The muse is returning me to the blog after a long hiatus, and suddenly I am bursting with things to share. I’ll try to keep it focused and hope I can fully communicate the fullness and richness I am feeling today, for the urge to share and spread that quality is what leads me to the site.
 
The title of this post, "God's Half Acre," came to me this morning as I was sitting and deeply appreciating what was going on in my little domain in southwest Florida. Our property is just over a half acre in size, so this is a kind of literal tagging. I know there was a book and movie of that name which was much darker in tone than what I am writing about, but the headline sticks and overrides that.  And this is not anything special, since I realize of course that every half acre is God’s, since God as I know it is embodied and manifest in every single bit of creation. But this is the one I am currently experiencing, so here it is.   A short morning walk around the land today brought many things to observe, including:
 
**The (Great Blue) heron that caught a huge dark fish in the next-door pond—a fish seemingly far too large to get down its throat (herons swallow their food whole).  The bird kept worrying the fish, bringing it to the bank and spearing it repeatedly with its sharp beak (it flipped around for some time before it died), then repeatedly re-catching it in its beak, approximating how to position it. In the process the fish was perpendicular to the beak, hanging out the sides rather than aligned with it. The heron kept dipping the fish in the water, probably to help lubricate it, and after many, many minutes of effort, the fish did actually get aligned perfectly and swallowed, somehow making it down that long thin neck. It seemed to defy the laws of physics, and even I felt exhausted after watching the process.
 
**While this drama was going on, I looked up the drainage canal and saw four other birds getting their morning meals too—a smaller heron, an egret, a woodstork, and an ibis! The weather has been dry and the water level is low, which must make for easier hunting for these birds. I often see them, but not so many different species at once in such a small area.

**And I looked up from the water’s edge to catch a ruckus above—a small bird (probably a mockingbird? I couldn’t see clearly) dive bombing a much bigger crow, over and over. It was likely defending a nest, which seemed very brave, especially as there were other crows screaming and flying about and only one small attacker.
 
**There was a wealth of other activity nearby, from animals unperturbed by all this drama. I  became aware of the staccato tapping of a woodpecker; a pair of bunnies brazenly and calmly chewing their way through the grass; the black rat snake slithering under the bushes (I hadn’t seen it in months, and was happy to know it’s still here, as it’s harmless and its movement is truly beautiful to watch); the countless little anole lizards that dart around and posture for mating—one is always catching their motion out of the corner of the eye; legions of spiders tending their webs and obviously helping to control what must be a legion of even smaller insect life. How much more goes unnoticed?

**And none of this is to mention the flora, which was deeply in my awareness too—the slowing growing pineapple, the stunning bromeliad flowers, the grace of the palm fronds and swaying Spanish moss, the unbelievably quick growth of the vines of the purple yams (ube) that overnight wrapped themselves around my hammock, calling to mind the speed and magic of Jack’s beanstalk. And so much more, always the background of green.
 
That was just this morning’s greeting the day. I am aware of so many other little miraculous, wondrous things—my decanter of kombucha, something else alive, with its healthy scoby getting noticeably larger by the day; a vase of tulips that a kind friend brought which had sat outside in the sun and got very droopy, but revived joyfully when fed more water and an asprin (!); the banana fiber (abaca) soaking in a green translucent bowl on the table. There’s a long story around that and I will likely share it in depth when it has reached more of a conclusion, but the short version is that after a banana tree fruits, it dies. It seems wasteful, and since I knew that abaca is a prized fiber in Asia, I kept thinking I had to be able to do something with all the fiber in the about-to-die central stalk. I’ve been playing with processing it, though I have none of the right tools, and I do have a small amount of smooth flax-like fiber now.  

I am not a Pollyanna who only sees the wonder—though I would like to be!—but my inspiration to share on this site comes in those times when I do. If any of this touches you, and if I can help anyone cultivate that state, then hallelujah.
 
I have been writing a great deal and may share more of that output another day. My visual art practice has been slower, but I am posting a few images here of some of that more recent work. Now that we are coming out of covid isolation, I am envisioning exhibits of my work manifesting easily. If you can help broker that, please let me know.
 
Thank you so much for your presence.

There’s been a long hiatus since I have shared here. Lots of events in the outer and inner worlds, and a time of gestating, growing new creative bones and fingers. So today I offer some of what has fed me in the last few months—i.e, I offer some images from my environment, and some writing gems, little pieces that have come through me in my “Writing From the Inside” sessions. (The images are just some that want to be shared; they are not directly related to the writings, but I am always wanting to include photographs that capture what I see and experience.)

