene in Ultramarine Blue on the Cadmium Red-primed canvas board.

A mission-style building with hundreds of meticulously hand-rendered tiles and very straight architectural lines materialized on my canvas, along with one very detailed date palm and a vaguer Mexican Fan Palm in the distance.

By the end of our session, Emily had a very realized rendition of our scene while I still had a series of outlines. But I felt satisfied. I had a strong skeleton on which to build. When I hurry the process, I find the quality of my results poor. So I committed to the slow cooking of Hamilton.

I did actually add some Cobalt Blue mixed with Titanium White to create a sky at the very end, as I needed the satisfaction of laying down some color. I noticed, on my return home, however, that Cobalt Blue is very transparent, which on closer inspection, didn’t look so good. (Nevertheless, I ended up deciding I liked the color, and layered a more opaque treatment of the same colors onto the sky at the very end of the painting process, a couple weeks later.)

Another thing that factored into Hamilton’s meticulous execution was my coming down with the flu after receiving a flu shot at work. (Yes, I think it’s possible.) As the various viruses slowly percolated throughout my system, and because life doesn’t stop for flu shots, I attended a wedding the next weekend and then spent a weekend in Venice Beach the following one. All these activities worried me as I find it’s easy for me to drop the ball and sometimes never finish a piece. Nevertheless, I persisted with Hamilton.

Years ago at a workshop, a friend drew an image to represent my inner essence. On it she wrote a single word: “create” below a nest containing three speckled eggs. I remembered that image as my viral load peaked, and it struck me that the times I’ve been most productive (like when I wrote my first book), I incubated the project; sticking with it doggedly, so that distractions wouldn’t win.

I fleshed out Hamilton; fitting in an odd hour or two here or there at home, working around illness and the day job. I thought through every decision, every color change, each object’s relationship with another. I researched opaque vs. transparent colors. I gazed at how one of my favorite contemporary artists (Anne Garney, of Kansas City) treated expanses of undefined foliage (I ended up creating a mottled, camo-type mass that worked). I read through a how-to on painting a palm tree. I studied palm trees; identifying the species I was painting. New questions surfaced. What was that other, scraggly palm I’d painted out on the jetty outside my studio in Sausalito a few months back? The one that gave me so much trouble because it only had three sparse, whippy branches. A Queen Palm!

Knowledge inspired more interest and keener observation. The “distraction” of Venice Beach turned into an opportunity for extensive palm study and photography. My lifelong love of palm trees expanded. I remembered the magickal night I stood outside my Santa Monica apartment in 2009, looking up at the shiny ribbons waving overhead; soothed by the clattery sound of their fronds. Back in San Francisco, I gazed with admiration at the highlights and reflections of my neighbor’s Mexican Fan Palm.

Piece by piece, Hamilton came together. And it was only when one question was answered to my (and the painting’s) satisfaction, that I moved onto the next.

So while I could’ve been promoting my book for dubious benefits, I was gifted with this breakthrough painting—one where careful execution and a lot of pleasure were woven into the mix. In the great scheme of things, either path would’ve been fine. But trusting that little nudge from the subconscious seemed to work well for me this time. I’ll keep listening.

Advice for aspiring writers/The best thing about being a writer

My advice for aspiring writers?

Don't give up! Surround yourself with other writers and artists regularly, for the support you so very much need. And of course, do your Morning Pages and Artist Dates.

The best thing about being a writer?

It's the perfect place to hone your l'esprit de l'escalier; a French term for when you think of the perfect answer to something after you've left the room and are doing something ordinary like walking up a staircase. Not being a hothead by nature, I find well-thought-out arguments bubbling up later, after I've had the time to digest a perplexing conversation. Hopefully I've left the other person with a graceful (or possibly clueless) exit remark. On my own time, I can weave the situation into that of one of my characters; resulting in a satisfying display of verbal gallantry (at least on the part of my protagonist)!

What did I learn while writing The Secret of the Cylinder and what was the biggest surprise during the process?

