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February 19, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve: "Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia"

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Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Twelve:

"Grass, Graves and Fire: St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lively, Virginia" © 2000, 2008

    Dad's cancer has shrunk but hasn't gone away. After almost two years of awful chemotherapy, we are pretty much where we started: that Dad has a bad lymphoma and he's probably going to die.
    I was up in New York City for a few days shooting and attending a friend's wedding. [Major emotional highlights were the Klezmer band at Craig and Barbara's reception; the delightful and generous devotees at the Hare Krishna Bed and Breakfast in the Lower East Side; and the many Monet haystacks at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.] I've just come down to Virginia for a brief visit with the folks, before flying back to Arizona.
    It's good and not-so-good to see Dad. I always experience some sort of internal emotional bugaboo when I'm hanging around my mother and father. All of us Jenks' are judgmental (this is good, that is bad, blah, blah, blah) but my mother and father have it down to an art form. Dad's mockingly sarcastic laughter at my going to their church tonight to shoot is just one example. Mom's subtle shaming sighs of disapproval are another. God love 'em, or to Hell with 'em. See what I mean? I inherited the virus too.
    Within twenty minutes, I’ve parked my rental truck in a gravel parking lot of their church.
    My parents' church, St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, is just down the road near the little town of Lively, Virginia. Lively is actually just a crossroads, with a drug store, a post office, and a bar called 'The Corner' that serves pretty good shrimp and really great hamburgers. The church is a few miles south of Lively at an even smaller crossroads. The church is the only thing at the corner of routes 201 and 354. It's a very small chapel that has been there since 1669. It thrived during Colonial Times, was vacant and abandoned for fifty years during Antidisestablishmentarian Times (when the Church of England was shunned by most new Americans after the Revolutionary War), was reborn in the 19th century, and is now an historic financially well-endowed little church in the middle of nowhere in Virginia.   
    There's no moon tonight but there’s plenty of good light shining in the graveyard that comes from a strong streetlight near the back of the church. The church’s sexton has apparently cut the grass today. What a delightful surprise. Large amounts of cut grass are scattered all around. I guess he didn't have a grass catcher. My good fortune. I walk around the cemetery looking for just the right stone, just the right light and find the stone and the light pretty quick. The smell of the grass is strong and pungent. We just don't have grass like this in Tucson.   
    I make a circle of cut grass on a tombstone. I look and find the angle, set up my Rollei, and practice making circles with my Zippo. I get the hang of it after a few minutes. I stop and take in the space: The ancient Oak trees that surround me; the graves of wealthy Colonial Virginia planters; the monuments of  a  movie star or two. 
    I think I know what I'm going to do. I open the shutter and enter the frame and begin to paint a flame circle above the grass. Cicadas sing loudly from the surrounding woods. I close the Zippo, and then go for a walk in the cemetery. This is going to have to be a long exposure. Probably a half hour or more. It's a strong streetlight but it give off less light that you think.
    Up the hill, I visit the four plots for the Jenks Family. No markers or graves yet. Two huge Oak trees grow just north of the plots. I won't mind having my ashes here some day. I walk some more. I walk to my rental truck to check the time. Fifteen minutes have gone by. I throw in a Peter Gabriel CD and light a smoke. After 25 minutes, I get out of the car, and return the grass circle. I close the shutter and repeat the process all over again. I paint a flame circle, walk about the graves, think about my Dad, and think about Death. Sometimes I don't think about anything at all.
    I didn't think about Death much until my Dad got sick, but I sure do now. I believe in some sort of Soul Survival, be it heaven or just a part of a big ocean of souls. I don't know, but I'm not scared of that. Actually looking forward to it, in some small way. Ok, maybe a little anxious but not bad. But I'm in my mid-40's, still thinking that my death is a good thirty years away. But being around Dad, who seems to be getting sicker and sicker, seems to be dying more than living, and this taking-for-granted-that-I'll-surely-live-a-long-time is leaving me a bit each day. When they found his cancer, it was no bigger than a pencil point. They cut it out, but it came right back, even larger. So they cut it out again, and that just made it mad and it spread like a weed. To his lymph nodes. To his lungs. All over. Now it's filled most of his left lung, all in a year or two. And if he hadn't taken the Agent Orange Chemo, he would have been dead months ago.
    It could happen to me, to you, to anyone. Cancer, that is. And Death is surely going to come to all us someday.
    But again, it's not Death or Heaven that I'm scared of. It's living an unfulfilled life, here on Planet Earth, of wasting the time I have, of not risking greater happiness or larger service to others, of not fully loving those who I love and not fully receiving the love they give, of not forgiving myself when I truly fall short of the mark, of not applauding myself when I get it right. That's what really terrifies me, that at perhaps age 77, I'll look back at my life with deep regret, knowing I should have eaten more ice cream, should have forgiven that friend, should have loved the imperfect Stu just a little bit more.
    Then again, I could die tonight, by accidentally hitting a deer with my truck on the way back to The River House, and avoid this imaginary-unhappy-old-me all together.
    Nah. That won't happen.
    I guess I'm going to have to eat more butter pecan, forgive Rocco, and love Stu more.
    Damn.