IMAGES TO SINK INTO:

WRITING GEMS

For several years now, I have been facilitating writing groups where participants free-write from prompts of various kinds—word phrases, images, objects, music.  My initial publicity for the “Writing From the Inside” workshops included this description: “We use the process of writing…to deepen our awareness and appreciation for all that is…. We create a safe, playful and sensually engaged space where the words and images can come out. The intention is to use writing as an act of discovery, a spiritual practice that takes us beyond journaling to open the channel to the wisdom that comes through.”  At any given session we typically work with two or three prompts, writing for 15-20 minutes on each one, and sharing our words with one another. I try to provide prompts that can take us in diverse, unpredictable directions, and it is amazing to see how many interpretations emerge in a given group. The individual writer’s voice clearly comes through, and we can honor both our own and that of our fellow writers.  
 
During the pandemic, the groups have been virtual, but the magic of the process is in no way diminished; the Zoom platform, which can be quite intimate, is actually perfect for this kind of writing. One of my groups, which started online in March, is still meeting weekly—a clear testimonial to the fact that the experience continues to deepen.  I am a full participant in these groups, and thus have regular opportunities to open my own creative channel. Over time, I have learned to really let go with my words. The experience is always interesting, but sometimes I am astonished at what comes through. Below, I share a few writings that came from word prompts in the last six months or so (the italicized titles were the actual word prompts). These are not edited in any way (take them as spontaneous outpourings, not polished pieces), and they are in no special order. I believe they hold the energy of my deepest vision. If you take the time to read them, may they also fill you with that energy and vision, and with the brightest light.
 
 (If anyone is interested in joining a writing group of this sort, do contact me.)


The Painter of Dreams
Awash in color—the green robes, the crazy sparkling diamonds that flash glints of yellow and pink and blue. Ice blue: that color of ice floes, icebergs, the unimaginable depth of sea ice. Oh, the fullness of the color, the painful beauty of red leaves fallen upon deep green moss. Color over all. I live in color, in the intense vibration of hue. Not shaded, not tinted, not tonal: pure hue, uninterrupted wavelength. Sunflowers screaming out yellow across the field, all the heads with their brown centers following the sun. Black silhouettes of children playing by the grey rock wall, saturated cerulean sky, and the clouds pillowing white. Red wing blackbird in the adjacent meadow, glossy black with that shock of orange-red, the punctuation, the staccato emphasis or heartbeat. Or the colors of the mandrill—red and blue—oh my! The intensity of parrots, coded as if they and not the flowers were attracting the bees. Oriole orange, peacock green shimmer. And yet none of it is really there on a feather—only refracted light!  Here, before me, clear red hibiscus, with blue tones. Who painted this saturated scene, this screenplay? Who coded us to see it? Could we stand on a pastel runway, bubblegum pink and grass green, Easter basket colors, with the volume dialed high to maximum? Could we wash in the symphony of color, the depth of lapis lazuli, could we rub up against the smoothness of the deepest jade? Awash, wash me in colors, paint this dream into being, and oh we cannot sleep; we can’t go back to sleep.
 


A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide—hide, even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here, there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling, to you, to us, to all,
resonant, resounding, abounding.
 
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink ‘til there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core.
Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding/hosting lifein its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people, to all life forms.
It shines opalescent, glinting, glimmering, shimmering, sliding, surrounding, sounding, to be known, to be, to be lived and entered.
The sweetest poem, most haunting, most fundamental,
of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to enfold, to be touched, and known
as home.
 
 

The Magical Broom
It swept away, on its own, like the [broom in] the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, but it was never mindless or on automatic. It targeted the little dust motes, even minute ones, and took them to the dust bin.  It swept away tears, which instantly became small and silky soft fibers, adding comfort in the sweeping. It swept away shards of broken dreams and shattered lives. It swept rhythmically, its movements creating a kind of sine wave, mapping out a gentle heartbeat in its arcs, the embracing enfolding of a restfully swaying hammock.  It swept, swept, carrying away the tedium of women sweeping the hearth, like Cinderella, those who had to take care of others and were imprisoned in their roles, unable to determine their own direction. It swept clean the stoops, white steps on old houses, signaling the goodness of those within, and it swept away cobwebs, scattering spiders and clearing a way through. It swept away sand, like the woman in the dunes and the existential dilemma, but it was loving and revealing, not Sisyphusian. It swept in, also, swept in freshness, a clear breeze of promise, and blessings, riding that breeze. It swept the chambers of the heart, yes, making it ready, and then turned around and swept in the light. Light sweeper, this magic broom, light sweeper.
 
