The Unlived Lives of my Ancestors

January of 1998, I leased out my home in the great Central San Joaquin Valley of California and rented a small studio in Carmel Valley. I'd work in farm machinery business for three of four days and in the evenings stay with my maternal Calvinist Grandmother in my hometown. Then I'd drive the three hour path to Carmel and spend three of four days in my little hideaway. It was on one of these long weekend retreats that I painted 'The Unlived Lives of My Ancestors.'

I don't recall the dream that inspired this painting, but it has to do with lost life, or un-lived life. The headstone on the bottom right corner is that of my paternal grandparents. I had been raised a bit lopsided you might say. Since birth, my maternal Dutch Calvinist heritage had been venerated and my Oklahoma American Indian lineage, and all the spiritual wisdom that is rooted deep within this land and ancestry that goes back far beyond the European Invasion, had been abandoned and left for dead. Ten years ago is when I finally began to honor this side of my being. And as I write these words, I'm a bit sad to admit this, that as a child I fell prey to a rigid religious fundamentalism that in so many ways crushed my spirit and still to this day tortures my soul.

My dutch grandmother, she used to keep her yard so nicely manicured, but here in this painting, the trashcan is tipped over and a new or renewed spirit is rustling up what's left of the prior years' leaves. Then there are the little sperm or embryos floating up above the headstone, new life has risen from the grave. New growth, the tree, perhaps the tree of life, is rooted in the ground where my American Indian ancestry is buried. There are other images, too, but now they are calling:

"Time to turn inward, Mel, time to put your ear to the ground, listen, to the earth, the many generations that have come and gone before you. Turn away now, from all that heady fanatical fundamentalism, all those insane creeds and false interpretations. Time to listen to the Great Spirit that comes to you in the sleeping and waking dreams. The wind, a dark cloud, a kite, a stone, a blackbird, a fox, a bobcat, a coyote, and sometimes even a squirrel, or the wisdom that comes from a child whose youthful innocence and wonder hasn't been blighted by the white man's so-called mechanical scientific maturity and chemical wisdom."

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

© Mel Mathews - permission to reprint granted with a link back to www.melmathews.com

Into the Early Hours

Into the early hours of the morning,
I dance with my ancestors,
feeling their joy and pain. Only They,
these Old Ghost can show me who I really am;
They are far enough removed to carry this responsibility.

In spite of their love and goodwill,
in spite of all their efforts and admirable intentions,
Mother and Father, they are too close,
their love is not yet eternal.

Someday it will be; love transcendent
after they have past,
when my grandchildren's grandchildren call upon them;
call Them out to dance.

It's five AM: yesterday, I cooked dinner at three in the morning.
For many days, I've been awake all night, until the sun rises.
At first, I kept telling myself: "Correct this. Get back on track."
Then I realized; I am doing exactly this, finding a natural rhythm.

Nothing is wrong with being awake until six in the morning, sleeping 'til two in the afternoon.
Insanity lies, not in falling into my own rhythm, but instead
in trying to fall into someone else's, into the cadence of convention.
Perhaps other rhythms aren't wrong, but for my soul, they are false.

I've yet to decide on dinner this morning. Then again, maybe I won't eat?
Instead, I'll wait for breakfast; wait until the rest of the world is commuting home,
merging onto those congested highways, those plugged up arteries of what once was,
not a machine.

Angels; they're out there, you know,
silently rolling drums and waiting, to love me.
I'm learning to listen, to hear,
my heart beat.

Into the early hours of the morning,
I dance with my ancestors,
feeling their joy and pain. Only They,
these Old Ghost can show me who I really am;
They are far enough removed to carry this responsibility.

In spite of their love and goodwill,
in spite of all their efforts and worthy intentions,
Mother and Father, they are too close,
their love is not yet eternal.

Someday it will be: love transcendent
after they have past,
when my grandchildren's grandchildren call upon them;
call Them out to dance.

Mel Mathews
Borgo Allegri, Firenze
January 15th, 2005

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

© Mel Mathews - permission to reprint granted with a link back to www.melmathews.com

The Cosmic Ovary

Occasionally, I'll dream about disease, cancer or some other catastrophic illness. It may come in the form of a person I know who is suffering or has suffered such a malady, or it might be tied to an unknown image. Over the years, I've learned that most often, the dream is not a message of impending doom, but instead, an aspect of myself that longs for dialog and relationship. Often what 'eats' at me, what causes me 'dis-ease' are unhonored or unrecognized aspects of my soul demanding a voice, expression, their very right to 'be'.

'The Cosmic Ovary' was painted in Firenze, September 2002, while mediating on one of these unsettling dreams. I was living on via della Mosca—The Way of the Fly . . . I promised myself to be true to this writing, to speak what comes to mind and not hold back, so here goes.

Flies, the pesky little bastards, one minute you'll find them roosting on a pile of dog crap, the next moment, they might be buzzing around your ear, or dancing a filthy jig on your just delivered dinner plate. Flies, they've been known to lay their eggs in piles of cow dung, or other unsavory locals. Who else would abandon their progeny in a pile of shit? Well, perhaps I should be careful in asking such a question—flies take on many forms. Perhaps it's self preservation, survival of a species. After all, aren't most dung heeps avoided at all cost. Perhaps it's the safest place in the world for a fly to raise a family?

