Teaching

What do you believe about yourself and why do you believe this?

I have asked my students this. I ask them to write down what they believe about themselves. I ask them to fold the paper in half and write why they believe this. I ask them to fold it again and put it away, to just let it be where it is. It's on a piece of paper. Does this make it true? I explain how I believe I have the opportunity to reinvent myself daily, that I am not a culmination of others beliefs about me and that this is the only way I stand before them now, teaching.

I am worthy. I have value. Everyone wants to be seen. Everyone wants to be heard. Everyone wants to know that what they said means something to someone. I confess that I learned this from Oprah.

I write because I love it. I want to open my chest to you like my ribs are window shutters and shine out to you and have you shine back at me. We are reflections of each other. We are one.

-Gillian Cornwall, c 11June2012

A Memory, In Gratitude - a 'coming out' story

One of these things is not like the others...

A Memory, In Gratitude

-for JM

I sat close beside you on your bed, in your room, terrified, filled with the need to tell you my truth that you might better understand me and, at times, my shyness with you. Every time I started to speak, the words petrified in my throat. I choked on the fear of your response. What if you asked me to leave? What if you were repulsed by me, by this thing that I was and had no control over, this thing that I could not nor did not want to change?

You leaned into me, pulling me close by the shoulder, and looking into my eyes, you spoke softly but firmly, "I'm really worried. Please tell me, what's wrong?"

I later found out that you thought I would tell you I'd been diagnosed with a fatal disease and that I'd be dying off without further ado. While I felt in that moment as though that was precisely what I would do, that was not, in fact, the case.

I don't know why I believed you would react adversely to the information I was compelled to share. After all, you were a perfectly kind and decent human being; nonetheless, I had been raised to believe that I was wrong, off, defective - both within my family and by the world at large. Now I know the truth. I am perfect in each moment of my life as long as I live a path of kindness, joy and love. I am full. I am complete.

Knowing you, having you hold up a lantern when I was still so young and tell me you could see me, you heard me and that I meant something to you - this was formative in my path to wellness, truth and self-acceptance.

Your friendship and acceptance of me at the tender age of 19, as I told you, "I'm gay" meant the world to me. I felt loved in that moment and I am eternally grateful for that. Thank you.

- Gillian Cornwall, June 7, 2012

Love in the Thought

"The thought manifests as the word,

The word manifests as the deed,

The deed develops into habit,

And the habit hardens into character.

So watch the thought and its way with care,

And let it spring from love

Born out of concern for all beings."

K. Sri Dhammananda
-How to Live Without Fear and Worry

There is no light so great as the light of the universe that shines through me. With this light, I have all that I need. That which is not held cannot be taken. I will continue to walk my path of truth regardless of the decisions of others. I cannot be made to act against my heart. The light of life shines through me eternal. There is peace in this. No matter what is said or done around me, I act in my best truth and light. Aloha. The breath of god flows through me. I am one with all. Peace and light are my path.

Gillian Cornwall, May 24, 2012

It's Only Chaos If We Call It Chaos

Oil Pastel and Mineral Oil on Paper

Gillian Cornwall c1988
$10,000.00

What transpires in our hearts as we traverse our life paths all intertwined, running parallel and doubling back? Our motions as open thermodynamic units mirroring the minutia of our own atoms and molecules, we careen through space and time where everything is happening all at once. Brave and crazy, we remain in motion, all in a million directions, each with a different map, yet, all with the same destination. Through the traps and blockades of fear, we march on, heading towards pure love.

-Gillian Cornwall, c May 21, 2011.

The View from the Rooftop

Each morning the view from the rooftop patio surprises me and I am overcome with awe. Regardless of the weather, I am about brought to tears by the glory of it. Everything is made clean, including me, and I am able to reinvent myself by the simple gift of life and a new day. Worry, anger and fear are washed away as I step anew on my path from fear to love. I do not need to explain the actions of others, only my own actions and reactions.
 

Now, what will I do?

Now, what do I will?

With every step I take forward I create the path I will walk. How will I choose it to appear before me with every footfall?  With each step the universe shifts a little, with each smile and gentle gesture given and received. Left, right, left, right - I walk on with an intent to see and to love the journey. Be at peace old soul; all is well.