I learned about daytime discos in Tehran in the 1970’s – one of the few places young people could kiss; similar to the way young people in Mexico City steal away to churches to do the same! At the Basilica of the Lady of Guadalupe in 2012 I was surprised to find myself sitting behind teenagers necking. Blasphemy! (I’m kidding here.)

The biggest surprise was when the actor who I’d talked with about playing the male lead, Mirza, was framed and thrown into jail for 2 ½ years in Dubai, while I was converting the screenplay into a novel. I was shocked and saddened by Farzan’s misfortune. But he never gave up, and neither did I. I signed his MoveOn.org petition to urge that his case be reconsidered by Sheikh Mohammed of the UAE (Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates) a.k.a. His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum. That didn’t feel like enough, though. So, using the power of positive intention, I wrote the character Mirza into, and then out of prison before three years had gone by. (Farzan was starting to approach his third year and he’d just turned 30!). The Swedish-Iranian model wrote a rap song while in prison, called “Save my Life” asking for the sheik’s forgiveness, mercy, and pardon. The audio for the music video was recorded through a phone booth from inside the Central Jail in Dubai. The sheik listened to the song. Farzan was released this past December, 2015. He appreciated my story!

What is the meaning behind the title of The Secret of the Cylinder?

The cuneiform-inscribed cylinder that the protagonist steals is made of a special clay that has magical properties, brought to Earth by an interstellar traveler. The abilities it confers on anyone who touches it are exactly what the planet needs. “He who possesses it will be most powerful. Yet what most think is power will be taken by its touch.” The ultimate weapon, the Cylinder has the power to geld one’s enemies . . . or bestow peace upon all who touch it.

How do I get inspired to write and what do I do when I have writer's block?

I need to be in that sweet spot that yogis aim for; where they are calm yet poised for action at the same time. This means I need to have already run in the morning or at least have done my daily yoga, in addition to at least a 10 minute meditation in addition to my three daily Morning Pages. Then I'm ready to commit to the page. I need to have a situation in a character's life that needs resolution. Sometimes I will meditate/trance and "channel" the character, in order to write from their point of view. I often get my best ideas while meditating (and yes, I try to write a word or two down so I can remember later) or while running, where a scene will work itself out in my head like a movie. Nature and periods of idling provide my best inspiration; providing the "fertile ground" for my imagination to tend.

What do I do when I have writer’s block?

I paint, just like Henry Miller did! For an eye-opening article about this famous author's foray into visual art, see https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/01...

What is the “Cultic Mistake” referred to in Chapter 2 and how does Belshazaar correct it in Chapter 14?

Nabonidus, the last king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire, reigning from 556–539 BC and a Biblical figure, mentioned his son Belshazaar, on one of the clay cylinders he commissioned, where he also describes his renovation of the temple of Ur. While he did not ignore the gods of Babylon during his reign, Nabonidus did not treat them in the approved way, and gave much attention to the moon god at two other cities, Ur and Harran. I believe he is setting forth the wish that his son remain politically astute as to what religious cult of the day he aligns himself with. With history being written and rewritten by the conquerors, and religion and power hand-in-hand throughout history, this is a not-so-subtle hint to his successor to choose his allies wisely, perhaps based on some negative fallout Nabonidus endured for his choices, or as a forshadowing because he knew the jig was up for him. Cyrus, Nabonidus’ conqueror, claimed the Babylonian god favored Cyrus.

By murdering the Sheik of Shiraz, who in turn, had murdered Amat, Belshazaar’s beloved. The Sheik had been unforgivably unkind to Amat and the other women in his harem. His contempt for the feminine and the Goddess put him in a most unlovable camp, as far as Belshazaar was concerned. Bel honored Amat and her heroism after her death by commissioning the Cylinder that bore her story, creating an artifact that honored the divine feminine and Amat in particular.

Silk Starfish in the Springtime

My mother had a ritual that ushered in Spring every year—starching the doilies. With the first caress of warm breezes wafting in through the kitchen window of our Cape Cod-style house, she harvested the soft, floppy creations from the cedar chest, dresser tops, and chair headrests. Some were two feet wide—reaching arrogant arms out to the world for attention to their lacey finery. Other, more modest ones were the size of a saucer—little rounded, regular wheels meant for a small girl’s bureau. Some were off-white, or ecru. Some had greens, pinks, and yellows worked into starfish arms of silk or cotton.

