art as healing:
As a healer, J. Spencer Rowe utilizes all his tools to bring forth healing energies. This includes in art and writing as well as counseling. It is vital that bringing forth healing balancing energies are not just limited to specific moments or simply as self-expression, but encompass the entire way of being of the healer. The healer as alchemist molds the negative ugliness and turns it into positive energy of beauty that is moving, enlightening, truthful, challenging and hopeful.
As a healer, J. Spencer Rowe utilizes all his tools to bring forth healing energies. This includes in art and writing as well as counseling. It is vital that bringing forth healing balancing energies are not just limited to specific moments or simply as self-expression, but encompass the entire way of being of the healer. The healer as alchemist molds the negative ugliness and turns it into positive energy of beauty that is moving, enlightening, truthful, challenging and hopeful.
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agokwe: a two spirit voice
© j. spencer rowe
Writer, J. Spencer Rowe takes readers on a path of harrowing and inspiring tales which reveal unbelievable truths and struggles as the reader visits the spirit world of a Two-Spirit, Agokwe (Ojibwa). This work will shock and astound as Rowe reveals the depths of our societal flaws and our extraordinary strength and capacity. Rowe infuses these poetic narratives with keen insights and a sub-textual truth that allows for hope and healing. This is a testament of a people rarely heard. "It’s a Creation Story in of itself. Rowe has created an Emotional Human -Two Spirit Manifesto."
(e-book version available soon.)
Book Review, by Two Spirit Society of Denver co- founder, Crisoto Apache. (Apache)
© j. spencer rowe
Writer, J. Spencer Rowe takes readers on a path of harrowing and inspiring tales which reveal unbelievable truths and struggles as the reader visits the spirit world of a Two-Spirit, Agokwe (Ojibwa). This work will shock and astound as Rowe reveals the depths of our societal flaws and our extraordinary strength and capacity. Rowe infuses these poetic narratives with keen insights and a sub-textual truth that allows for hope and healing. This is a testament of a people rarely heard. "It’s a Creation Story in of itself. Rowe has created an Emotional Human -Two Spirit Manifesto."
(e-book version available soon.)
Book Review, by Two Spirit Society of Denver co- founder, Crisoto Apache. (Apache)
half breed - raw
© j. spencer rowe
Writer and artist, J. Spencer Rowe has created a photographic and text journey taking readers on a healing path as we view each b/w photograph of a nude and semi-nude (exposed) Two-Spirit Native American, Agokwe (Ojibwa) witness. This image and text work reaffirms the existence of the sacred Two-Spirit Native American people. The artist/model, J. Spencer Rowe (a gendered male well into his forties!) brings forth the raw essence (no air brushing here) of those who have passed from hiv/aids while summoning the duality of Warrior and Nurturer of the Two Spirit. At once haunting, courageous, sexual, spiritual, healing and joyful; we are ultimately overcome by the utter vulnerability of an entire generation of a people virtually extinct as channeled by an entirely exposed Agokwe (Ojibwa)Two-Spirit
© j. spencer rowe
Writer and artist, J. Spencer Rowe has created a photographic and text journey taking readers on a healing path as we view each b/w photograph of a nude and semi-nude (exposed) Two-Spirit Native American, Agokwe (Ojibwa) witness. This image and text work reaffirms the existence of the sacred Two-Spirit Native American people. The artist/model, J. Spencer Rowe (a gendered male well into his forties!) brings forth the raw essence (no air brushing here) of those who have passed from hiv/aids while summoning the duality of Warrior and Nurturer of the Two Spirit. At once haunting, courageous, sexual, spiritual, healing and joyful; we are ultimately overcome by the utter vulnerability of an entire generation of a people virtually extinct as channeled by an entirely exposed Agokwe (Ojibwa)Two-Spirit
breathing
© j. spencer rowe
Within these walls not of my making I see before me, an empty sky that burns it’s flames of struggle, brown and putrid; it too I understand wants to breath. I ponder my creation and the creation of others and conclude destruction is now the act of creation rather life, but deaths, consumed blindly by those without will, those without conscience, long ago stripped from their talons of futility when weariness overcame them - us, all.
Still there is a knowing, a sense of purpose and hope we give over to freely in the hope that they, our youth, our children will succeed where we so blatantly failed in our quest to become closer to GOD.
It is a burden that in its contrary way only continues the insanity - for they too seek hope and direction so eagerly from us - and are informed by us. We are cruel to place such a burden upon others when we, who know better, failed.We create for these spirits of innocence (unintentionally) the very tools to embrace our darkest humanity and our own inadequacies.Yet all is not lost, nor can it be, as long as there is a baby that cries, couples who love, examples of admiring courage, and the possibility that tomorrow will come.
We can therefore strive for a freedom and of personal sovereignty that is not all that hard to come by. We can willingly acknowledge our melancholy as this is a sign that the sacred has come to visit, hopefully resulting in the conjuring of our own scripts. We can manifest an attachment that through our birthright will blossom into a joyful, life experience.
