I jumped on Facebook to post a Zoom link for an upcoming monthly meeting. I knew as soon as I saw the story photos. I recognized the shape of the iconic face instantly. My stomach dropped as I opened a new tab on my computer and typed in the name. “Sinead O’Connor.” My throat tightened. I closed my eyes as the Google search did its quick dance. It didn’t take long. “Sinead O’Connor Dead at Age 56.” The tears seemed to come not from my eyes but from my stomach, from the center of some landscape that I visit whenever I listen to music that moves me or find myself daydreaming of some wild and beautiful place.

I remember sitting on the bed in a small Dublin hostel. I had no business being halfway across the world without my family at 15, but there I was. I had opted out of the excursion my group would be going on because I had a plan. From the moment I was invited on this trip to the United Kingdom, I dreamed the moment into being.

I would be in Ireland.

And I would be alone.

And I would listen to her voice.

And I would write.

England’s not the mythical land of Madame George and roses.

I had brought the CD with me. I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got became the soundtrack to that month abroad.

It’s the home of police who kill black boys on mopeds.

I wrote whatever a young girl writes about when she’s living a dream. And I cried because I knew this place had produced the voice that beckoned me across space and time. This place that was also a part of my heritage had called me home through this ethereal voice.

Warrior Prophet.

Frail Fighter.

She could unhinge her jaw like a cobra and roar with the voice of a lion.

Her music always felt like home.

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When I saw the headline, the grief was profound. But so was the gratitude. To God. To Sinead. To the venerable power of art that connects us in unfathomably unbreakable ways. Even unto death. And then, right back into life

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Light and Dark: A Study in Relativity and Chasing Shadows

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I found myself chasing shadows this week. My youngest daughter and I were in my office. The Oregon Douglas fir trees surrounded the backyard in a monastery-like enclosure that felt protective. I sat in my office with the door open while my little one threw fallen fallow apples to our Great Pyrenees, Doug. As I watched my girl play, I felt the light beams from the early evening sun dance into the corners of my eyes and retreat each time I turned my head to catch them. Glancing in the opposite direction of the window, I noticed this same scene playing out on the white nothingness of my blank office wall.

The light would dance, casting shadows of lines and curves on the wall. In a moment of hope, I ran inside to grab paper, a pencil, and some tape. As I laid the paper against the wall, I noticed how the lines of the shadows would be so pronounced one second and then disappear like vapor. I wanted so badly to catch the shapes. I wanted them to stay tree-like and firm on the page. Traceable. Fetchable. But each time I tried to catch a line or a curve, it would vanish like vapor as soon as the pencil touched the page.

At first, I was incredibly frustrated as each new line would appear and then disappear like a specter. But then I remembered a word that was brought to the table in one of our recent Alumni Group coffee chats.

“Pause.”

I stopped.

I took a breath.

And I let myself chase the lines without any expectations. Instead of trying to trace a line, I found myself tracing an idea of a line that was no more.

A starting point.

A reference.

An invitation.

I let the shadows fall and then flit away. I didn’t try to own them. I tried to follow their lead. And in the practice of letting the shadows fall, I realized that the catch was not the goal. The joy of the chase was.

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It’s hard to catch shadows, but oh so fun!

I believe this is something that many artists have felt but struggle to recognize because production is so often put forth as the ultimate goal of creation. But we know better, don’t we? We know that it’s the process that fills us to the brim, and the product is a beautiful reminder of the journey we’ve been on. A backward map. A nod to the grain of possibility in saying a simple “yes.”

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I was recently introduced to the idea of Koans by my friend (and beautiful writer) Sarah Davis of Finding What is True and another new friend of mine, Dr. John Dore (to whom Sarah also introduced me). These paradoxical riddles from the Zen Buddhist tradition are given by a master to a student to demonstrate how inadequate logical thinking can be and to provoke a new horizon. Jesus also often spoke in riddles, or parables, to teach a third way.

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The idea of this type of paradoxical structure struck me as particularly interesting because I have been going down the rabbit hole of Einstein’s Theory of Relativity lately. I’ve been reading about the processes Einstein used to achieve his most significant scientific breakthroughs. He often used what he called “combinatory play” to put himself in a position where his mind could wander and get intensely curious. For those who have journeyed through The Artist’s Way, this may remind you of Julia Cameron’s encouragement of artist brain activities to allow ideas to flow.

Can’t figure out your answer?

Take a shower. Take a drive. Take a walk. Do some sewing. The idea will come.

It was out of this combinatory play that Einstein broke through on his Theory of Relativity. Using the principle of looking at opposites to find a third way, Einstein recognized that an object is both at rest and moving simultaneously. Not one or the other, but both/and. A riddle. An illogical conclusion. An antithesis. But it worked. And it revolutionized physics.

Sounds like a koan to me.
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I introduced some of these ideas this month in my Artist’s Way Alumni Group, and we spent some time writing our own two-word koans.

See if any of these resonate with you:

tired joy

drained abundance

experienced youthfulness

fresh wisdom

magnetic resistance​
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As I reflect on the life of Sinead O’Connor, it seems fitting that I have been doing a bit of a study on how seemingly opposite ideas can lead us to our next breakthrough. Through her art, she taught me that there is always room for paradox.

We can sing songs of peace,

Throw down your arms and come

songs of grief,

I am stretched on your grave and will lie there forever

and songs of righteous anger,

Fire on Babylon. Oh yes, a change has come. Fire on Babylon. Fire!

We can be innocent as doves and wise as serpents.

We can hold space to be shadows dancing on the walls, fetchable but uncatchable.

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Below is a time-lapse video of me trying to catch shadows on my office wall.

In the background, you can hear me singing the chorus of Sinead’s version of “Oró, Sé Do Bheatha ‘Bhaile,” an Irish song that means,

Oh-ro You are welcome home, Oh-ro You are welcome home, Oh-ro You are welcome home, Now that summer’s coming.

As I sang it, I prayed that Sinead was finally at home and at peace.

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As always, thank you for being here, and be blessed!

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