February 17, 2008

Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks: Chapter Ten: “Altar of Repose, Maundy Thursday, Tucson, Arizona”

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Flame Spirals: The Nocturnal Photography of Stu Jenks:

Chapter Ten: “Altar of Repose, Maundy Thursday, Tucson, Arizona” © 2000, 2008


    The Altar has been stripped. The crosses in the sanctuary are all draped in black cloth. The choir chairs are now stored in a closet somewhere. The church is dark. It's 2:00 a.m. on Good Friday and it's my watch. The woman I relieved has just left. My camera and tripod are in a pew, and I'm standing in a side chapel at the back of Grace St. Paul's Episcopal Church. I have an hour to pray and shoot. Better get to it.
    I was here earlier tonight for the Maundy Thursday service. Some Christians live for Easter, or for Christmas. I live for Maundy Thursday, the most meditative service in the Episcopal liturgy. We arrived in the evening and heard the story of the Last Supper, of how Jesus told his disciples that they should love everyone, serve many, and be humble to all. The story goes that after bread and wine, Jesus washes the feet of his followers. Symbolically, the congregation of Grace St. Paul's washed each other's feet. Back in the day, the priest used to wash all of the feet of the parishioners, he being Christ, we being the disciples. I preferred the old way. Now, first I'm Jesus, then I'm a disciple, and we now only wash one foot per person, which seems just down right silly to me. Both feet or none at all, I say. But I'm just an artist, a mystic, an odd duck, who comes to the church of my birth infrequently. I really shouldn't criticize them. The Washing of One Foot is about as experiential as most Episcopalians get. They are doing the best they can, but sometimes I do wish that I had been born Black Southern Baptist. Now those folk know how to raise the roof for Christ.
    Sometimes I think the reason I like Maundy Thursday so much is simply because of an experience I had as a child. Mom took me to the Maundy Thursday service at Zion Episcopal Church in Upstate New York in the early 1960's. I guess I was around seven. After the foot washing and the communion and the stripping of the altar, they turned off all the lights, and then they rolled in this cannon. Yes, a cannon like the one they shoot off at football games when the home team scores a touchdown. Well, they rolled in a this cannon, pointed it right up the center isle, and shot it off. KA-BOOM. As a seven year old, I thought that was the neatest thing. Usually I had to be quiet in church, but that night they are shooting off fireworks. Neat-O.
    No cannons at Grace St. Paul's tonight. Strong incense but no cannon. Pity.
    Tonight, after we had delivered the host to the Altar of Repose in the side chapel, we were instructed to leave the church silently. No coffee hour. No shaking of the priest's hand. Just go thoughtfully and quietly to your car and go home.
    But for the hard core among the faithful, there is the Watch of Gethsemane.
    As soon as tonight’s service ends, someone will be praying in the side chapel until Noon on Good Friday. This is the Watch of Gethsemane, the pulling-an-all-nighter-for-Christ.
    On the night prior to being arrested, Jesus went to a Garden at Gethsemane to pray and he asked his disciples to come and pray with him. They came to the garden but they soon feel asleep. This made Christ mad. Then the Romans came, the boys woke up, ears are flying off of people, ears are being miraculously reattached back onto people, Jesus is dragged away by the Romans, and Christ had one hell of a bad day on Friday. You know the story. But before the Romans came, Christ prayed and really wished his disciples had stayed awake. So, today, modern Anglicans, stay awake too. Well, sort of. At least some of use lose a little sleep on the night before Good Friday.
    I'm here at two in the morning for a number of reasons:
    1)   I love being in the church alone, late at night and this is the only time I have the chance to do that.
    2)   I like praying and meditating in general. (I pray all the time.)
    And 3)   I’ve got a photograph in mind.
    I turn from the large sanctuary and enter the tiny side chapel. It's so beautiful, with many white candles lit all around and white lace meticulously hung on all the windows and walls. A one-person kneeler is positioned in front of the small altar that holds the bread and the wine, the Host. I close my eyes, then open them, then close them again. I can see it in my mind’s eye. I know what to do.
    I go and get my Rollei and tripod and set them up and compose the shot. Focus 2/3 back. Set the f-stop to 5.6. Get out the Zippo. There is a ton of light here. Half a minute exposure time tops. I open the Zippo and go to work. I flick the flint. I make a spiral. I snap the Zippo shut with a loud clack. I repeat the process. Once, twice, six more times. Time becomes timeless as it does sometimes when I'm shooting. Not always, but it is tonight. I take a deep breathe and close my eyes after the seventh exposure.
    "You have a shot," says The Small Voice Within.
    I pray the voice is right.
    I'll take it on faith.
    I open my eyes
    I still have to pray and experience the wondrous dark of the church before the next Watcher arrives at three. I quickly pack up the Rollei and the tripod and place them to a pew, outside of the side chapel. I slowly walk around the sanctuary. Down the center aisle. Up by the pipe organ. Around the main altar. Back down a side aisle. I breathe it in again and again.
    I return to the side chapel and the Altar of Repose. It’s got to be close to an hour now. Time to do a formal prayer. I kneel on the single kneeler, close my eyes, lazily clasp my hands, and pray.
    I pray for my ancestors. I pray for my mother and father. My sister, too. I pray for Annie and all the past women in my life. I pray for the recovering addicts and alcoholics, newcomers and old-timers alike. I pray for friends, near and far. I pray for the healing of strangers and the healing of loved ones. I pray for healing for myself. I pray for the best possible outcome for everyone. I pray with words. I pray with no words at all.
    My eyes open after a time and I see the Altar of Repose above me, with its crystal white light and its sheer white lace. I smile.
    "And God," I say quietly aloud, "Thanks for guiding my hand and my mind tonight, so I didn't catch the lace on fire." I chuckle. “That would be a bad thing.”
    I then hear a soft knock on the outside door to the church.
    Must be the three o'clock shift.

December 05, 2007

"Stu's New Mexican Fun Facts" (c) 2007

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"Stu's New Mexican Fun Facts" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Images: "Doubting Thomas, St. Francis Cathedral, Santa Fe, New Mexico" & "Plastic Medicine Wheel, Carrizozo, New Mexico"]

1)        Went to Taos. Well, drove through Taos really. Stopped at The Pueblo briefly and paid money for admission and for each of my two cameras that I brought into the village. White people gawking at Red people. Was bizarre to say the least. Took a couple shots of the old graveyard and split. While driving out of Taos, I listened to National Public Radio. They were having their semi-annual fund-raising campaign. (Had actually been listening to the fund-raising on NPR for my whole trip, through Wyoming, Nebraska, South Dakota, Montana, and Colorado. Wyoming had the best music. Montana had the most pleasant DJs. Nebraska had the kindest voices. Made sense.) I noticed something different, here in Taos, from the other stations I heard thus far. Lots of dead air. Then giggling afterwards. Then people talking and they didn’t make much sense. Hmmm. I think they need to put down the spleef in Taos, or monitor their medication a bit more closely.