 

The Poet’s Promise
As the poet promised, there would be a reckoning.
As the poet promised, we would rise up on our haunches, and bray at the moon.
As the poet promised, the winds would blow hard, scattering the papers to the wind.
As the poet promised, we would drink from the river, tasting of melted snow and faraway mountains.
As the poet promised, we would join hands and circle around, steps entrained.
As the poet promised, the sun would set bright red, and the birds would fly back to their roosts to rest.
As the poet promised, we would weep where the trees fell, and then sit with   them as they returned to soil.
As the poet promised, we would climb to the crow’s nest to look out over the vastness of the sea, watching jumping fish and manta rays, jumping for joy.
As the poet promised, we would smile and reach out our loving fingers, feeling the velvety skin.
As the poet promised, we would breathe slowly, coming to rest, letting it go, and going on.
 
 

A Dowry Box for a New Kind of Marriage
Cross over that threshold, open the door, after all the ceremonies and hoopla have ended. The threshold, the doorway, liminal moment. What’s that in your arms? That large, lovingly fashioned basket, made of gleaming fibers, some that still smell fresh, like sweetgrass. Some bits of ribbon caught in, lending shots of color and joy.
 
What does it hold? What have you brought with you? A small bottle with your baby’s breath, exhaled in and caught with a stopper. Somehow, it smells like baby’s head, and the outside, though glass-like, feels like a plush blanket. A piece of velvet, made from the velvet of reindeer antlers, transmuted into silky green cloth. Your fingers feel the nap. A small compact, which when opened makes the sound of wind through the pines. An Egyptian paste bead, that penetrating turquoise, that when held takes you to the energy of the mystery school, deep in the pyramids, and brings you to the sense of your initiation and presence. You are always adorned with that color, that knowing. Some nature materials: dyed porcupine quills, the perfect geometries of cowfish scales, a tiny turtle shell. All friends, bits and pieces of magnificent design that bring reverence and gratitude and delight.  And more: soft socks to keep your feet warm, and a hat that matches, so you feel cozy and complete. Lovely handmade paper and flowing pens, art brushes and endless colors. The perfect fruit, which is ever-replenishing and just-right ripe, but morphs regularly from peach to fig to sapodilla.  It tastes of the real garden of Eden, where nothing is forbidden, and all is freely given, where the trees smile with their bounty and say yes, eat this, it’s our endless gift to you.
 
 

Carrying the Fruit
We marched down the tree-lined, dusty road, weighted with baskets of fruit: peaches, warm from the sun, giving off their scent-call, and plums...beaming their glossy purple with that hazy covering. There were baskets with pecans and brazil nuts, and others with bursting tomatoes and peanuts, ready to boil.
 
This was a parade, a harvest ceremony, among the tall magnolias. There was a grace in this landscape, large luxurious trees in no hurry to grow quickly or to develop defenses against the cold. Like the live oaks, they felt free to spread out and settle in, bend down and touch the ground. Ceremony, yes, and some of the women in vaguely Greek attire, evoking clingy, graceful garments, even though without the fine old wool they didn’t quite capture its hand.  It was a play, an enactment of something that had never been: not here, with these fruits, not like this on this soil. Once there had been harvest feasts, rife with fish and fruit and game, but never a procession like this, with studied solemnity. We who carried the fruit were focused on the isness and literal poundage of the bounty, the peach smell coating all and singing of fecundity and sweet. It took effort to hold these baskets, up before our chests and bellies, and yet we brought something necessary to the land, some kind of re-inscribing of original grace, unscarred by what had happened there before.  
 

 
A Poem Yet Unknown
There’s a poem for you, my friends, yet unknown but full blown, full grown,
fully formed.
It’s stunning in its imagery, and yet the words elide, slide, hide even,
for it can’t be held down, or captured; it’s a living presence
here there and everywhere, every moment.
You can breathe it in. You can catch it on your outstretched tongue,
for just a moment, just long enough to know
it’s there.
The light shimmer, the glimmer of emotion, commotion, the excitement and
calm, absolute peace, rest, release.
It’s all and all and all, calling,
to you, to us, to all, resonant, resounding, abounding.
Drink it through your pores, drink the notion, the potion, the motion onward.
Drink till there’s no more thirst, no hunger, no fear.
Drink the sweetness and its lingering notes, moved around the mouth and
swallowed, deep to the belly and the core. Always more.
An expanding poem, spreading like the limbs of a live oak, touching the ground,
claiming space, holding life, hosting in its branches, one with the sky.
It’s an ode, an elegy, a praise song, all things to all people,
to all life forms that fill its lines, opalescent nacre, glinting, glimmering, shimmering,
sliding, surrounding the poem
to be known, to be, to be lived and entered. The sweetest poem, most haunting,
most fundamental, of the earth and sky and moon and birdsong and wonder.
To be known, to unfold into knowingness, to be touched, to enfold us
and known as home.
 