I remember hauling my excited 5-year-old self onto the kitchenette chair to watch her. From the vantage point of a gray, marbled plastic seat perched atop hollow, chrome legs, I hunched—elbows to tabletop, chin to hands. This ritual of renewal always thrilled me. Witnessing it, I felt part of the turning of the wheel of the year—the wheel in this case, being made of lace. Spring unfolded as the doilies unfolded, perennially, like flowers. After my mother’s magical ministrations, they stretched toward the sun, all clean and fresh again.

In her emerald gingham dress, my mother tumbled the clear starch crystals from a pink box (which bore a smiling, aproned 50’s housewife) into a shallow pan of warm water. She’d swirl the mixture with her hand—releasing a pleasant, sweet, oatmeal-like scent that I always associate with springtime. The scent was actually lighter and cleaner than oatmeal, and I must have received some kind of warning, because I never sipped it, inviting as it was.

She plunged a handful of lace into the bath. The doilies soaked for an appointed time, while the crystals performed their magic of reanimation on the threads. Then she extracted them, one at a time, squeezed them, and mounted them on a stretching board. The board was a quarter-inch thick sheet of varnished plywood about four feet square. She’d work the warm net of each creation wide and flat, and pin it to the panel. With long, clean pins, she arranged each star point or scalloped edge, anchoring down a strategic border—stretching and shaping the loops upon loops—with her artful, ever-busy hands.

She usually performed this ritual on a sunny day, and often left the board outside under the drying rays—keeping a watchful eye out for bugs, of course. When the sun set, I would help her pull out the pins and remove the dry doilies from the board. Stiff as a triple-starched shirt, they could have been used as Frisbees at this point—if I dared. Mom would place her favorites around the house, and tuck the rest away for replenishment. Other rituals like this—waxing and polishing the kitchen floor when guests were expected, hanging new drapes and curtains with each new season—gave the fabric of my childhood a whole and cared-for feeling.

I tried tatting once, when I was around twelve years old—hoping to recreate the painstaking process I’d watched my grandmother perform. Squeezing the seedpod-like tatting shuttle as if it were a castanet between thumb and forefinger, I started my first and only doily with a tiny circle of thread. With my mother instructing me, I created more loops off that tiny circle, and then loops around each loop, until the netted structure took on a regular pattern and a usable shape. Well, maybe usable in a doll house—I lost interest before my creation became even saucer-sized. This was much more labor-intensive than all the other handiwork I’d ever done.

The process reminded me of lacemaking—still done by talented artists in Ireland and Spain. With multiple bobbins of thread painstakingly twisted around pins to create the pattern, a lacemaker grows the tethered piece in minute increments. I feel a pang when I think of such skills of a bygone era. It seems like there was once a time when people had large swaths of hours to devote to the creation of a masterpiece. At my office job, my hands tap constantly on computer keys. Nevertheless they feel idle and dumb performing their mundane, repetitive, and unartistic actions. Unlike my childhood, when I was constantly folding fabric, tying yarn, weaving threads, shaping clay, cutting paper, or slathering on paint.

I think we pay too high a price for our “civilization” and technology. We moderns might fill our gas tank and pay our bills on time (the measure of a successful life in this day and age) through office jobs that result in carpal tunnel syndrome. I for one have a soul that aches for more time to do artwork with my hands, spirit and eyes. While my mind and fingers are still nimble, I want to weave silk starfish, and do nothing else on a tantalizing spring day but starch them, stretch them, and admire my handiwork.

~

My mother was forced by her father to leave high school prior to graduating, to work in a cotton mill (the Kerr Thread Mill in Fall River, MA) to help support her family. My grandmother kept Mom’s artistic dreams alive by paying for a correspondence school art course for her. Mom moved onto office work, then married, taking the standard 1950’s route of motherhood and housewifery. Busy as she was with four children, however, she was always sewing a dress, knitting mittens, or baking cookies. Her life wasn’t compartmentalized, as mine is, and perhaps that’s why the switch from hard fluorescent-lit electronics to soft, handworked fabric seems like a greater and greater stretch for me, with each passing year. Mom changed a baby, crocheted a pillow, then threw in another load of laundry—all in the rhythm of her day.