I speak of these to my own mind in a rare moment of silence, until I again must visit the other place and embrace their truths and hopefully ever so gently guide their hand to their fulfillment. I cannot abide much longer this momentary visit to the shore of this Great Lake as the heaviness increases; its constriction warning me I must move on. I inhale my exhaustion and exhale its memories and pain to the ether, which will once again become dissipated in its sustenance.
I look around once more at the water, the children playing, the dogs barking and sympathetically commune with the Sun, who in all its immense power tries desperately to break through a deceptively beautiful haze. Created as we all are to be; to be, I must go forward in exaltation of all that is, could be and once was. Silently touching in gentle mists not quite felt and smooth single raindrops that appear when the sky is blue and the sun shines, provoking only a momentary time still of little more than a quick smile of wonder. I float through the squishy squashy offal of religious fanaticism's, exclusions motivated by hate, stupidity and spiritual sicknesses of such rot as to easily sicken, deceive and devour the weak by offering ignoble platitudes and reward for their basest of non-sacrifices; while destroying beings of love and spirit who sacrifice all. I speed my pace through this sewer-like in-humanity of ignorance and tribalism. I sense it is engulfed by politics of non-consequence, run by the empty gluttonous guts slurping food, wine and terrible song as their intellectual capacities decrease in direct proportion to their stomach increase.
There will be a tomorrow… but today I travel and rest upon a bench gazing at a painting with colours vibrant and stories all around. It is a painting of a Madonna and Child by Native American artist Norval Morrisseau, clearly done during his Christian period in which he sought a badly needed peace never granted. He embraced Jesus Christ, this millenniums incarnation of Horus the Sun God, (the virgin birth, the resurrection) but without success, disconnecting him from nature as it did. It is this peace that I struggle for so long to offer those who cannot any longer hear its voice.
So encumbered are they all about me as the young man beside me on the bench is, deep with worry, frowning while lost in thought. I whisper gently, kindness, tenderly attempting to remove fear to make room for love. So many people hate themselves now, so many people feel without power, so many believe they are alone without purpose, without direction and disconnected to all. He is contemplating suicide and it seems a logical choice, but he doesn’t know how much more he has in his future. How could he know? I see. I see him with children, I see him laughing again, I see him strong and free, connected again to the world that he is to change. And change he will, eventually finding his truth but right now he sees nothing, no hope, no future until at just the right moment he lifts his eyes and directs them towards that young woman a stranger to him but shining like crystal whom also is without purpose and seeks to be; simply to be. His thoughts change, he sees hope and he walks over to her. Creating again I do a scene of purity for there is no other role, no other source for me but to be.
I fly without the wind without the sense that once dictated my very self, for now I no longer believe this rule, this dream not of my making. I create my own. In rhythm I breathe trying to catch the earth’s heave and I notice she is heavy, she is struggling more and more each day upon each new visit. The water is brown, gooey and sick. The air is moist with unknown particulate. The people walk around with heads down ashamed at their deeds but no longer have the strength or the thoughts to heal themselves let alone the earth. I see the wars and fears upon their faces, their ignorance and cowardice rewarded while their masters they’ve never met huddle, slurping, gurgling, giggling at their power, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of an eventual prize. While all wilts, this pestilence thrives eating upon your fears, your hopes, and your dreams stripping you of your love, of power, your humanity, and your very spiritual path. This is the “other” which from time to time I battle, with you in mind. I’m trying to create this balance so as not to disrupt the closing of wounds and prevent the dimming of light that will guide you through darkness.
There can be a peace, as we are all around to ensure this balance, but you must be at peace traveling that path of glory which will allow you your moment of your truth never to be taken and never to be sold. I cry over this playground of bullies and see the little one in the corner alone and sensitive who listens to medicinal trees singing to him and who freely speaks to the Sun and the Moon, but at great personal cost.
To be close to nature, to our humbleness is to be human, is to be spiritual and you have left nature and now she is leaving you. But she is forgiving and will embrace your nurturing. Embrace her and you will embrace yourself; never to be alone, never to be confused and never to be lost.
Excerpt from the upcoming book Our Other World - A Collection, and performed (Guys in Disguise, L&Q Cabaret) at Workshop West Theatre.
© j. spencer rowe
Within these walls not of my making I see before me, an empty sky that burns it’s flames of struggle, brown and putrid; it too I understand wants to breath. I ponder my creation and the creation of others and conclude destruction is now the act of creation rather life, but deaths, consumed blindly by those without will, those without conscience, long ago stripped from their talons of futility when weariness overcame them - us, all.
Still there is a knowing, a sense of purpose and hope we give over to freely in the hope that they, our youth, our children will succeed where we so blatantly failed in our quest to become closer to GOD.