2)        Had a plan to see the Sante Fe Plaza and visit St. Francis Cathedral again. It had been twenty years since I was last in Sante Fe. Back in the day, you could see the Cathedral from a distance and get your bearing quite easily. Not now. Luxury hotels, taller or as tall as the church, surrounded the Plaza. I had to actually ask someone where the Cathedral was. Had a delightful time inside of St. Francis, though. I prayed, I shot, I just look around, I prayed some more. Hadn’t changed much in twenty years and still felt like the sanctuary that it is. I thought of sticking around for dinner in Santa Fe but I didn’t. I wasn’t wearing the right clothes for a nice meal there, nor did I feel like I belonged. Saw a huge smiling bronze pig out front of a fancy gallery. Grinning, from jowl to jowl. The North Carolinian in me just sees that as a silly way to spend money.

3)        Went to a 12 Step meeting in a bad part of Albuquerque, just at sunset. Good people, bad neighborhood. Felt like I’d been to church twice that day.   

4)        Spent the night in an anonymous motel in Socorro. Had good coffee the next morning at a café just off the town square. Every town in America has a café now, that has good coffee, fresh baked goods and a friendly staff. And they ain't Starbucks. Gives me hope for America.

5)        Drove by the Trinity Atomic Bomb Site. Again, didn’t really drive by it for I quickly realized I wasn’t supposed to be on that government road and hastily turned around, but it was just over that hill. Just being close still gave me the willies. The world changed forever over there, on July 16th, 1945 at 5:29 in the morning.            

6)        Midmorning, I went hiking into the Valley of Fire, a place of recent lava flows, only 1000 years old or so. Didn’t hike far. Just a ways in, played the mandolin for a while and took in the sharp blackness that is the Malpais. The wind blew cool and the acoustics were flat in a pleasant way.

7)        Just south of Carrizozo, I saw some amazing clouds that looked like huge jellyfish flying in the sky. I took their picture but it didn’t translate at all. Sometimes you just have to be there. While walking along the road looking at those clouds, I found an old hubcap among the sage. The paint had peeled away from much of it, yet the cheap chrome still adhered to the center of the plastic wheel. I took a picture, then picked up the hubcap. I saw an object I could make with this wheel and with a few bits of colorful cloth. I dusted it off and took it back to the truck. (It now leans against a leg of my small dining room table. All cleaned up and waiting for the time I tie some cotton to it, but right now I just like looking at it on the floor as I leave my kitchen. Maybe after the New Year, I’ll fiddle with it.)

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December 02, 2007

"First Sunday of Advent" (c) 2007

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"First Sunday of Advent" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Image: "St. Francis Cathedral, Sante Fe, New Mexico" (c) 2007]

November 04, 2007

"The Life of Sweet Medicine" (c) 2007

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"The Life of Sweet Medicine" © 2007 Stu Jenks & the Strange Owl Family

 

Below is an account of the life of Sweet Medicine. A plaque at the base of the mountain mentioned that Bear Butte (called Noavosse, the Good Mountain by the Cheyenne) was where the Cheyenne holy man and folk hero came to get the bundle of the Four Arrows, the Four Commandments and also left with a moral code. Sort of like Moses going to Mount Sinai. (Fun Archaeological Fact: The Cheyenne are believed to initially have been an Algonquin-related tribe in what is now New York and New England. Then they moved to modern day Minnesota and finally to the Northwest Great Plains.) I couldn't find much on what was the specific moral code that Sweet Medicine brought down but his story is very interesting. Tales of miracles, and immaculate conceptions and immortality. Sort of like a cross between Buddha, Moses and Jesus, but not. Dramatically shows the universality of the Hero Story that is told among all people.

My heart really goes out to the Cheyenne in particular. History shows pretty clearly that numerous times, many Cheyenne chiefs and holy men petitioned the Federal Government during the time of the Indian Wars, to stop all of the bloodshed and killing. Just let us have some land, some places to hunt and we'll leave the white man alone and you, us. Other tribal leaders and people like some of the Apaches and Lakotas fought to the end. Nothing wrong with that. But I identify more with the Cheyenne, personally. I think I would have tried to negotiate a lasting peace, rather than keep on fighting. But hell if I know. I'm a white 20th Century Man from the suburbs. Time and again, the U.S. Army ignored their overtures and simply killed them, men, women, children. I know it was a long time ago, but it still breaks my heart.

Finally, here are some more of my Bear Butte shots. You may have noticed in the last post, that I wasn't very specific about what and who was prayed for, by me, on top of that peak. Some things need to stay private. In a future post, you'll also find that true of my experience at the holy ground of Devil's Tower. I'll show but I won't tell too much. However at Little Big Horn, they will be an exception.

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The Life and Death of Sweet Medicine

(Told by members of the Strange Owl family on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation, Montana, 1967, recorded by Richard Erdoes) 

A long time ago the people had no laws, no rules of behavior- they hardly knew enough to survive. And they did shameful things out of ignorance, because they didn't understand how to live.

There was one man among them who had a natural sense of what was right. He and his wife were good, hard- working people, a family to be proud of. They knew how to feel ashamed, and this feeling kept them from doing wrong.

Their only child was a daughter, beautiful and modest, who had reached the age when girls begin to think about husbands and making a family. One night a man's voice spoke to her in a dream. "You are handsome and strong, modest and young. Therefore Sweet Root will visit you."