 

In the Grove
A straightforward scene, tessellated into mosaic form, going in an unexpected direction. The tree leans into me as I lean into her, vibrant, my energy following her limbs and climbing up and up.  The tree speaks: sit here in the crotches of my limbs, riding me like the finest steed. We will take off into the beyond. Steer me with the branches, feel me coursing through you and carrying you. There, beyond, beyond, beyond. Para gate, para sam gate.
 
It’s alive, this journey, every molecule alive in its beingness, an invitation. Aliveness in the grove, in the garden, in the meadow. Aliveness in the leaf, in the bark, in the molecules, in the sky. Every line an energy mark, punctuating space and time. We are mark makers, marking places, imprinting them with the impression of aliveness. We are aliveness marking, energizing, jump-starting–we are the imprints, the light language, the quickness, the quickening. Set yourself down in this grove, out of the sunlight, and take it in your pores. Be fed with this sense of excitement, knowing, take it in as the fuel for creative fire. And in turn, thank us; through this moment of fully tasting the aliveness, imprint it in your memory and be awake! Be aware, remember aliveness, life force, beyond the beyond and within the within.
 
 

Clarion Call
Clarion call: sharp and piercing
calling all:
wake up now.
Hear, here, right now.
Calling you, calling you, come.
You can’t ignore this sound
sounding in your bones, alerting cells
hear, here, now.
Impelling forward, pulling,
not to battle, but to awaken out
of the trance, to awaken
calling to being
calling clear
wake up to all we
really are.
 
 

The election madness is roiling around us and we are still dealing with the disappointments and "can't do that now" realities of covid. I've been spending a great deal of time thinking about and dreaming into the new futures that might arise from the collapse of the old period that we are in, trying to find a way to hold light and joy in this time of confusion, anxiety and animosity. In some ways I think I should address that here, but it's not what wants to come forward.  Rather, I am led to share a recent outdoor experience, where I was taking in and being fed by nature, and of course by color and form and texture and the overwhelming artistry of creation.  So here's a tale of a day in the life, and the details that are out there whenever we really look. Take the trail with me and may it lead you to your own creative expression and inspiration (seeing the images in full view is the most effective way to get the feeling--click on them to go through the slideshow).

It was chilly, but the rain had stopped and we wanted to get out to explore. We decided to try a place we had never been, a relatively new section of the Ice Age trail about 25 minutes of out town. (The trail is envisioned as a "thousand mile footpath tracing ice age formations on the landscape." It is far from complete at this time, but grows incrementally as portions of land are ceded or owners grant right-of-way access.) It turned out to be a lovely outing. The terrain kept changing, offering unexpected new experiences in just a few miles, and the sun came out and cast its glow over everything. The variety and sense of bounty the trail offered was especially welcome because the very strong winds we had had for a few days seemed to have blown off the most brilliantly colored leaves, and I was already feeling the desolation of late fall. The brightest red maple leaves had passed, and the purple ash leaves had no intensity. The tree in front of my house (inoculated and safe so far from the emerald ash borer) had turned bright yellow almost overnight, but with the fierce swaying of the branches in the high winds, the colored leaves came furiously swirling to the ground within two days.

But back to the trail. As expected, the path skirted fields and led through forested areas, sometimes following rock formations. The woods were relatively young-- the area had either been lumbered or more intensively farmed at some time in not-too-distant the past--and was dominated by oak and hickory trees. The hills were gentle, as was the dominant color palette: varieties of muted greens, golds and browns, with occasional accents of black, red, orange and purple (swollen pokeberry stems particularly stood out with their bright magentas). When one stood back from the woods, in particular, it presented a soothing autumnal tableau; restful and gentle, it reminded me of a hand-colored sepia photograph.

I loved the sensual layers of worn-down sandstone, kissed by pastel lichens, and the little micro-environments for ferns, mosses, and spiders. And I loved experiencing the varieties of fungi that are so vital to the forest, and so magical. To fully appreciate them we usually need to change our sense of scale--to enter into their world means getting very close and seemingly small enough to take them in.