Gillian Cornwall, c April 25, 2011.

Heaven and Earth

May. I taste the proximity of summer, all the while walking through the oaken wood, soaked knee-deep by thick, green grasses and bluebells. A narcissus bobs to the beat of my heart. It is here that I unite with all of life, known and unknown, as I stretch into the unfathomable depth and breadth of the universe. Stars tickle my fingertips as they tattoo the universal truth upon my hands.

"You are here." They pen this upon me and I whisper my understanding as I bring my arms down to caress the camas lily at my feet. It sparkles with dew and stardust. I need no more than this. In this moment I need for nothing, in awe of the simple perfection of life.

Gillian Cornwall - May 1, 2012.

Being Four

It takes a lot more work to be four than it does to be twenty-four. Anyway, this is what I believe at four. At four, you're the boss of no-one and everyone bosses you. At twenty-four, you can take a bath when and if you want and you don't always feel as though you are missing something because you are the one making things happen instead of doing what you're told or failing to do what you're told which is more the case with me. At twenty-four, I won't have to eat Lima beans if I don't want to (does anyone ever want to?).

If I want to, I'll wear my underwear outside my pants and tie my towel around my shoulders and no one will laugh because I really will look like Superman by then - even though I am a girl. For sure, I'll never wear dresses because they're uncomfortable and stupid and I hate having to pull them every which direction in an effort to cover enough of my tomboy body.

At twenty-four, I won't have to come in just because the streetlights are on and, some nights, I'll eat dessert first because I want to be sure that I won't be too full for that part and I'll ask the minister at the church, "Why? Why do you think it's fun for us to get out of bed early when it's not even a school day, just to be told that we're sinners and that we're 'less than'.

Sure, at four, it's a bit easier to say someone else did it and kind of get away with it when the baseball goes through the bedroom window but, at twenty-four, I'm pretty sure I will be strong enough to throw it over the house and miss the window like I meant to in the first place.

When I'm twenty-four I'll probably look back and think I was pretty darn cute at four instead of feeling like I was put together like a fort,out of spare parts. At twenty-four, I'll be able to go to the store on my own and buy as much junk as I want. At twenty-four, my parents might make sense and I'll be able to tie my shoes right every time.

It's so far away. I'm four and I'm small but I get it. I gotta go; it's past me bedtime.

-Gillian Cornwall, 26APRIL2012

Gravity

I used to dream that I could fly. When does that stop? I know I'm not the only one. Others have told me they used to dream this. When do we lose our faith in that dream? Is it one day in our teens when we ask someone, when we tell them of that dream and they simply laugh at us in our naivete? Have we said, "Wouldn't that be cool, to just run and jump and take off into the sky like that?"

I wish I could feel the freedom and terror of that dream now, the way it felt to lift off from the ground and soar ever upwards; feel the terror of blundering the navigation through the power lines and careen towards a less than graceful landing with a little smoke and sizzle.

When does the word "impossible" enter our vocabulary with such permanence and spirit-crushing power? Why do we believe it? Why do I believe it now, when I can so easily recall the perfect truth of the dream, the sensation of flying? 

With enough fatigue from the grind of work-a-day life, I can close my eyes and rise above the weight, the weight of gravity and the weight of the word I was given to carry at such an early point in life: impossible. 

Put it down; it was never your word to carry. Fly.

-Gillian Cornwall, August 2011

Finnerty Gardens at the University of Victoria

Amid the chaos of the first day back after the Easter weekend, I took the time to walk with a friend through Finnerty Gardens at the University of Victoria today. 

I work at the school and haven't been for a walk through the gardens for longer than I care to remember. It is so easy to stay attached to the computer, to not move, to not go outside to walk and breathe and chat with a friend but, you know, it was just as easy to go and it did me the world of good. 

"There is a calmness to a life lived in gratitude, a quiet joy." Ralph H. Blum

All images and text, with the exception of other quotations, are property of Gillian Cornwall. April, 2012

The Wine Magical Mystery Tour

I love wine.


I have a map in my head and heart of all the places she has taken me with all my senses engaged in the journey. I have been bold, more bold in these travels than I have been in so many other aspects of my life. 