Dismissing it as just a dream, the girl went cheerfully about her chores the next day. On the following night, however, she heard the voice again: "Sweet Root is coming- woman's medicine which makes a mother's milk flow. Sweet Root is coming as a man comes courting."

The girl puzzled over the words when she awoke, but in the end shrugged her shoulders. People can't control their dreams, she thought, and the idea of a visit from a medicine root didn't make any sense.

On the third night the dream recurred, and this time it was so real that a figure seemed to be standing beside the buffalo robe she slept on. He was talking to her, telling her: "Sweet Root is coming; he is very near. Soon he will be with you."

On the fourth night she heard the same voice and saw the same figure. Disturbed, she told her mother about it the next morning. "There must be something in it," she said. "It's so real and the voice is so much like a man's voice."

"No, its just a dream," her mother said. "It doesn't mean anything."

But from that time on, the girl felt different. Something was stirring, growing within her, and after a few months, her condition became obvious: she was going to have a baby. She told her parents that no man had touched her, and they believed her. But others would not be likely to, and the girl hid her condition. When she felt the birth pangs coming on, she went out into the prairie far from the camp and built herself a brush shelter. Doing everything herself, she gave birth to a baby boy. She dried the baby, wrapped him in soft moss, and left him there in the wickiup, for in her village a baby without a father would be scorned and treated badly. Praying that someone would find him, she went sadly home to her parents.

At about the same time, an old woman was out searching the prairie for wild turnips, which she dug up with an animal's shoulder blade. She heard crying, and following the sound, came to the wickiup. She was overjoyed to find the baby, as she had never had one of her own. All around the brush shelter grew the sweet root which makes a mother's milk flow; so she named the boy Sweet Medicine. She took him home to her shabby tipi even though she had nothing to offer him but love.

In the tipi next to the old woman's lived a young mother who was nursing a small child, and she agreed to nurse Sweet Medicine also. He grew faster and learned faster than ordinary children and was weaned in no time. When he was only ten years old, he had already grown-up wisdom and hunting skill far in advance of his age. But because he had no family and lived at the edge of the camp in a poor tipi, no one paid any attention to Sweet Medicine's exceptional powers.

That year there was a drought, very little game, and much hunger in the village. "Grandmother," he told her, "find me an old buffalo hide- any dried out, chewed up scrap with holes in it will do."

The woman searched among the refuse piles and found a wrinkled, brittle piece that the starving dogs had been chewing on. When she brought it to Sweet Medicine, he told her, "Take this to the stream outside the camp, wash it in the flowing water, make it pliable, and scrape it clean." After she had done this Sweet Medicine took a willow wand and bent it into a hoop, which he colored with sacred red earth paint. He cut the buffalo hide into one long string and wove it back and forth over the hoop, making a kind of net with an opening in the center. Then he cut four wild cherry sticks, sharpened them to a point, and hardened them in the hearth fire.

The next morning he said: "Grandmother, come with me. We're going to play the hoop-and-stick game." He took the hoop and the cherry-wood sticks and walked into the middle of the camp circle. "Grandmother, roll this hoop for me," he said. She rolled the hoop along the ground and Sweet Medicine hurled his pointed sticks through the center of it, hitting the right spot every time. Soon a lot of people, men and women, boys and girls, came to watch the strange new game.

Then Sweet Medicine cried: "Grandmother, let me hit it once more and make the hoop turn into a fat buffalo calf!"

Again he threw his stick like a dart, again the stick went through the center of the hoop, and as it did so the hoop turned into a fat, yellow buffalo calf. The stick had pierced its heart, and the calf fell down dead. "Now you people will have plenty to eat," said Sweet Medicine. "Come and butcher this calf."

The people gathered and roasted chunks of tender calf meat over their fires. And no matter how many pieces of flesh they cut from the calf's body, it was never picked clean. However much they ate, there was always more. So the people had their fill, and that was the end of the famine. It was also the first hoop-and-stick game played among the Cheyenne. This sacred game has much power attached to it, and it is still being played.

A boy's first kill is an important happening in his life, something he will always remember. After killing his first buffalo a boy will be honored by his father, who may hold a feast for him and give him a man's name. There would be no such feast for Sweet Medicine; all the same, he was very happy when he killed a fat, yellow calf on his first hunt. He was skinning and butchering it when he was approached by an elderly man, a chief too old to do much hunting, but still harsh and commanding. "This is just the kind of hide I have been looking for," said the chief. "I will take it."

"You can't have a boy's first hide," said Sweet Medicine. "Surely you must know this. But you are welcome to half of the meat, because I honor old age."

The chief took the meat but grabbed the hide too, and began to walk off with it. Sweet Medicine took hold of one end, and they started a tug-of-war. The chief used his riding whip on Sweet Medicine, shouting: "How dare a poor nothing boy defy a chief?" As he whipped Sweet Medicine again and again across the face, the boy's fighting spirit was aroused. He grabbed a big buffalo leg bone and hit the old man over the head.

Some say Sweet Medicine killed that chief, others say the old man just fell down stunned. But in the village the people were angry that a mere boy had dared to fight the old chief. Some said, "Lets whip him," others said, "Lets kill him."

After he had returned to the old woman's lodge, Sweet Medicine sensed what was going on. He said: "Grandmother, some young men of the warrior societies will come here to kill me for having stood up for myself." He thanked her for her kindness to him and then fled from the village. Later when the young warriors came, they were so angry to find the boy gone that they pulled down the lodge and set fire to it.

The following morning someone saw Sweet Medicine, dressed as a Fox warrior, standing on a hill overlooking the village. His enemies set out in pursuit, but he was always just out of their reach and they finally retired exhausted. The next morning he appeared as an Elk warrior, carrying a crooked coupstick wrapped in otter skin. Again, they tried to catch him and kill him, and again he evaded them. They resumed their futile chase on the third morning, when he wore the red face paint and feathers of a Red Shield warrior, and on the fourth, when he dressed like a Dog soldier and shook a small red rattle tied with buffalo hair at his pursuers. On the fifth day he appeared in the full regalia of a Cheyenne chief. That made the village warriors angrier than ever, but they still couldn't catch him, and after that they saw him no more.