The real surprise of this walk was that the trail led from the woods into a cornfield; the path was a wide passage between the rows. Clearly, this was a right-of-way, and totally unexpected.  I had many feelings stepping into this new environment. This was acreage planted in field corn, with soil that had been heavily tilled and probably treated with fertilizer and pesticides. The corn was the type grown to feed the livestock kept in feed lots, or to process into the fructose corn syrup additives found in so many processed foods. It represented everything wrong with our agricultural system--the opposite of the regenerative agriculture that would build strong soil and help sequester carbon and clean our planet. I am learning more about that, and understanding how commitment to that kind of relationship with the land (our mother) is absolutely at the heart of the oneness and unity we must grow into.

Despite the sadness of standing in this manifestation of such short-sighted monoculture and all the implications of not living in a cooperative ecosystem, this part of the trail still brought a gift: a chance to experience this plant with full attention and appreciation. I don't think I had ever lingered in a cornfield at just this time of the growing cycle, when the crop was dried out but not yet harvested (if it had been sweet corn, it would have been cut down long before). There was an accompanying sound---a distinctive whispery crackle that would rise and fall with the intensity of the wind in the dried stalks. There was aesthetic delight in the many shapes and textures, and in the plays of color--subtle variations on the stalks (a deep red at the joints, eggplant hues on the roots) and husks (from a creamy off-white to shades of purple); the sharp contrast between the dark dried-out corn silk and the pale husks; and the bright bright yellow of the crop itself. There was the warmth of the sun shining through the few still-green leaves, and the discovery of the tiny hairs that grew up the stalks, perhaps to protect them, or let in moisture. There was the pleasure in seeing the patterns of the ripe ears, which at this point in the season were in different positions, some playfully pointing toward--or away--from each other, some seemingly following the push of the wind. And the amazing roots, those sturdy mandalas that gripped the ground in no uncertain terms. This is a really strong plant, growing so high and solid in a single season, and, especially because I was there with the observant camera's eye, I was given the chance to fully take it in.

With this new awareness of corn and sense of her majesty, I had the urge to go out and plant an edible variety, complete with her sisters--beans and squash--like the native people did, and like them to bury a fish in the center of the grouping to add nutrients to the soil. I wanted to treat this plant as she should be, embraced, honored and nurtured, so I could be nurtured too. I also yearned to collect corn silk and husks, and felt some regret that in all the years of proximity to cornfields, I had not gathered this material or used it in my art.

Perhaps I'll still have that opportunity in the future, but in any case it was a visceral reminder of how I relate to these natural environments and materials, wanting to know them as an artist, to show off their essences and help other people see them anew, with eyes of awe.

The final impression from the walk that I want to share today is the patterns and the greens from the just-cut grasses in a field beside another section of the trail, the sweet contours of the land, and (if you can imagine) the fresh scent as those plant essences rose into the air. Every one of these little environments offers gifts; every one has stories to tell, associations to evoke, appreciation to be felt. And they want to be appreciated. I am grateful that I was able to take that in, even in the places where I felt some sadness or sense of disapproval.

I had expected to be including more about some of my art this month, but this is what came forward. There's always more, but I will stop here. It seems appropriate to quote Janet Conner, who recently wrote  these words in her weekly newsletter (see janetconner.com/):
"If it's meant to be sung, sing it. If it's meant to be lived, live it. You have no option but to live the art that wants to be lived." 

That's it: this, today, is the art that is meant to be lived by me.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 2020, LATE  MORNING
Today is a hard day. It's bright, stunning autumn, almost equinox, and it's Rosh Hashonah, the Jewish New Year, which is always about new beginnings, starting again. The tradition is to eat sweet, round foods--apples and honey, pull-apart challah--to evoke a sweet year to come. The sweetness also ushers in the Days of Awe, the period of reckoning and making amends for wrongdoing, leading to Yom Kippur, when the gates of heaven are fully opened for 24 hours. 

And this is the day when Ruth Bader Ginsburg died, and there is so much grief and fear and panic arising in the collective. I have also just finished watching a moving, heartbreaking film, "My Love Awaits Me By the Sea," made by Mais Darwazah, a second-generation Palestinian documenting her first trip to the homeland. It's heartbreaking, for oh so many reasons, including my helplessness at watching the people I "belong" to--the Jews--continuing to oppress another people ever-more deeply.  This ability to keep building walls and seeing "others," rather than seeing our essential unity and oneness, is running through the whole world, and is shown in shockingly stark contrast these days. It is truly overwhelming.  Whatever we believe, whatever "side" we are on, we are all tasting the poison and suffocating.  One of the Palestinians in the film who is living in the West Bank said that whatever happens, it will take many many years for his people to undo the walls that have been built inside them. Yes, there's the truth. We have to keep dreaming the new world we want to see, to transcend the limited story we are all caught in, and to really make amends. Build--create--something really new, stripped of old assumptions.