It is a burden that in its contrary way only continues the insanity - for they too seek hope and direction so eagerly from us - and are informed by us. We are cruel to place such a burden upon others when we, who know better, failed.We create for these spirits of innocence (unintentionally) the very tools to embrace our darkest humanity and our own inadequacies.Yet all is not lost, nor can it be, as long as there is a baby that cries, couples who love, examples of admiring courage, and the possibility that tomorrow will come.
We can therefore strive for a freedom and of personal sovereignty that is not all that hard to come by. We can willingly acknowledge our melancholy as this is a sign that the sacred has come to visit, hopefully resulting in the conjuring of our own scripts. We can manifest an attachment that through our birthright will blossom into a joyful, life experience.
I speak of these to my own mind in a rare moment of silence, until I again must visit the other place and embrace their truths and hopefully ever so gently guide their hand to their fulfillment. I cannot abide much longer this momentary visit to the shore of this Great Lake as the heaviness increases; its constriction warning me I must move on. I inhale my exhaustion and exhale its memories and pain to the ether, which will once again become dissipated in its sustenance.
I look around once more at the water, the children playing, the dogs barking and sympathetically commune with the Sun, who in all its immense power tries desperately to break through a deceptively beautiful haze. Created as we all are to be; to be, I must go forward in exaltation of all that is, could be and once was. Silently touching in gentle mists not quite felt and smooth single raindrops that appear when the sky is blue and the sun shines, provoking only a momentary time still of little more than a quick smile of wonder. I float through the squishy squashy offal of religious fanaticism's, exclusions motivated by hate, stupidity and spiritual sicknesses of such rot as to easily sicken, deceive and devour the weak by offering ignoble platitudes and reward for their basest of non-sacrifices; while destroying beings of love and spirit who sacrifice all. I speed my pace through this sewer-like in-humanity of ignorance and tribalism. I sense it is engulfed by politics of non-consequence, run by the empty gluttonous guts slurping food, wine and terrible song as their intellectual capacities decrease in direct proportion to their stomach increase.
There will be a tomorrow… but today I travel and rest upon a bench gazing at a painting with colours vibrant and stories all around. It is a painting of a Madonna and Child by Native American artist Norval Morrisseau, clearly done during his Christian period in which he sought a badly needed peace never granted. He embraced Jesus Christ, this millenniums incarnation of Horus the Sun God, (the virgin birth, the resurrection) but without success, disconnecting him from nature as it did. It is this peace that I struggle for so long to offer those who cannot any longer hear its voice.
So encumbered are they all about me as the young man beside me on the bench is, deep with worry, frowning while lost in thought. I whisper gently, kindness, tenderly attempting to remove fear to make room for love. So many people hate themselves now, so many people feel without power, so many believe they are alone without purpose, without direction and disconnected to all. He is contemplating suicide and it seems a logical choice, but he doesn’t know how much more he has in his future. How could he know? I see. I see him with children, I see him laughing again, I see him strong and free, connected again to the world that he is to change. And change he will, eventually finding his truth but right now he sees nothing, no hope, no future until at just the right moment he lifts his eyes and directs them towards that young woman a stranger to him but shining like crystal whom also is without purpose and seeks to be; simply to be. His thoughts change, he sees hope and he walks over to her. Creating again I do a scene of purity for there is no other role, no other source for me but to be.
I fly without the wind without the sense that once dictated my very self, for now I no longer believe this rule, this dream not of my making. I create my own. In rhythm I breathe trying to catch the earth’s heave and I notice she is heavy, she is struggling more and more each day upon each new visit. The water is brown, gooey and sick. The air is moist with unknown particulate. The people walk around with heads down ashamed at their deeds but no longer have the strength or the thoughts to heal themselves let alone the earth. I see the wars and fears upon their faces, their ignorance and cowardice rewarded while their masters they’ve never met huddle, slurping, gurgling, giggling at their power, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of an eventual prize. While all wilts, this pestilence thrives eating upon your fears, your hopes, and your dreams stripping you of your love, of power, your humanity, and your very spiritual path. This is the “other” which from time to time I battle, with you in mind. I’m trying to create this balance so as not to disrupt the closing of wounds and prevent the dimming of light that will guide you through darkness.
There can be a peace, as we are all around to ensure this balance, but you must be at peace traveling that path of glory which will allow you your moment of your truth never to be taken and never to be sold. I cry over this playground of bullies and see the little one in the corner alone and sensitive who listens to medicinal trees singing to him and who freely speaks to the Sun and the Moon, but at great personal cost.
To be close to nature, to our humbleness is to be human, is to be spiritual and you have left nature and now she is leaving you. But she is forgiving and will embrace your nurturing. Embrace her and you will embrace yourself; never to be alone, never to be confused and never to be lost.
Excerpt from the upcoming book Our Other World - A Collection, and performed (Guys in Disguise, L&Q Cabaret) at Workshop West Theatre.