Wandering alone over the prairie, the boy heard a voice calling, leading him to a beautiful dark-forested land of many hills. Standing apart from the others was a single mountain shaped like a huge tipi: the sacred mountain called Bear Butte.

Sweet Medicine found a secret opening which has since been closed (or perhaps is visible to him alone) and entered the mountain. It was hollow inside like a tipi, forming a sacred lodge filled with people who looked like ordinary men and women, but were really powerful spirits.

"Grandson, come in, we have been expecting you," the holy people said, and when Sweet Medicine took his seat, they began teaching him the Cheyenne way to live so that he could return to the people and give them this knowledge.

First of all, the spirits gave him the sacred four arrows, saying, "This is the great gift we are handing you. With these wonderful arrows, the tribe will prosper. Two arrows are for war and two are for hunting. But there is much, much more to the four arrows. They have great powers. They contain rules by which men ought to live."

The spirit people taught Sweet Medicine how to pray to the arrows, how to keep them, how to renew them. They taught him the wise laws of the forty-four chiefs. They taught him how to set up rules for the warrior societies. They taught him how women should be honored. They taught him the many useful things by which people could live, survive, and prosper, things that people had not yet learned at that time. Finally they taught him how to make a special tipi in which the sacred arrows were to be kept. Sweet Medicine listened respectfully and learned well, and finally an old spirit man burned incense of sweet grass to purify both Sweet Medicine and the sacred arrow bundle. Then the Cheyenne boy put the holy bundle on his back and began the long journey home to his people.

During his absence there had been a famine in the land. The buffalo had gone into hiding, for they were angry that the people did not know how to live and were behaving badly. When Sweet Medicine arrived at the village, he found a group of tired and listless children, their ribs sticking out, who were playing with little buffalo figures they had made out of mud. Sweet Medicine immediately changed the figures into large chunks of juicy buffalo meat and fat. "Now there's enough for you to eat," he told the young ones, "with plenty left over for your parents and grandparents. Take the meat, fat, and tongues into the village, and tell two good young hunters to come out in the morning to meet me."

Though the children carried the message and two young hunters went out and looked everywhere for Sweet Medicine the next day, all they saw was a big eagle circling above them. They tried again on the second and third days with no success, but on the fourth morning they found Sweet Medicine standing on top of a hill overlooking the village. He told the two: "I have come bringing a wonderful gift from the Creator which the spirits inside the great medicine mountain have sent you. Tell the people to set up a big lodge in the center of the camp circle. Cover its floor with sage, and purify it with burning sweet grass. Tell everyone to go inside the tipi and stay there, no one must see me approaching."

When at last all was made ready, Sweet Medicine walked slowly toward the village and four times called out: "People of the Cheyenne, with a great power I am approaching. Be joyful. The sacred arrows I am bringing." He entered the tipi with the sacred arrow bundle and said: "You have not yet learned the right way to live. That is why the Ones above were angry and the buffalo went into hiding." The two young hunters lit the fire, and Sweet Medicine filled a deer-bone pipe with sacred tobacco. All night through, he taught the people what the spirits inside the holy mountain had taught him. These teachings established the way of the Tsistsistas, the true Cheyenne nation. Toward the morning, Sweet Medicine sang four sacred songs. After each song he smoked the pipe, and its holy breath ascended through the smoke hole up into the sky, up to the great mystery.

 

At daybreak, as the sun rose and the people emerged from the sacred arrow lodge, they found the prairie around them covered with buffalo. The spirits were no longer angry. The famine was over.

For many nights to come, Sweet Medicine instructed the people in the sacred laws. He lived among the Cheyenne for a long time and made them into a proud tribe respected throughout the plains.

Four lives the Creator had given him, but even Sweet Medicine was not immortal. Only the rocks and the mountains are forever. When he grew old and feeble and felt that the end of his appointed time was near, he directed the people to carry him to a place near the sacred Bear Butte. There they made a small hut for him out of cottonwood branches and cedar lodge poles covered with bark and leaves. They spread its floor with sage, flat cedar leaves, and fragrant grass. It was a good lodge to die in, and when they placed him before it, he addressed the people for the last time:

"I have seen in my mind that some time after I am dead...and may the time be long...light-skinned bearded men will arrive with sticks spitting fire. They will conquer the land and drive you before them. They will kill the animals who give you their flesh that you may live, and they will bring strange animals for you to ride and eat. They will introduce war and evil, strange sickness and death. They will try and make you forget Maheo, the Creator, and the things I have taught you, and will impose their own alien, evil ways. They will take your land little by little, until there is nothing left for you. I do not like to tell you this, but you must know. You must be strong when that bad time comes, you men, and particularly you women, because much depends on you, because you are the perpetuators of life and if you weaken, the Cheyenne will cease to be. Now I have said all there is to say.

Then Sweet Medicine went into his hut to die.