I have freely taken the hand of sommelier, vintner, aficionado and friend and said, "Sure, take me there." I have sipped from their cups with the eyes, nose, palate and imagination of any brave and true explorer. 


These explorations through the glass have led me to BC orchards and fields of French lavender, through summer meadows and into the Napa Valley. I have felt the warm summer sun and breathed in the sage of the Okanagan bench and wandered silently through the depths of cool, clay cellars and I have hidden in their oaken barrels. I have breathed in the scents of the tropics and glided over the dizzying heights of the Argentinian mountainside. 


I close my eyes when I taste. I breathe deeply. My breathe is a breeze crossing the wee rivulet of wine on my tongue and with this inhalation, the colours, textures, scents and images rise up and take shape across my senses.


I understand little about the process. I know nothing of viticulture and soil - the study of oenology is beyond me but I have my own wine map which I have drawn through my tasting travels and the mental picture book of the places I have traveled with her (for surely wine is a woman) and I so look forward to the next adventure, to every taste, with anticipation, wonder and delight.


-Gillian Cornwall, April 1, 2012.

No Kids of My Own

Okay, so, I don't have kids of my own so maybe I don't fully understand it and being gay with no kids has definitely made me an outsider from my family with the exception of my eldest brother who is also gay with no kids. 

What I don't understand is why this means that no one in my family except my eldest gay brother shows any interest in my life whatsoever and those that have kids can only talk about their kids and not themselves. When their kids grow up, they seem to have no self with which to engage others and then just start asking for grandchildren or start talking about other people's kids. 

It is odd that I have friends with children who are perfectly capable of talking about themselves, subjects that interest them and, lo and behold, they are entirely capable of asking me about the myriad of activities and interests in my life. 

So friends, I thank you and to my family, who are entirely unlikely to be reading this, tell me about you and, if the spirit moves you, ask about me. I'm kind of awesome.

With love and frustration,

-Gillian Cornwall, March 2012

Vision

Today I walked home from the eye doctor, grateful for my vision. This is what I saw:

 

Work - Creative Non-Fiction by Gillian Cornwall

Work

The head volunteer for the silent auction was the least silent creature I'd encountered in ages. She entered the hotel lobby like a comet entering the earth's atmosphere - impossible to ignore and inciting fear amid the mere earthlings. Yes, she was an asteroid (emphasis on the "ass") made of Lucy Ricardo instead of stone and mean instead of funny. She terrified me at first but I quickly learned that while her trajectory was inevitable, I could choose to react to the circumstances in any way I pleased. My shoulders dropped from their position about my ears and my usual smile of contentment returned to my quiet face. 

It astounds me when I see volunteers engaged in a humanitarian effort, raising money for a nation that has been through earthquake and tsunami, vying for power and control.; particularly since they are not even being paid for the effort. As I said, I spent the day veering from the course of this Lucy asteroid and expending my energy on tasks such as skirting tables and making jokes about being unfit for such a task, not having put a skirt on my own body for at least a decade. 

I stood back and let the asteroid sputter and spit as needed, responding calmly and kindly to her spark and shrapnel with the hope that an infinitesimal ripple of calm might slow her path to a self-destructive heart attack. Perhaps my tactic worked. After she barked "You have to get past me first!" upon announcement of my imminent departure, she actually hugged me upon leaving. This left me gob-smacked. 

What does each person with whom we interact carry away with them and what do they leave behind with us? Millions and billions and trillions of energy exchanges occurring in each fleeting moment, changing the story of the world each and every time. Still, we speak of chaos as though it were something separate from ourselves , something for which we aren't, in fact, completely responsible. A large part, if not all, of this chaos we fear, this chaos we are trying to  align, is a direct result of our own words and actions. 

Are we simply creating the mess in order to give ourselves something to do, something to clean up? If so, it's not so much chaos as it is job creation.    

-Gillian Cornwall   c2011

Patience

   If I had known earlier in my life that I would be so inclined to waiting, I may have saved myself some grief. For the longest while, I believed that others kept me waiting. Now I know that I choose to wait, choose to teach myself patience. This realization has reduced my level of internal turmoil as I breathe right though the universe rather than self-destruct in frustration and impatience. Perhaps, in fact, there is no waiting, there is only being, in every breathe, in every moment.


