Starlight

How we see ourselves

Somewhere between 3 and 4am, I awoke and crawled out of bed for a glass of water. Upon returning, I looked out the small-paned window by my bedside to see a haunting, smudged scene of trees and mountains drawn in white and black. I doubled back to get my phone to capture a photo of the ethereal view. As I crouched at the window in wonder at the moonscape, I was suddenly assaulted by a large wooden painting falling from the upper ledge of the window and crashing down onto my skull.

The irony, I thought as I rubbed my bedhead and stumbled back downstairs for ice. Woman dies looking out the window at the moonscape by a crashing painting of a girl sitting in a tree looking at a moonscape. The painting is one my mother had commissioned my husband to do on an antique headboard. It's charming in a whimsical folkway. My husband painted it when we were still in our twenties and before my sister died. After my sister died, I felt the painting was related to her. Maybe only because the girl in the painting had long blonde hair similar to hers. Maybe.

My mother is in the process of selling our childhood home. In preparation for the sale, I helped clear much of the belongings. This painted headboard I decided to keep. When she saw it in my "to keep" pile, she said, "I'm glad you are taking that. It reminds me of Summer (my sister)."

Last year, I moved and cleared out my Upstate home, selling over 80% of my belongings. There was a small antique painting of a barefoot woman in a white nightgown walking into the snowy fields illuminated by the moon. This hung in my bedroom. It made the cut to keep when we moved, and now it hangs by my bed. It reminds me of me.

This fall, I decided to reread a favorite childhood book. I couldn't remember what it was about. I only remembered the feeling of admiration and curiosity. Something about witchyness? I couldn't recall the name, only the name of the character, Emily. It was written by the same author as Anne of Green Gables, which paled compared to the story of Emily, in my opinion.

I quickly found it; the title: Emily of New Moon. Emily's full name was Emily Byrd Starr. She was orphaned and lived on a blustery and beautiful island off Canada. She was born with the gift of writing, a poetess. Her love was nature. Her family discounted her creative desires, saying women couldn't and shouldn't imagine careers, let alone artistic ones. She would experience shimmering, a deep embodied and spiritual connection with nature. She solved a mystery during a fever as she drew lines between signs and possibilities. I read all this this fall, mouth agape, as I felt I was reading an inner autobiography. It stunned me that this book, of all the books I read as a young bookworm, rose to the surface after almost four decades of being buried inside me. As a child, I did not consciously know this was my story. What I remembered was there was something I loved about Emily and something that frightened me about her shimmering, as I had been taught by my family to fear anything witchy. But when I reread it, I saw Emily wasn't witchy in a dark way but gifted with a sensitivity of deep feeling, a connection to nature, and a rich imagination.

In high school, my art teacher assigned us to select a card from the Tarot to repaint in a large format. I did not know anything about the Tarot then, but I loved the fairytale nature of the illustrations. I chose the Star. When clearing out my mother's house, I was reminded of this as she had kept that painting of mine.

Last night, my Tarot cards fell out of my bag, and the one that was face up was the Star. This may mean little except that I wanted to pull a card all week, but I wanted it specifically to be the Star, so I did not pull lest I be disappointed. My Tarot instructor has said we can do face-up pulls, and I considered pulling the Star as I work to better understand the Star's teachings. But instead, the full moon pulled her out for me, and I laid her by my bedside.

I noticed this week that I am wearing the Star around my neck, next to the golden sun goddess pendant. The star pendant was made by a famous artist and was generously donated as part of a Planned Parenthood fundraiser I helped produce at Instar Lodge called Nasty Women. It was not just any famous artist. It was an artist I had determined was my saint, guide, or guiding Star. In my twenties, when I was wrestling with the courage to self-identify as an artist, I watched a documentary on this artist's process for their Venice Biennial show. This was the first I had heard of this artist.

Watching the documentary and witnessing the artist's creativity flourish between mediums, I felt my bones watered with inspiration and permission. It was a defining moment that gave me the courage to say, "Me too!" Shortly after watching the documentary, I passed this artist on the street, recognizing them from the film. I felt a woosh woosh through me, "Yes, you can too! Yes, you are here too!" Later, I would learn this artist had moved Upstate, which felt supportive somehow. They were close by. They or their creativity felt kindred.

When this artist's Star appeared in my project space, I felt the woosh woosh through me again. I started wearing it again about a week or so ago.

Last year, out of the blue, I received an email from this artist asking for a meeting with me to ask me questions about the non-profit fellowship program for young people I created. Woosh. A family member of theirs would be partaking. I had a Zoom meeting with them, and we discussed the container of my social sculpture that would hold their family. As I sat across from them, I marveled at the circular pattern of our twenty-year orbit in each other’s creative company. Woosh.

I named Instar Lodge Instar because the word holds two unique but intertwined meanings related to my work. The first meaning is "a period between molting," and the second definition is "to be amidst the stars." The space was a container for celebrating process, encouraging the vulnerable liminal place between what was and what will be.Transformation. It also was a place to gather amongst other creatives and shine a light on one another, as stars brighten a creative galaxy.

There is an acclaimed, socially engaged artist I love named Tanya Bruguera. After opening Instar Lodge, I learned she had started a project space in her home in Cuba and named it Instar. Woosh, that feeling moved through me. A few October's back, I found myself alone in an elevator with Tanya at a conference where she spoke. Woosh. I told her we both had created spaces for artists named Instar, and she shared that in her language (Spanish), Instar meant "to encourage," "to instigate," or "to incite."... Woosh, that feeling.

What am I trying to tell, say, or show in these stories? Moons, stars, instars, cycles, circles...

In these cascading events, I see patterns of fate and our self-recognition in others (people, things, places, stories).

We are each guided.

Our calling calls us, but we must engender courage to listen, see, and follow.

We are each other's stars.

When we authentically live and create, we shine brightly and offer illumination for others to see themselves and spark.

We become invitations to each other's starlight.

I did not die from the crashing moon painting, but it rattled my consciousness, reminding me of me; now an older woman but always a girl called out by the moon who follows a trail of stardust. A woman who wayfinds her story and writes about it. A woman who creates navigational tools and shares them. A woman who collects and makes artifacts and impressions from living. A sparkly woman who loves glitter, dirt, clay, and the ocean. A woman who gathers stars in her hands and heart and sometimes under her roof.

What and who reminds you of you?

How can your light brighten another’s?