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October 31, 2007

"A 100,000 Prayers" (c) 2007

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"A 100,000 Prayers, Bear Butte, South Dakota" © 2007 Stu Jenks

 

June, 1982:

 

I went to Bo's wedding in Chicago. Nice girl, Cathy. We were all surprised. (Bo had a long history of dating crazy girls. Cathy wasn't. They recently celebrated 25 years together.) I then proceeded West. Plan was a bit vague. First visit Eric in San Francisco and surprise Lisa while I'm there (She wasn't happy to see me), then swing south to Tucson and visit my Uncle Len and Aunt Virginia for the first time. (My Chevy Two broke down there, I became lovers with my cousin's roommate, had my first real live Déjà Vu in my life and feel in love with the desert. After returning to North Carolina it wasn't six mouths before I was back in Tucson.) I had plenty of Pot, some mushrooms and some acid with me. Ate the  psilocybin on the drive up to Chicago, switched to Acid in Minnesota. Saw wheat fields below huge violent storm clouds in South Dakota. Saw the Badlands and more magnificent rain near Wall. And for some reason I stumbled onto Bear Butte. Don't know how I found out about it. I hiked to the top that day and placed a whirligig there as my prayer token. I remember halfway up the mountain, that the acid and the pot had been overpowered by the spiritual energy of the place. I remember a saying by Bo, that Pot is OK for boring things but for exciting, and powerful places, it just takes away from it. He was right. I knew some about the plight of the Plain Indians in 1982. Was deeply moved by all of the prayer bundles on all of the trees. But I was still spiritually and emotional lost and confused. Didn't make me a bad person. Just an artistically flaky guy, who couldn't face his own inadequacies, much less face life on life's terms.

 

Monday, October 15th, 2007:

 

My brain no longer runs on THC and LSD, but my veins do have caffeine and nicotine in them this morning. I have my own tobacco prayer bundles with me this time. Tony instructed me well on how to make them. 'Use the colors of red, black, white, and yellow,' he said. 'Cut the cloth into two to four inch squares, take a pinch of tobacco and as you place it on the cloth and tie the bundle, pray for a specific person or thing.' That's just what I did last week in my studio.

I'm now in the parking lot at Bear Butte State Park. Round 9 a.m. One other car and no one else. Even the visitors' center is closed for the season. The mountain is mostly naked of trees now. Bad fire came though in 1996, but it's still beautiful. I grab my camera gear, my water and my bundles and head for the trailhead. The summit's obscured with early morning rain clouds. I can put up my hand and feel the power of the place.

Immediately I start seeing prayer bundles. I smile. I bet some folk just don't need to get to the top. 'You go, son,' says the old Cheyenne man with bad hips. 'I'll just tie mine here and wait for you at the truck.' It's very cold, around freezing today. Got the heavy coat, hat and gloves on. I pull the bill down of my cap, to shelter my glasses from the drizzle and press on.

All the way up, I see bundles. Small ones, large ones, long ones, short ones. I fell pulled up the mountain as if by unseen hands. 90% of the trees were destroyed in the fire but that just means that almost every surviving Pine has a prayer bundle or two or twenty tied to its branches. It's pretty easy hiking until I accidentally get off the trail near the top and have to crab it up the final hundred yard of talus rock to get to the summit. But that's fine. A little healthy struggle is a good thing. In no time, I'm 1200 feet above the Great Plains below.


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What is it about a spiritual place be it Bear Butte, a holy place for Lakota, Cheyenne and other Indians for hundreds of years, or St. Francis of Assisi Cathedral in Santa Fe, or Norte Dame in Paris or The Standing Stones of Callanish in Scotland. Is it about the place alone? The rocks, the buildings themselves? I don't think so. I think it's the collective prayerful energy over many years that transform a mountain or a church into a deeply holy place. It's the people bringing their energy, day after day, leaving their hopes, sadnesses, joys and fears that makes Bear Butte and other holy places the psychically glowing spots they are. It's the product of a 100,000 prayers by 100,000 people.

Sometimes I just can't speak about what I experienced. The talking just doesn't work. And coming from me, that's saying something, that speech become limited. It's like trying to describe what a Chopin Nocturne sounds like to someone who can't hear. Like attempting to specifically quantitate the chemistry between lovers, and tell someone else who has never felt that passion. It's seems wanting, words do sometimes. Music sometimes can do it. Art, Dance too. Words are far down the line I think, at least to me. Maybe Charles could brew up some phrases, but I'm having a hard time.

So:

I had some experiences on top of Bear Butte. I took some pictures. I have no adequate words.

I can tell you this. This has words.

On the way down, I said to myself, " I want to come back here and hike this peak again, in 25 years, when I'm 77 years old."

Without hesitation, the quiet still voice within and without said, "You keep doing what you are doing, and you ain't going to make it to 77."

I didn't even have to ask but I did.

"You need to quit smoking. Not today, not next week but within a year," it said.

"I figured it was that," I said to the disembodied voice.

"And you also need to get more sleep. That's hurting you too."

"OK, OK!"

"And finally."

"There's more?"

The still voice repeats, "And finally, you need to stop eating so late at night."

"Anything else I need to change?" I was mildly pissed, but mostly amused. I figured the smoking, but I didn't expect a little list of inadequacies.

"That's it. Quit smoking, sleep more, and eat earlier."

I'm smiling but it's a weak grin. I sometimes forget that when you visit a holy place, what God, Goddess or your Gut has to say, will at least half of the time be things you'd rather not hear. But on the flip side, the benefits are greater and magnificent yet difficult to describe.

Like the power of the colorful bundles on Bear Butte.


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Halloween, 2007:

 

I was inspired by what I saw at Bear Butte. Could see that objects I want to make in my mind's eye. Mentioned the new project to a friend or two. They didn't seem too excited about it, or maybe they were worried about the fallout from the Indian community.

Usually I don't write about art projects before I do them, but it feels right here, or maybe I'm just want validation from the blogosphere. Probably I just need to say it alound and see what hell or heaven transpires.

Well, here goes:

I going to make my own prayer bundles, different from the Plains Indians but similar enough that I'll probably be accused of ripping them off, or different enough that I'll catch shit either way. But again, I've seen them in my mind for days, weeks, while on my trip and after. They're big, long, colorful, made not with tobacco but with lavender flowers. Hung from walls as well as from trees. Hung in homes and in the desert. And they will be both give away also sold. Flame on.

