Tra-la, It's May!

It is May Day, May first, when young girls in light-colored dresses dance around those suspiciously phallic maypoles, modestly wrapping them with ribbons. This is also Beltane, the ancient Celtic festival celebrating the mating of the God and Goddess, in sacred union. Believing that this coupling blessed the land, insuring its fertility, the people, themselves slipped off to the fields to make the two-backed beast. 

Sap Green, Viridian, Cerulean Blue, Raw Umber, Burnt Sienna…the words slide off the tongue like a spring sonnet. These were the names of the colors I squeezed onto my palette each spring as I painted outdoors. Thick viscous blobs of creamy colors made from pigments of the earth and water, the oils smelled of rich piney resins; even now the memory of that odor excites me. I always wanted to be the kind of painter that doesn’t have to analyze and plot what I paint: those who pick up big rich brush-fulls of color and lay it down. We are all that kind of painter as kids when we first finger-paint…pure id.

But something happens as we age; we become analytical. We stop going with our first impulses and sit back to consider our actions. This is a good thing in many ways. After all, we couldn’t function in a tribe without learning to defer gratification. We learn to balance our responses and desires with the rules of our particular group. We stop making messes with our food and resist making loud noises whenever we feel like it. Unlike those characters in the old musicals, we rarely break into a dance in a public space, such as a bank. Those of us who insist upon maintaining entirely different personalities, depending on whom we are with and our situation are mis-trusted by society. Unbeknown to us, we have locked away an important part of ourselves. “Oh, I’m no artist (writer, musician, dancer) we protest.”

Yet the womb of creation is “the mess.” We frown upon making messes, excusing ourselves for not doing something more purposeful, saying, “I’m just messing around.” Without messes, there is no discovery. The artist who picks up those brush-fulls of pure pigment has experienced the despair of over-working a good painting, losing the freshness and ending up with a dull brown mess. Composers banging in frustration on their piano suddenly hear a pattern of notes they made by accident; notes which suggest a new direction for their piece. A dancer mis-steps and discovers a new movement. Actors study their character, trying out gestures and expressions until they can discover the true essence the person they are portraying, the better to “become” the role. Writers and poets crumple paper after paper of writing gone wrong or stalled, tossing it to the floor. Then an idea forms out of the chaos and they search frantically through the papers for that one sentence that is the start of their new inspiration. These fortunate folk have never forgotten how to play.

What would happen if we unlocked that urge to experience with our senses? What if we literally stopped to smell the flowers, listened…no, really listened to the birds? Have you ever held hands with others and spontaneously danced in a circle around a beautiful tree? When was the last time you rolled down a grassy hill, not worrying about your clothes? Have you tried to imitate the seagulls, shouting joyfully at the waves crashing around your bare feet? 

To be truly alive there has to be a little anarchy in the soul, especially in May, the month of fertility, creation and re-awakening. Go ahead; make a little mess.