MOVING OUT, MOVING ON!
Dear Friends and Family, Old and New, Near and Far:
It has been many moons since I have written and I pray you have not forgotten The Wandering Muse. It's been a year of travel and transitions, amazing and sobering.
After six months of adventures in South America, I still long for the places I didn't see and the photographs I didn't take. I landed back in the States in mid-March, touched base with my family in Indiana, then headed back to Pittsburgh and reclaimed my house which had been rented for a year. My beloved raspberries were submerged in a jungle of weeds, and ironically as I tackled the invaders, weeding out became a metaphor for the year. Though I thought I had diminished my possessions prior to leaving, it was obvious that I was still burdened by too much stuff.
As you may remember, I first listed my house in the fall of 2007 when I daringly vowed that I was going to reduce my belongings to 15 cubic feet, and travel the world. The market didn't cooperate, but last summer, as I was gritting my teeth and digging 12" weeds from the cracks in the brick walk, I knew in my soul, that owning a house was for me, a burden, not a symbol of security. And that was before we rewired the deck, repainted the basement, and mulched the flowerbeds.
 Stubbornly I decided to sell the house myself and listed it on craigslist. (Yes, people, you CAN sell a house on craigs- list!) Potential buyers came almost every weekend, and I accepted an offer by Labor Day for exactly the amount I had intended. Then followed a flurry of discarding books and papers, a hectic studio sale where I parted with sequined and embroidered fabrics, sheets of copper, shimmering silks, and unused tools. I was stunned at how much I had accumulated, and so were the friends who came to help me. Here's my sophisticated mannequin turning her back on the mess in my loft. (And did I meet my goal of 15 cubic feet? Nope, that was a major miscalculation. But I kept only my art, my favorite books and glassware, and a few tools, now in a 7' x 10' storage space, and even that will be a lot to move.)
In June, the most asked question was, "So how does it feel to be home?" And where is "home," I asked myself? In my beautiful garden in Pittsburgh, or the gorgeous courtyards of Granada, with old friends I seldom see or with new friends who accompanied my journey? I was blessed to be welcomed everywhere I went, and I felt at home wherever I was. (Well, maybe not on those freezing buses in Brazil!) By August, the question was, "Where are you moving to?" "I don't know," I answered. "I haven't found my place by the sea." So for now, the answer is, "I'm not moving TO. I'm moving ON."
And the cosmos cooperated by providing stunning sunsets before I left, though it didn't weaken my resolve to depart.
|
|
|
|
IN MEMORIAM:
As I weeded and packed, I was enlivened by my memories of the people I met along the way, people whose journeys I shared briefly and whose stories I heard fragments of. One was Ross Heatlie, the young English guy who traveled up the Amazon on ferries from Belem, Brazil into the headwaters in Peru. We met at the jungle camp in the Amazonas. Ross seemed fascinated by slightly dangerous things like snakes and spiders. At his request, our guide Cobra led us on a daylong hike over fallen trees and through tangled vines in search of a tarantula in the wild. The sun crept downward, the forest grew dimmer as Cobra searched under mossy roots. Finally, to Ross's delight, Cobra poked open a tarantula's lair, and I got some great photos. I received no reply when I sent them to his email.
I was shocked to learn later from Yvonne
O'Connell, another of our Amazon campers, that after his return to England, Ross, who
had survived his adventures in South America, was hiking on the
coast near Cornwall, and disappeared into the dangerous waters.
 No one knows exactly what happened. Perhaps the tide came in more rapidly than expected. His companion was rescued by helicopter from a rocky craig, but Ross was never seen again. Brief articles on the Coast Guard search for him yield minimal information. He was enthusiastic and curious, and so interested in unusual animals that I wondered why he didn't study biology. In all our treks into distant and soggy territory, I never heard a complaint. Here he is reveling in the company of parakeets in Cobra's village in Brazil. I am still stunned at the loss of this bright young man. More photos of Ross are posted on Facebook.
*********
I cannot write this newsletter without a tribute to my father, Herbert Dale Hiatt, (1913-2009), whose gentle spirit and quick wit warmed our hearts and cracked us up. Though I knew  him as a stable family man, in his carefree youth, he hitch- hiked around Indiana , zoomed around on a Harley, and caught the girls' eyes with his rakish good looks.