In my defense, the reason I'm moved to make these Lavender Bundles is to make objects that are specifically spiritual, not just implied like in my circle, hoop and spiral photos but explicitly for worship, meditation and prayer. It will give me great joy to see one of these hung in a friend's bedroom or a stranger's hallway, as an object of prayer. I'll take the risk of heat. I'm not using tobacco. I'm not trying to be an Indian. I'm just going where the Muse takes me, and I think it's going to take me to Aqua Vita to buy lavender and Jo-Ann's to buy fabric this weekend.

Stay tuned. We'll see what happens.

And Happy Halloween to you all and Happy Birthday to my mother Mary.


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October 01, 2007

"The Christ in Barrio Viejo"

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"The Christ in Barrio Viejo, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Taken at a shrine in a vacant lot in this Barrio just south of Downtown Tucson. Barrio Viejo is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Tucson. Used to be much larger until 'Urban Renewal' destroyed much of it in the 1960's, to build the ugly Tucson Convention Center and some other forgetable buildings. Many of the original Latino families have moved or have been moved elsewhere, but some still live in The Old Neighborhood. Mostly now it's occupied by middle class whites, some working poor people, the elderly, and a few artists and musicians. It's a checkerboard of $400,000 gentrified courtyard homes, modest family adobes and simple working-class row houses. But the spirit of Barrio Viejo still lives. As a longtime resident said, "The barrio will never disappear. It has gone through a lot of changes, even urban renewal, but it's the families that made the barrio no matter how many times the city tried to move them. They can't get rid of us." This image is for Charles DeLint, Ari Berk and James Graham.]

August 18, 2007

"A Very Large God: A Show at Unity of Tucson" (c) 2007

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"A Very Large God" by Stu Jenks

[I've been asked to show my work, this September, in the lobby outside the sanctuary at Unity of Tucson. Right now, they have the work of a nature photographer in that space. A lot of smallish images, around twenty plus photographs. I'm taking another approach. Less is more. A few very large images, five, seven tops. Last night, I looked at the space again, peeking through the windows at dusk, the air thick with humidity after a monsoon storm. Horny toad lizards were literally at my feet, like desert house cats. I said hello to tell in baby talk. They just slowly walked back to the bushes, to sleep under the bougainvilleas near the front doors. Sweet.

       Below is a revised vision statement from 2003. A few things have been added but not that much. My artistic worldview and my thoughts on the Sacred hasn't change that much in four years. Only the specifics joys, pains and worries have.

       I know that the vast majority of my friends, family, patrons and fans won't be able to visit Unity of Tucson to see the show, but you all can visit it here, virtually, any time you like. If you want to see the show in person, it will be up, at Unity of Tucson, 3617 N. Camino Blanco, Tucson, Arizona, from September 2nd to September 30. The church is open during regular business hours and during Sunday Services. I'll be there between services from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. on September 2nd, to answer any questions as well.

       May God, be it a personal Saviour, a cosmic Muffin, and an undefinable force of Love, always be with you.]

       A VERY LARGE GOD: A STATEMENT OF FAITH.

       For many of us now at the start of the Third Millennium, The Sacred is everywhere yet not necessarily in the traditional Places and Spaces we or others might expect. Some of us experience the power of the Sacred in the sanctuary of a church, while others experience Sacred moments in coffee shops, artist studios, or around kitchen tables, sharing our joys, fears, hopes, and sorrows with family and friends. Many in the world find comfort and community in churches, synagogues, temples and mosques -- but there are also many of us for whom organized religion is not the answer, yet we still strive to live our lives as spiritual and human beings and to try and make the world a better place. I believe there is a Soul and a Spirit within each of us, a carrier of a loving yet human Godliness, that wishes to connect with the Souls and Spirits in others, and with the Sacredness in Spaces and Places in the world.
       I find the Sacred all around me. I find peace within the Sacred Space of a church, without believing in the risen Christ. I find beauty in the petroglyphs of the ancient Anasazi. I feel a connection to my ancestors when I hear the Highland pipes or when I walk among the Standing Stones of Clava or Callanish. I find answers in the Sacred texts of many holy men and women, from Pema Chodron and His Holiness The Fourteenth Dalai Lama to T.S. Eliot and Black Elk. I hear hope in the songs of Bruce Cockburn, Peter Gabriel, and Buddy and Julie Miller. I see a Sacred playfulness in the sculptures of Alexander Calder. I find painful grace in the paintings of Modigliani. I find humor, honesty, and a lessening of my loneliness in the the work of David Milch, in "John of Cincinnati" and in the "Deadwood" series. I see Sacred mystery in the photography of Bill Lesch. I find harmony in the Spiritual structures of Mike Cindric. I feel warm wrapped in a Pueblo Gothic weaving of Crane Day. I feel happy watching Sloppy Flo of the Furious Truckstop Waitresses, rack up the points as a lead jammer, during a Tucson Roller Derby bout.
       I feel a sense of the magical when I create a flame spiral, in the Full Moon light. I feel a healing in the making of a pine needle spiral in a forest planted by my now deceased father. I feel wonder in the placing of a circle of Christmas lights in the remote high desert near home. I feel a childlike awe at the sight of the Very Large Array in New Mexico. I find comfort in driving on a tree canopied rural road in Virginia. I feel humbled walking on the edge of the sandstone cliffs of Coalmine Canyon in Arizona. I feel pleasantly small, photographing the night sky in the Sonoran Desert. I feel acceptance in the morning eyes of a lover. I feel love from the kind words of a friend.
       But more than anything else, in these Sacred Spaces, inside and outside of me, I find something that is larger than me, greater than my Self. A Universal Spirit. A World Soul. A Very Large God. A Something-That-Has-No-Name.
       It is my hope that in the viewing of my images, they may assist you in the deepening of your own Soul's Well, that they might help expand the edges of your own Spirit, and that perhaps, they may further your finding of some new, wondrous, personal yet universal experiences with the Sacred. Jump in on. The water's fine. It'll just hurt a little.