So it's a day of the sad and bitter, although there's also some sweetness. I must  go out to a beautiful place to help soothe my heart and give me comfort and hopefully strength. I do still believe what I wrote early on in the pandemic experience, about holding on to and remembering the joy (see April 2020 blog post), and I do, although the sadness has to be allowed in beside it.  

EARLY EVENING
It's true: after several hours outdoors with the land, I feel refreshed and lighter. More sweetness, and much more space to hold the sadness. I want to share some of that here, and since much of the feedback I've received about this (he)artspace blog comes in response to my descriptions of the natural world, I know that instinct is a good one.  Here are some impressions from this afternoon and other recent autumn explorations. (Remember: click on the images to see the whole view, and you can easily scroll through with the arrows from there.)

The place I walked this afternoon was on the expansive grounds of Holy Wisdom monastery, a lovingly-tended mix of woods, prairie and meadow. The land is stewarded by a group of ex-nuns who wouldn't submit to the Pope, and left the church to find their own ecumenical community. It is a deeply resonant conservation space and retreat center. One of my fondest memories of this place is the time I spent collecting cup plant stems in the fall, and since I literally found myself in a shutting-down-for-the-season cup plant forest today, I wish to share more about that.

Cup plants (silphium perfoliatum) are amazing. They are one of the tallest plants of the prairie, frequently 8 and sometimes 10 feet tall, standing up against the sky. (And for those unfamiliar with prairie plants, the roots may go down equally far under the ground.) The plant is perennial and long-lived. Its stem is square (yes!) and pairs of leaves emerge from it, across from one another, forming a kind of cup that insects and birds happily drink from. The yellow flowers that appear at the top of the stems are daisy or sunflower-like and cheery, and their seed heads are exquisite little mandalas. The plant has many medicinal properties as well.

I have long been intrigued by the square stems of these plants and have used them in a number of pieces, especially in large outdoor installations. The first of these, "Holding Space," featured the dried stems as unadorned linear elements. I liked the Baraboo quartzite rock that I positioned at the base of the stems so much that it also found its way into "Praise Song," which I shared in an earlier blog (August, 2019). There, I wrapped the stems in handspun and vegetable dyed yarns.

It seemed fitting to bring these installation shots to today's posting, for they may help indicate how integral my nature adventures are to my art (and vice versa). The "Praise Song" title of the last piece seems a fitting place to stop today, bringing my musings around to where I began- to the idea that we can always remember and cultivate the joy and wonder, for it helps us open to what it really means to be alive and embodied.

Madison, Wisconsin, where I have lived (at least seasonally) for more than 40 years, is built on a series of lakes. The one closest to my house is the smallest of the lot. It's name, "Wingra," comes from the Ho-Chunk word for "duck." The lake is spring-fed and surrounded by a natural preserve (the Arboretum, owned and operated by the university); there are only 3 houses anywhere on the shore. Only minimal motors are allowed.  I have spent a great many hours with this place, both around the perimeter (walking, biking, taking generations of children to the zoo or playground, collecting watercress at the spring, watching muskies [muskellunge] jump over the fish ladder in the spring, etc.), and traversing the water in a kayak. I walked down to the lake today and realized it would be a wonderful to bring some of the Wingra reveries to this audience --to select scenes, stories, and some of the words generated over the years and to share them here.

Part of what stimulated me to think about sharing about Lake Wingra today was the fact that I gifted a friend with one of my older art pieces that incorporated literal lake detritus, and as part of the gift, I pulled up this narrative that I had written in 2012.

Layers and layers of discovery, deeper communion with the lake.

A similar kind of discovery came about in approximately 2011. That August, I came upon a patch of lotuses in a particularly shallow end of the lake--an area where upright flowers were pushing up among distinctly round, non-waxy looking leaves that typically held themselves above the water surface. These were definitely not water lilies. I had thoroughly explored every area of this lake, and lotus plants had never been there before. How did they get there? I was excited, for I knew about lotuses, both from their symbology in Buddhism and from their role in biomimicry as a design inspiration. By observing the way water sheets off the lotus leaf--the leaves are said to be self-cleaning because the water and dirt never sticks to the surface--people discovered ways to mimic the physical structure of the plant and devise other self-cleaning substances, such as paint, glass, and fabrics.