In between raising six boys, my grandmother produced a prodigious amount of handwork in her lifetime. I imagine it couldn’t have been easy for her either, having eight babies in her bed at home; two died at birth, another was killed in a construction accident at nineteen years of age. It must have been trying, living within the strictures of a traditional French Catholic immigrant family. But the thing I remember most about her was her frequent, velvety soft laugh. She never spoke of hardship. My mother laughed all her life too, until the Alzheimer’s silenced her a year ago. Now I am the forty-something adult in the family in the midst of her productive years—juggling the callings of my spirit with the newfound freedoms and responsibilities women have in these times.

Often, when I visit my hometown of Westport, and walk along Drift Road, near the beach, I am startled by the engine of a car whooshing by. When I vacation there, I sink into a space that expects the soft clop of horse and buggy, like my grandfather drove on that very street to woo my grandmother on her farm in the 1920s. That seems like the right pace for me. This path we 21st century gals walk requires the tenacity of a lawyer, the sensitivity of a surgeon, and the strength, grace, and agility of a ballerina. The struggles and the pitfalls are different from those of my mother and grandmother, but I still have the same need to pick up a piece of handwork and feel the satisfaction of building something tangible, loop by loop, stitch by stitch. To create softwear instead of software. Perhaps we’re not so different than our gingham and taffeta-swathed ancestors—we just need to remember what feeds our souls. And make the time to honor that, as we honor where we came from.

What is the book's style and who is its audience?

The book's style is intense, quirky, and sensual. Like me.

Its audience is not necessarily mainstream, but could be. They’re intelligent, Jungian, inner-journey-oriented, fantasy enthusiasts, dreamers, xenophiles. Women from ages 18 – 80 plus, feminists, pagans, Goddess-respecting, real. They hang out in yoga studios and belly dance classes. They’re interested in travel and personal growth, but they’re grounded, connected to the Earth. You see them in coffee houses like the Depot in Mill Valley, Urth in Santa Monica, Real Foods in Fairfax, Whole Foods. They’re West Siders in LA, most are politically left, aware and concerned with the current Middle East events and the fate of this planet.

Why Iran?

I settled on Iran as the location for this third novel in 2009. The feminine and relics representing it from the goddess era (a matrifocal time) have been denounced, destroyed, and demonized for millennia. I wanted the ultimate sacrifice and story of Amat, heroine of Book 1, to be carried forward, immortalized and made relevant in modern times. Amat’s story was about discovering personal power (as opposed to power-over). The cradle of civilization has experienced a stronger demonizing, suppression, and expunging of the feminine than many other areas of the planet. Amat’s story takes place in what is now Iraq, in 500 BC.

I came to know many new Persian friends while living in LA in 2009 and 2010. Some of these friends attended college in Tehran in the late 1970’s, while I was having the American experience of discos, exam deadlines, and a very different culture. Also, an actor who I’ve been in discussion with to play Mirza, the male lead of this book, was born in Tehran, and moved to Sweden at a young age with his diaspora family. His story and interest definitely informed The Secret of the Cylinder.

What was the most challenging part of writing the book?

One challenge was I had to stop and take a long break after researching weaponry used in Iran during the late 1970s. The heaviness of the topic was too much for me.

And a bigger challenge was that this third book actually began as a screenplay! I was taking a screenplay writing class at UCLA taught by the amazing Bill Boyle in 2009. As an exercise for class, I adapted my first novel, Harem Sister, into a screenplay. The page count grew as I tried out new, more visual/visceral methods of storytelling; some of which were unique to screenplay writing.

To my initial dismay, my screenplay Meetup group requested more current-day characters, insisting that dusty ancients wouldn’t interest modern-day moviegoers. Their feedback resulted in a 120-page script being pared down to ten good pages to move forward with, after six months of writing.