       Stu Jenks, August 2007, BR-549 Studios, Tucson, Arizona.

List of Images: [All images are priced, framed and matted. These are large framed images, the largest being "Resurrection Falls" at roughly 4 by 6 feet, the smallest, "Topawa, Arizona", being 1 1/2 by 4 feet there abouts, and the rest fall somewhere in between. If you are interested in purchasing them and want to know more specifics, feel free and contact me at stujenks@gmail.com. Also, email me just to chat as well.]

"Topawa, Arizona", 2005, Crystal Archive Print, $395. (Top of this post)

"Abajo Mountain Hoop Dance, Utah", 2004, Crystal Archive Print, $695.Abajo_mts_utah

"Resurrection Falls and The Three Surrender Trees", 2005 Crystal Archive Print, $895.

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"Catalina State Park, Arizona", 2005, Crystal Archive Print, $695.

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"In The Mustang Mountains, Arizona", 2006, Giclee Print, $395.Twoyuccasorange


"See God, Kai", 2007, Giclee Print, $395.Seegodkai4

August 12, 2007

"Just Pray: Tumamoc Hill, Arizona" (c) 2007

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"Tumamoc Hill, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[At the base of Tumamoc Hill, there is a house. Outside of the house is a shrine. Crosses and Mary. Jesus and Elvis. And a duck too. Pray before you walk up the hill, pray after you get down, but just pray. To something, for something, for someone. Just pray.]

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August 09, 2007

An Ocean of Souls: A Letter to the Editor of the Tucson Weekly


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An Ocean of Souls by Stu Jenks

[A Letter to the Editor responding to Jim McEylea's letter in last week's Tucson Weekly, regarding a story about a church in Tucson. Below are the links to Jim's Letter and the original story]

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/gbase/Opinion/Content?oid=oid:98630

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/gbase/Currents/Content?oid=98212

Not known for being brief, I will be here:

I'm a Liberal, a heterosexual Progressive who has gay and straight friends.

I believe in God, a loving, forgiving, powerful God. Probably got that belief from my mother and my Christian upbringing.

Hell is not full of Homosexuals. Hell is empty. To quote my Episcopalian mother, "Hell is here on Earth. It is a state of mind." Sounds like you, Jim, are in Hell.

Everyone is going to Heaven. A big Ocean of Souls, all together, no Separation, all Love. The Light and Love of God ever burning above the Ocean and from within the Ocean. That's image is mine, not Mom's.

I read somewhere that the vast majority of Americans, 90 plus % of them, believe in God. I believe only a 1/3 of them believe in your God, Jim. Truly, I thank God for that.



Stu Jenks
Photographer/ Musician
BR-549 Studios
Tucson, Arizona


[Postscript from 8/2/07: The Tucson Weekly called to verify I wrote the above. Looked like they were going to published my letter, but alas no. It appears that I got bumped by the president of a Christian Radio Station, who talk about God is Love out of one side of his mouth, and Jesus didn't approve of homosexual marriage, out of the other. Well, no matter. I do have a blog after all.]

[Postscript from 8/8/07: Lo and behold, I'm printed my letter in this week's Letters to the Editor. To visit the Tucson Weekly's Letters webpage, click on the below link:] http://www.tucsonweekly.com/gbase/Opinion/Content?oid=oid:99084

April 13, 2007

"Swamp Lilies on Easter Sunday" (c) 2007

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[These are wild Swamp Lilies, just west of Charleston, South Carolina, in a wetland behind my old friend Bo's house. Bo was the best man at my wedding in 1984. The marriage didn't last but our friendship has only deepened over the years. I don't see him or Cathy, his wife, nearly enough but Bo and I do talk on the phone once a month or there abouts. He is a very good man, a newspaperman at the Charleston paper, an avid canoer, a talented poet as well. They have two twin boys at the University of South Carolina. And Cathy and Bo have been happily married for almost 25 years. I spent the night as their place just last weekend, and photographed these lilies literally fifty feet from their back door on Easter Sunday. These were four lilies of dozens that were blooming under the tall pines that morning. I had some coffee with Bo and Cathy, walked the dog with them, ate some Easter chocolate from a basket that Cathy made for me, and then got back on the road to head back to Augusta, for the final round of the Masters. I wish I could have stayed longer. I surely do.]

April 11, 2007

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, GA" (c) 2007

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[Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia: The home parish of Martin Luther King Sr. and Jr.]

March 28, 2007

"The Virgin of Tombstone" (c) 2007

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"The Virgin of Tombstone" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[I was on my way to Bisbee yesterday, to drop off some prints at the Pan Terra Gallery, when just after the tourist trap of Tombstone, I needed to pee. A combination of a lot of morning coffee and an somewhat enlarged prostate. TMI, I know. Bisbee's close but why wait, I thought. I took the Elfrida road just to the east of Tombstone and began to look for a place. I past my usual pee spot on these trips and headed down the road a few more hundred yards. Stopped, got out, did my business. Then I noticed the two shrines a hundred feet away. Grabbed the D-30 and walked over. I took some time there, took a few images, lite a few candles for family and friends, said a few prayers. Then just as I was getting ready to leave, a young Hispanic woman stopped to check the belts in her aging nondescript white sedan. We exchanged a couple of words, a smile or two. She said she was fine, belts are fine. I'd finished my shoots. My candles were already lite. I said another silent prayer and walked back to my truck. As I sat in the cab and reviewed what I had taken on the small screen on the back of my camera, I looked up to see the woman opening the gate to one of the shrines and lighting a candle of her own, spending a little time there herself. I smiled, put away the Canon and started the truck. The woman got back into her car, and we both made our way back to the Tombstone road.]

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(Images: top to bottom; "The Virgin of Tombstone" & "St. Martin of Tombstone")

February 19, 2007

"Mollusk, Virginia" (c) 2007

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"Mollusk, Virginia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

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