Gillian Cornwall, February 2012

There are days when it is so simple to be kind, so simple to love well and to be gentle. These days are akin to summer, all sweet, soft and slow-moving. They are the sweet scent of golden grasses and salty, dune-protected beaches. These days are sun-bleached and tanned. They are popsicle days with screened-in porches and long, lazy dinners with friends. 

Thank you for these days.

-Gillian Cornwall, c 25 January 2012

Time

Parts. Pieces. Breath. One by one, we count it all off subconsciously. Where is it we believe we are going? Here I am. Here I am, trying to get with the present, trying not to wish the bus would get going so I can get to work and get to work so I can get through the day and get home again. Stupid. Daft. Pushing through life like it's one big, crowded shopping mall.

I become engrossed in the colours and texture of the coat on the woman in front of me. The pattern takes me to a simpler time, a time where comfort was found in time itself, in the time it took to do things, in the "manual" of it all. I remember the clear-bodied coloured pen and the clear cogs of the Spirograph, the straight pins and paper - the potential. I loved this, the act of it as much as the complicated final drawing. It all amazed me. How did someone figure this out?

Cartoon colours were vivid and the characters were simple and bold in design. They were huge and hilarious in personality - from the meep meep of the roadrunner to the misguided antics of Yogi Bear searching out his pic-i-nic baskets with his anxious and steadfast pal, Boo-Boo.

Breathe. Stop. Rest here in this moment.

Connected

The wonder and greatness of all that is, all that can be imagined and beyond flows through me. I find wonder in all things and beauty in the most simple. I am in awe. Life and love abound and in the giving I am made full. Nothing is held within so there is no loss. Life is eternal in the light of freedom. 

What shall I choose next on my path, each footfall a fresh breath and a re-connection to the changing universe? I am engaged in the chaos, autonomous yet connected. What is external is internal, each cell a microcosm of the greatness of everything. There is peace here amid the knock and grind of the human engine. I purr with life. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c31May2011

Vancouver 2010

"I walked through the city as though you were with me, anticipating you picking me up at the ferry in just two days. I was bursting with excitement and love. I photographed Vancouver with these feelings in my heart. This is just one of the ways you light my candle." -Gillian Cornwall

Ink Drawings and a Pencil Drawing 1990s

Salt Spring Calves - Gillian Cornwall, c1994

Print - Ink on Paper

A Fallen Brick Home - Near Saxe Point, Victoria

Gillian Cornwall, c1998

Original - Ink on Paper

A Fallen Brick Home 2 - Near Saxe Point, Victoria

Gillian Cornwall, c1998

Original - Ink on Paper 

A Manhole Cover

Gillian Cornwall, c1998 

Original - Ink on Paper

Autumn Leaves

Gillian Cornwall, c1996

Original - Pencil and Graphite on Paper

>> Please note: Clicking on images will allow you to see them in a larger format. You will likely need to click the back button afterward to return to this page. I hope you enjoy my drawings. 

Happy New Year to all of you.<<

Aspen Branches, Utah 

by

Gillian Cornwall

ink on paper

c2009

A Poem

I have expanded with love

Burst forth from the cement of the city sidewalk

the rogue flower

I learn and I shift

my perception

I engage in the moment that is

and leave the moment that will be

to its own devices

I have no animosity in my heart

no blame

I have expanded with love

I learn

I do my best

I share the gift of love

worship the living temple of my self

Love is a story of the world

in which 

we all belong

-Gillian Cornwall

Seek to enjoy, not to possess. -Nana Veary

My Online Heroes

This year I have been met with such great warmth and kindness from those of you that I have never met in person. I have built phenomenal relationships through social networking. Some of you have warmed my heart through your openness - expressing your fears and joys and kindness - restoring my faith in the human spirit. 
   Is it true that this kind of emotional intimacy is, at times, easier with strangers? Is the risk less and thus the willingness increased? I don't suppose it matters in the long run.
   My own ego tells me that it is, in part, down to my own openness of heart and spirit, that I create a space that is safe to join and to share your truth.
   This Christmas, as the year winds down, I want to ensure that all of you know that I am grateful to you for joining me in the moments we share online and that I see you, I hear you and what you say means something to me. I will do my best to honour your time and effort with my own truth and kindness. 
   I wish each of you every joy and blessing for the coming year and that you have every opportunity to live fully in the precious moments of your lives. 
   So very sincerely,
   -Gillian