You know, this is really stupid, writing about flies, dog crap, and disease, but . . . well, I promised to be true to the process. Perhaps that's what The Cosmic Ovary is—a pile of dog crap in disguise, hiding the very gems and unborn aspects of my soul. Careful where you step! You just never know.

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

© Mel Mathews - permission to reprint granted with a link back to www.melmathews.com

The Unveiling of a Wounded Heart & Soul

At a C.G. Jung gathering in Monterey, California in 1997, 'by chance' I met Joseph Pagano - a young man of 80 years at that time. I'd had an interest in Jung and Archetypal symbolism, although at the time of this gathering, I had no previous experience with depth psychology. I'd spent many years in a therapist's office, for fifty bucks an hour, venting my anger and frustrations brought on by the pressures of a demanding sales career. I also did my fair share of pissin' and moanin' about a failed marriage and a few love affairs, you know, the whole 'woe is me,' life's victim sort of thing. In reflection, fifty bucks an hour once a week was cheap, a wise investment. It provided a place for me to vent my rage and other negative feelings and not have to bring them out onto my clients or friends. These many hours were also preparing me for something I had no intention of entertaining - leaving my place in the world as victim behind.

I had taken a break from the selling world and rented a studio apartment on the Monterey Peninsula for a month. There was an ad in a local paper about the Jung Society gathering on Friday evenings. Aside from ordering coffee or a meal at a restaurant, I'd been alone, pretty much in silence for a week, so I phoned to learn about the Jung gathering. Joseph answered the phone and after a brief visit, he said he'd hold a seat for me that evening. I showed up, met a few people and listened to the presentation, and did the same for the following next three Friday evenings. On my fourth visit, I told Joseph that I'd be returning to work and probably wouldn't see him again. He then mentioned something to me about working on my dreams. "Oh, my dreams will take care of themselves," I told Joseph. He then handed me his card with his office and home phone number, telling me to call anytime.

I then returned to my old selling life in the Central San Joaquin Valley. A few months passed. I was reading James Joyce's Dubliners and The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man at the time. It was shortly after Saint Patrick's Day and the book was on a discount stand in Barnes & Noble. I'd read The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and was now reading a few of the stories in Dubliners and I'll never forget: it hit me while sitting in my truck, in the drive through line at the In and Out Burger - I'm not creating anything! I pulled Joseph's card from my wallet and phoned his office, but there was no answer. Then I called his house. After a short exchange of pleasantries, I explained, "Joseph, I'm reading James Joyce's The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and . . . well, I'm not creating anything."

"Come over and let's talk about it," Joseph suggested. But I didn't go, not right away, that is. A few more months passed and then a close friend who I'd gone to high school with died. I'd actually worked on his family's ranch and we shared an old farmhouse together when we were in our early twenties. The dope and booze finally caught up with Charles and at 35, he was dead. I attended the funeral service for Charles, and about a week or two later, I decided to visit Monterey and to attend a Friday evening Jung gathering. The event ran late that night and finally I told Joseph that I really had hoped to visit with him, but that I had to go because I was staying with friends.

"Come back tomorrow morning," Joseph suggested.

"Tomorrow's Saturday," I answered.

"Yes it is. I'll be here."

"What time?"

"Oh, I don't care, nine or ten, you pick."

Ten the next morning it was. I can't say for certain, as that was nearly 11 years ago, but I most likely brought my morning cup of coffee along. We visited for a while. I told him how I'd once been a drunk, had gone through all that rehab stuff, told him about my lost loves and all the other existential pains that come along with life.

On I went for a while and then once there was a break from my rhetoric, Joseph said, "Well, perhaps some day you'll come to a place where you'll be able to accept your life for what it is?" Then he asked if I recalled any recent dreams.

"Yeah, I was a cowboy boot, sitting in a wheel chair, and one of my clients was pushing me around. I think his kids were with him."

"What do you make of that dream?" Joseph asked.

"I'm tired of being the victim, and I'm tired of being pushed around. These boots were made for walking, goddammit, and that's just what they're gonna do . . ."

I met Joseph or visited with him on the phone quite often over then next few years. We worked on my dreams, I'd tell them to him and then he'd ask me what they meant. He never told me. Sometimes he'd hint, but most often Joseph let socratic wisdom guide the way.

Occasionally, if the dreams stopped, Joseph would suggest that I paint, said I didn't need to be a painter to paint, said it was just another way of communing with the psyche, communing with one's soul. He said it was a way of priming the pump when the flow of psychic energy had been put on hold. I went out and bought a starter kit with few tubes of acrylic paints and a brush or two. Sometimes I'd tear open a brown paper bag and use that for a canvass, sometimes it was just an old piece of cardboard, sometimes it was actually a canvass, that is if I found them on sale. Anyway, when the dreams stopped, Joseph would say to paint, and sometimes he'd suggest that I paint a dream image, meditate on the feeling from a dream and just paint, so I did.

Over time, I plan to post these paintings to my blog, along with some writing about my thoughts and feelings that accompany these images. In no way am I suggesting that these images are worthy of commercial artistic recognition - if anything, it would be quite the opposite. However, primitive and crude as they may appear, as is the case with my writing at times, these renderings are still a reflection of my soul, perhaps the evolution or the unveiling of the many layers of one man's soul.

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy: LeRoi ISBN 9781926715339 Menopause Man-Unplugged ISBN 9781926715360, & SamSara ISBN 9780977607624 (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com