To my delight, I discovered that by adding a modern story layer to my ancient tale, and reincarnating my original characters yet again, new life was breathed into my fictional family. Those “ten good pages” traveled with me from LA to San Francisco where I was determined to reverse-engineer the screenplay into a novel.

A year of writer’s block followed, from all the editing, auditing, and striving for marketability that goes with screenwriting, as well as the truncated, haiku-like style that is required to create the technical document called the screenplay. I could only write in shorthand for a while; stretching my creative wings in other new directions with paint and canvas.

Eventually, my writing muse returned, and the roadblocks that I’d perceived as hindering that part of myself disappeared. I realized I am at heart a novelist with my love for flowing, embroidered prose, and that I was at last ready to rework what was a screenplay back into the writing style I love most. The third novel was born!

What inspired me to make the leap into the fantasy realm with this book?

Fantasy is a new genre for me starting with this third novel. A fan of Charles de Lint, Mary Renault, and Neil Gaiman, I was inspired to draw on my own magickal experiences before and after becoming an initiated Wiccan priestess and shamanic practitioner in Marin County, CA. When truth is better than fiction, why not start there? Loosely based on people, beings, and nonordinary places I’ve encountered in my 25 years of shamanic study, the second half of The Secret of the Cylinder takes a detour down the rabbit hole and brings delightful surprises where I let my magickal muse run free.

What sets The Secret of the Cylinder apart from other books in its genre? And what is its genre?

I’m a Renaissance person, and so like many things I do, this book doesn’t fit into just one box. It is romance, fantasy, historical fiction, adventure, chick-lit and drama all rolled into one! Not only appealing to feminists, pagans, and history enthusiasts, this book will intrigue mothers, daughters, grandmothers, brothers, fathers, and grandfathers alike. Anyone who might be affected by war and all its consequences. It’s very timely as its setting is a volatile Iran, in 1979, during the Muslim Revolution; when all the efforts at westernizing the country were undone by a new regime.

Meticulously researched, The Secret of the Cylinder takes the reader on a magic carpet ride through intrigue, danger, love and chaos all amidst the backdrop of a culture and country unravelling. As the Middle East currently becomes more and more under the control of non-Western, non-Christian ideology, here is a firsthand glimpse of choices by Ground Zero stakeholders—what’s motivating them, and what they’re feeling. What sets this book apart is that it suggests our strongest weapon against darkness is love. And in this case love is hard-coded onto magical clay that was obtained from a star-traveler, into an instrument of peace. Love and peace are ideas. Ideals we feel very strongly about. By giving them physical form, and having this object, the cylinder, be a sort of relay-race baton, used by people and then nations to restore balance and harmony, I am planting the idea that we have what we need to ensure the longevity of our planet and mankind. Maybe with a little divine nudge. And the divine in this book isn’t bound to any belief system except love and healing.

Why did I set my new book, The Secret of the Cylinder, in 1979 Iran?

I was 19 years old in the US in 1979; just starting to spread my wings and enjoy the freedoms of adulthood in a Western nation. My world was expanding. By contrast, 1979 in Iran was a time of diminishing human rights, especially for women. Granted, Iran was westernized because of US interference and manipulation, as is done with so many other countries. We’re enjoying the fallout of this now, with the rise of Daesh. 

Back in 1979 Iran, women protested having to wear the hijab (headscarf). Today, a new generation has grown used to wearing it, and some prefer it. The contrasts intrigue me. I feel so lucky to have chosen in this lifetime to be born in the US, with all the freedoms we take for granted. Anoush takes is upon herself to try to protect those freedoms, by saving the cylinder and Inanna statue from clerics of the incoming regime, who would certainly destroy them. One because it bore the story of a woman; which would be blasphemy in a patriarchal era. The other, the statue, because it was a reminder of the power of the feminine. Then, as in some places even now, men were afraid of women and their true power.