He embodied the character- istics described in Tom Brokaw's book, The Greatest Generation. Growing up in the Depression, he harrowed fields and pitched hay on his father's farm. To get through college, he peeled potatoes in the campus kitchen. None of this demeaned him. Neither did he complain. His example taught us the value of work and frugality, yet he generously fed us and all our friends at his table, and gave shelter both to family and strangers from foreign lands. The Hyatt Hotel had nothing on him. Because of his tolerance, I knew nothing of prejudice until I was about 12, and realized that in the outer world, some people were unjust.
Though he was quiet, he was not  somber, and when he played, he played well. He was a top notch golfer, and a crack pool player well into his nineties. I called him "Indiana Slim," and he could still run the table, even after several strokes had diminished his memory. Our games were filled with laughter because I moaned dramatically whenever he beat me.
Like all the Hiatts, he loved pie. Cherry, apple, gooseberry, coconut, were all his favorites, and after every piece, he would tell Mom that it was the best pie she had ever made. I will always cherish the memory of the dimple in his cheek, the twinkle in his eye, and the feel of his hug.
His career accomplishments are described here in his formal obituary.
Please keep in touch, despite my long silence, and feel free to forward this to anyone who might be interested. Past newsletters and travel stories can be read in the online archive.
As always, take care of your special selves, live creatively, cherish those near and dear, and make your dreams a reality.
Elena Hiatt Houlihan
Moving Images
PS: Please note change in email address below. The comcast email is no longer valid.
|
|
|
|
MUSE BRIEFS:
|
"And where are you now?" is the question I've been getting in emails. Back in the Heartland, my home town of Indianapolis. Though it was long planned, I had to leave Pittsburgh rather precipitously at the end of October because my father was failing rapidly. I did
not have the opportunity to visit or even say goodbye to some of you.
Once in Indiana I was consumed with family details, and have remained here to help my mom in her transition to life without
Dad, who passed away on November 1, 2009,at the age of 96.
Soon we'll put the family home on the market, and I'm now watching mom read old letters, sort used books, and fill boxes for Good Will, just as I did a few months ago. Selling the house we grew up in will be another huge tran- sition for all of us. Surrounded by 3 acres of trees and flowering shrubs, mostly planted by mom and dad, this house has been an oasis for decades of gatherings. And despite some of the somber realities this fall, we still took time to play in the leaves on our beloved hillside.
|
NOTE: You may be a close friend or relative, someone who's genuinely interested in the continuing saga of my book, a teacher or student I've worked with, an editor I'm trying to impress, a perfect stranger I met briefly on the night bus to Palenque, or had an intense conversation with on the beach at Playa del Carmen, even a temporary tango partner. Perhaps you've forgotten me, but I have not forgotten you! Since I'm NOT making any promises to make you RICH, BRILLIANT or FAMOUS in 5 easy steps (not yet anyway), if my stories and observations don't enliven your day, then hit UNSUBSCRIBE. If you've been forwarded this newsletter, please click below to subscribe. Merci mille fois! Y muchas gracias!
|
PHOENIX RISING!
Last spring, (it seems eons ago now) I was invited to be the Visiting Artist at Natrona Heights Middle School, outside of Pittsburgh. The challenge was to coordinate the talents of about 50 kids and guide them as they created a site specific sculpture out of plastic bottles, vacuum cleaner hose, broken toys and computer parts. Both magic and chaos prevailed as the students imaginatively combined elements from the "junk pile" to form a giant bird based on the chosen design.
In a mutual metamorphosis, squirrelly kids became artists who transformed castoffs into art. A public reception heralded Phoenix Rising, now flying in the school lobby.
|
The residency was organized by The Mattress Factory, and supported by the Pittsburgh Center for the Arts and the Pennsylvania Arts Council, whose budget was cut by $2 million this year, severely limiting these creative experiences for schools in the coming years. Write your legislator! Where else but through the arts can kids learn creative problem solving and imaginative use of materials, both traits our culture needs.
Special thanks for the success of the project goes to Dawn Miller, the dedicated art teacher, Dr. Catherine Russo, principal, and the school board whose backing made the residency possible.
|
|
|