Camp - Part Three

I know where I am drawn. There is peace in this as I walk on. It feels further in the dark than in the light, fewer distractions I suppose, but before long the woods open up to the upper level seating of the council ring and a lone star shoots across the open sky through the thick lick of the milky way. I sit, shoving my fists into the pouch of my hoodie and I sigh heavily into the night. I am a child, an animal with senses sharp and alive, nose to the cool air, eyes darting and adjusting to the light. 


In this ring, some eternal part of who I am, something I have yet to comprehend, releases and I know I have not come here to be alone as I originally thought. I have come to connect to something, to connect to everything, to belong. My young, taut, clean body breathes in the power of the love of all. I hold this cool night air in my lungs, eyes closed, connected; full. As I release this breathe, my self mingled with the universal soul into the one. I open my eyes wide to see the mother wolf staring at me from across the ring. Her two cubs are in tow, wrestling each other and the mother sits, our eyes locked. I gasp. I stay. I feel the hot tears on my cheeks. I understand the journey from longing to belonging. Purity. Comprehension. Love. 


Gillian Cornwall, copyright December 22, 2011

New Story "Camp" - Part Deux

   I make my way down the chip trail and across the bridge as the stream below gurgles its greetings, the water on its ceaseless path to bigger bodies. Ahead, the entrance to the cedar wood looms dark and wide and I shiver a little in this moon and star-filled summer night, briefly considering the consequences if caught mid-adventure by a concerned grown-up. My consideration does not outweigh my desire and I carry on down the path and into my beloved cedar wood. While my heart thumps time to this song of escape, it is more excitement than fear as I have walked the trails of this camp and lingered in these woods since age four. I have crunched through the crisp-top winter snows and lazed at the foot of these trees in the dog days of summer. I am comfortable here and more safe on these grounds at any time of day than I ever have been or ever will be at home. I walk here at peace and rest here in the palm of my maker, my nature.
   
   The scent of living cedar is my mother's milk and the branches sway in a trance with the whisper of the night time breeze. I tread upon the bouncing carpet of cedar fronds and the net of roots beneath my feet. This is a place of magic. This is a place of rope swings and tree forts. It is Peter Pan and Captain Hook and everything wild and good about being a kid. I maintain a ninja silence knowing the boys tribes, including my own brother, sleep in the tree forts overhead. I smile at my courage and, quite frankly, my gall; I will not stop here. I know where I must go. 


-Gillian Cornwall, copyright December 19, 2011

New Creative Non-Fiction - "Camp" by Gillian Cornwall

  Here is a taste from a new story in the works:
  "There is a particular scent to the canvas tent with its pine platform floor, replete with eight 9 year old girls, the counsellor-in-training, Cathy, and our revered leader, Liz. After three years of these overnights, I can quite confidently say that, while the scent is unique to these circumstances, it varies little from camp session to camp session and from year to year and tent to tent. I can not fully describe it but I will try to lead you by the nose and give you some idea because it's beautiful and peculiar and, for me, both inviting and petrifying. If one were to mix brown sugar with sweet summer sweat, dry pine and sun-warmed canvas and blend it with stale peanut butter and jam sandwiches from lunches gone by, you'd have a reasonable facsimile of what I'm trying to get at.  


I already know I like girls. I lay among them and I barely understand how it is I am an interloper in their midst. I have no idea how it is I am different or why I am the only one who feels like this. I am the only one awake though thousands of crickets and frogs trill beyond our fabric home. They call me, incessant as the sirens of Greek mythology. One more call, this time from the loon, and I silently slide from my sleeping bag placed purposefully by the zippered net door flap. My stealthy exit goes unnoticed or without comment as it is not uncommon for a young girl to require a night time trip to the outhouse; however, this is not my planned destination. I am equipped in my Keds, sweatpants, and hooded sweatshirt having planned my adventure earlier in the evening. I am restless and intense and night time sojourns both feed my sense of adventure and calm my troubled young soul."


-Gillian Cornwall,  copyright December 18, 2011