First popup Art Show and Author Reading

Does combining an author reading with a show of one’s art sound like a good idea? I thought so. These are two of my favorite things, so this January of 2016 I threw a popup 48-hour event. The gallery of my favorite artist building in Sausalito, CA became available through an amazing bit of happenstance, friendships, and goodwill. I finally had 10 paintings I felt were strong enough to show and a book in prepublication. The timing was perfect to take the leap and organize my first art show/hybrid.

At some previous author events, I’d read in cafes, where one’s finely-crafted words are suddenly screeched out of existence with the frothing of each cappuccino. I figured I wouldn’t have a decibel dilemma reading in a gallery. Construction was underway just down the hall from the space where I’d be having this art show, but I figured it would be minimal over the weekend.

I contacted two photographers (also artist friends) who had recently traveled to Iran, the setting for my new novel, The Secret of the Cylinder. They agreed to amend my show with prints of their work, and their sales would be donated to a charity. Another draw! Another win! Collaborative co-creation!

Since I had the time, I was able to plot and plan extensively; researching YouTubes on everything from the proper packaging of artwork for shipping to the 10 best and worst things to do at author readings. Now an expert on glassine, artist tape, and which side of the bubble wrap touches the paint, I also know to read for only ten minutes and make lots of eye contact.

I created an online presence for my paintings through ArtFinder.com, which required scribing each piece’s story, price, dimensions, and all kinds of other metadata, as for a book. I created a list of Suggested Questions for the Q&A part of the program after the reading (also useable for future radio interviews). Building content became easier and easier as I reviewed my process, inspiration, and challenges that went into every painting and chapter. Duel bios, Facebook pages, new Twitter and Instagram accounts…my fourth book was going to get the finest delivery into the world I could offer.

Just like a well-written story is reworked, layered, put down, then revisited, so I also did these things for every canvas until they each became part of a cohesive offering to the world.

As always happens, no matter how well you prepare, something comes out of left field. One of the photographers dropped out the day before the show after some impressive histrionics. The other became my hero; hanging his work precisely and beautifully using his carpentry background, and offering kind words to my battered spirit. (After the fiasco, it took singing my Power Song several times, casting a circle, calling in my allies, cleaning my chakras, transforming the heavy energy many times, and downing much EmergenC and Rescue Remedy to put me into a state where I felt the show could go on without me being a quivering wreck.)

Also on the day before the show, we had a rainstorm of the biblical caliber. Something Noah would find impressive. I set up the room myself. Initially carrying one box at a time in one hand and an umbrella in the other, I eventually gave up and tossed the umbrella; going for the drowned rat artist look. Luckily, with all the physical labor, I stayed warm in the unheated building, despite being soaked to the bone. (I decided years ago that extreme precipitation is a harbinger of good luck as I met my ex-husband on a blizzarding February evening, and have been offered great jobs on downpour days.)

The day of the show, my second hero, my partner, whisked me to Costco to stock up on the much-needed wine, cheese and crackers, then helped extensively with opening day setup. With Chardonnay chilling, the Afro-Cuban All Stars playing, and the lighting set “just so”, we began greeting guests, friends, and local artists from the building as they filtered in and floated around the gallery space. The energy built; the event’s own organic momentum grew and flowed beautifully through the reading. Guests offered astute questions (we discovered a link between the Cyrus Cylinder and columns in India that also contained a sort of declaration of human rights, placed in a central location of a community space). Four hours flew. And then it was time to close the doors for the day and head off to a local restaurant to recap the high points over champagne.

On Day Two of the show, another hero helped with setup and then the fast-track breakdown (just 45 minutes because we knew where everything was, how to do it properly, and all the doors and elevators were working…plus it wasn’t raining.)

Besides some earnest hammering at the neighboring construction during the second day’s reading, the show went without mishap.

Lessons learned: You can never prepare enough. Rehearse what you’ll be reading many times, so it sounds smooth in front of an audience and you don’t fumble the alliteratives. Be kind. Always. Forgive yourself and others for being imperfect. Enjoy your party!

Reading from The Secret of the Cylinder this January in Sausalito, CA!