This form of lotus is an Asian variety that is considered invasive, and the lotus patch grew exponentially year by year (one lily pod produces a great many seeds), leading me to worry it would take over the entire lake. But after a few prolific seasons, the number of flowers diminished significantly, so that may be keeping it in check.  When they were abundant, I would note where the flowers were and return a few days later, happy to push through the patch--thick and not easy going--to collect pods. When fresh, they are a lovely green, but they turn deep brown when dry. They are lightweight--quite spongy inside--and they shrink as the moisture evaporates, allowing the  seeds to fall out. 

I've enjoyed just looking at lotus pods lined up (upside down, like little caps) on a windowsill, and I've used them in both two and three dimensional constructions.
They always bring me back to the lake, and they always make me smile.

I've written many poems while floating on Wingra, jotting them down on damp paper, dictating them into my phone.... always seeming to catalog the ever-changing awareness of shared life. Here are a few snippets:


Heron tracks in the beige sand,
ducks on a log, quietly preening,
brown on brown
with orange feet, lined up
gull flies in, stark white
with yellow feet and beak
blue sky in the water, rippling
sun gleaming, then covered by cloud
A large clam shell, unbroken,
waiting near the shore
Tiny silver fish jumping, for reasons unknown,
arcing above the water, glimpsed in a flash.
Strong paddling homeward
as evening comes on.


Heron standing guard
as ducks preen
Blackbirds cry at cranes.
Muskrats draw lines with their bodies,
swimming straight.


Abounding green: duckweed, cattails, lily pads.
Swallows and damsel flies
add flashes of blue.

Today, I reveled by the shore, muddy sand squishing in my toes, fully feeling the summer. I do know this place in other seasons, though, and offer a few parting images as a reminder of its other moods.

In my early April post ("Remembering and Proclaiming Joy"), I spoke of the "Crossing Over" series in my artwork. As I explained, the image of boats carrying people (or more accurately, some kind of beings) who are in transition, crossing from one place to another, has been with me for quite a while. It seems to be both a literal place in time and space, and a metaphor.  I've previously posted images of some of the boats that have come into being (see May and April 2020).

Today I really started thinking about "crossing over" more generally and realized this is the very phrase used to talk about what happens when someone dies--to move from the density of the body into the spirit world. Crossing Over was the name of medium John Edwards' TV show, where he provided audience members a chance to connect with their dead loved ones (episodes of that show are still streaming). That concept of crossing over is definitely about making it to a more multidimensional space.  There are many mythic references to this idea too, some of which include boats, like the Greek crossing to the land of the dead (Hades) over the River Styx. There is in our American immigrant mythos (and my own family history) the image of crossing the ocean to a land of opportunity --a long, difficult journey with only a promise at the other end (alas, so different from crossing in a slave ship, another part of the American psyche--the shadow side of the same image; being taken to something dark and being deprived of possibility). There are also images of "boat people"--the Hmong people trying to flee across the Mekong River, the Cubans trying to get to Florida, or so many instances of refugees squeezing together, fleeing from one site of oppression or another, risking the journey to find somewhere better. Somewhere in my mind, too, is the image of the courageous people of the Pacific crossing vast spaces in long canoes, migrating to the Hawaiian islands (or, in the story of Lemuria, migrating from a much earlier manifestation of those islands to other parts of the world). The boats I have been making are generally long and thin, and must be most closely alluding to those paddling journeys.

I looked up "crossing over" this morning and was surprised and deeply moved by the fact that the first definition refers to a fundamental biological process: the swapping of genetic material when chromosome segments are exchanged or recombined at fertilization. The mother's and father's genes mix or exchange, leading to an individual offspring that carries traits of both, but in a unique combination. That's one of the ways a species not only carries on, but becomes stronger.

I'm writing on the cusp of the summer solstice, which this year coincides with what is being called the "eclipse season" when many powerful energies are pouring into the planet. This is a loud percussive force in this time of the energetic shift. So much is swirling around us: the covid virus, the racial protests and upswelling of saying "NO MORE" or "NOW" on so many levels. I see the signs of shifting everywhere, so yes, we are definitely in the passage, on the way, on the journey, moving across some large stretch of something. As I wrote before, we are in the collapse stage, when the caterpillar has to essentially melt and re-emerge in its new form. I think my boats must be symbolic lifeboats--something to help us steer through the vastness of the unknown waters.  May our new recombinations come to fruition SOON and produce something so much stronger and better and harmonious!

  I always like to include visuals with my posts, so I'm adding a few more images of boat pieces (remember to scroll down and look for the earlier ones). 