Join me for a ROMANCE, REBELS AND A MAGIC CARPET RIDE - readings from my new novel, The Secret of the Cylinder - The Persian Love-Heist. Dates: January 30 and 31, 2016. Gallery 111, ICB Building, 480 Gate 5 Road, Sausalito, CA. Readings Saturday at 4 p.m. and Sunday at 2 p.m. and 4 p.m.

Presented in a collaborative exhibit TREASURES OF PERSIA with images of cultural, architectural, and historical sites of modern-day Iran by Robert May and Koorosh Ostowari, from their trip to Iran in October of 2015.

And also at Gallery 111, LIFE IS BUT A DREAM - a show of my figurative oils and portraits. Gallery hours: Sat. 3 p.m.to 7:00 p.m. and Sunday 1 p.m. to 5 p.m.

Where did the story idea come from for my new book The Secret of the Cylinder? Why a cuneiform cylinder?

My wild, tangential mind came up with this idea at some point while I was adapting Book 1 of this trilogy into a screenplay and adding a modern-day overlay (and then reverse-engineering the screenplay into Book 3, The Secret of the Cylinder, now available on Amazon.com).

The Cyrus Cylinder (one of the most famous cuneiform-inscribed cylinders from the sixth century BC) is thought by some to be the first declaration of Human Rights. It contains Cyrus’ statecraft plan to run an empire that included a diversity of nationalities and faiths. At this point in time, the Persian Empire spanned from Greece to India. These citizen rights (like continuing to practice one’s own religion after being absorbed into the Empire) most likely were not guaranteed if people in the various satrapies didn’t pay the mandatory tribute (protection money) to Cyrus. History is always rewritten from the perspective of the conqueror, and the world is an imperfect place, but at least here was an attempt at reciprocity and caring for the 99% by the 1%.

The Cyrus Cylinder could also be thought of as a tabloid of the day; with the new, conquering king talking trash about the deposed Nabonidus, and extolling the virtues of his own, purportedly fine pedigree (he claimed he was the Babylonian God’s chosen one). By deposing Nabonidus, taking Babylon from him, and saying the Babylonian God Marduk chose Cyrus over Nabonidus to rule the Babylonians, Cyrus continued the time-honored practice of propaganda that is still being carried out today. It just never ends, does it?

Like a papyrus scroll to an Egyptian scribe, a cuneiform cylinder was the recording device in this part of the world, in this era, which also happened to be the era of my protagonist of Book 1 of the Sekhmet Series, Amat. As well as the cylinder being fashioned from a “magic clay” in The Secret of the Cylinder, so also was a figurine of Inanna, desert goddess of Mesopotamia (current-day Iran, Iraq, Syria and Turkey), and a goddess of love, fertility and warfare. Knowledge and worship of her would have been a secret legacy from mother to daughter even into patriarchal time. Such figurines were considered dangerous by the dawning patriarchal paradigm and they’re actually not too hard to find even to this day; buried by the hundreds in cemented-over graves that can be seen by aircraft in certain Middle Eastern countries. The feared and fierce, magickal feminine!

What better symbols (cylinder and Innana statue) to imprint with the symbols and stories of Amat, now reincarnated in this book as Anoush? In Amat’s case the heart-shaped birthmark on her collarbone was echoed on the Inanna statue, and Amat’s story was scratched onto the cylinder. And why not have both fashioned of a magic clay that confers peace upon all who touch it?  An instrument of peace.

Now if Inanna can control both love and war, if the Mesopotamians trusted a woman to handle both love and war, why can’t Americans trust Hillary Clinton to run both the military as well as the social/humanitarian aspects of a presidency? (OK, I know there are other issues at stake there…)

How can a Goddess represent both love and war? Perhaps she has the power to transform one into the other? Alchemically. Like the Peruvian shamanic process of transforming heavy energy (hucha) into light, refined energy (sami). Truly, a female body, a vessel, a chalice, if you were, would be required to contain and nourish this transubstantiation. So I created this instrument, these instruments of peace, loosely based on history, because love is ultimately more powerful than fear or war. I wanted to create a tangible reminder that these instruments are within us and within our reach. This is a message truly needed now at this point in time. We can be an instrument of peace. We have it within us.