I'm also led to gift you with a group of different images today. I've been putting together three chapbook size collections of my poetry. Every poem is accompanied by an image--not an illustration of the content, per se, but something that seems to capture the energy or spirit of the poem. I'm previewing  a few of these here. Each of these images started with a photo I have taken, which I altered to bring in what I think of as additional light. I hope you enjoy them--maybe, like me, you will get lost in their color, mood and texture.

      A very long walk on the beach this morning brought the feeling of stepping into poem-space -- where everything is in sharp focus and poignant, where all the senses are alive. Hard to quite capture in poem language, though, for there's a kind of lulling that comes with the sound of the surf, the entrainment to it, and the always shifting sensations.  Something particular happens with the alternation of the closely-focused looking down (as the inveterate beachcomber, I am always scanning the detritus on the sand) and then looking out to the vastness of the sea, the endless turquoise meeting the sky, where it's not possible to hone in on one detail at all. And the constantly changing feelings under the feet: walking over tiny shell mounds, or sinking down sometimes as the sand gives way, and the pushing off for the next step -- the hard packed surface changing into mushiness. The coolness and liquidity of the water pouring over the toes. Sometimes the surprise of a more powerful wave, splashing up over the legs.  All this, and seabirds.  And then, after a few miles, hot, and jumping in, (at this time of the year the water temperature is perfect) and the ever-amazing experience of the deep salinity and the waves that lift you up, and the feeling of the ridges of sand on the sea floor. Sticky salt skin. Something almost soporific in the journey, even wile the senses are so awake.

     Vastness may indeed provide a kind of quieting, a rocking motion. Not just the vastness of the sea (and this Gulf of mine is, in the scale of things, just a small ocean), but the vastness of the beach itself. Unfathomable numbers: the millions of creatures that inhabited the myriad scallop, clam or jingle shells that are still recognizable here, just on my few miles of sand, and the many, many more that once lived in the shells that are, after hundreds or even thousands of years of tossing in the surf, just tiny fragments now. And even further back, the creatures that lived millions of years ago--the ones that left their teeth and bones that have hardened into the fossils we are walking on. (The beach here has a greyish cast because so much of the sand is made of fossil bits). Unfathomable numbers, just of one type: the fossilized shark's teeth, 25 million years old. How many, many, many sharks; how many, many many teeth. And the even more unfathomable numbers of creatures that live between the sand grains (meiofauna--I've written about this before  [Feb. 25, 2019], but it is still so awesome, and  just because I know about it, it's more less possible to comprehend the numbers beneath my feet, even just this morning). The sand itself, made up of particles of abraded mountains, crystals, and these shells and fossils. Numbers that could only be written as a superscript power which lies far beyond my understanding.



      Vastness too in the immediate dramas: the number of sea turtles that have found their way up the beach in the last few weeks to lay and bury their eggs--a most laborious process of lumbering out of the water and digging a seemingly safe hole. (Some females even drop two loads in the nesting season). Very few of the little ones make it, but there is so much effort for those that do. There are thousands of buried turtle eggs on my walk. Thousands just in this stretch of sand, and that's even when the sea turtle population is struggling. Abundance and vastness in so much else around me: the number of leaves in a single live oak, for example, or the way the chaya plant puts out a rash of new leaves in every place it  has been cut.

    


      But I digress. This post is focusing on the beach and the morning's walk. The word beatitude came to me, even though I only had a vague sense of what it means. I knew Jesus gave blessings called beatitudes, but I was feeling the energy of the word without any particular association, and it wouldn't let go. The definition, it turns out, is "a state of great joy" --being happy and blessed. Yes, that's it: blessed with a sense of vastness, abundance, the unending quality of the natural world, the whole astonishment of it. Blessed are we all, living here, witnessing, tasting the salt, feeling the sand grains, holding the remains of beings from so long ago and glimpsing the depth of time.  Blessed are we all, for we are parts of God and the whole is always  in the parts.

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   Another part of my ongoing blessing is the creative energy that comes through me, that plays with materials and forms and makes new forms which may be played with further. I'm posting a few images of pieces I've made lately--not consciously related to the beach, but because so many of the materials come from the beach, they are in fact part of that vastness too. There are stories about these as well, but those may be told another day.  Meanwhile, enjoy these. Click on the individual images for captions and information of materials and messages.   Do tell me how they affect you.

I am writing this sitting in my hammock "office," under the papaya, oak and palm. (The photo shows the view I see when looking up). I am also in reaching distance  of the pigeon pea tree, its nearest branch with one pod ready to pick and others still ripening. Here I am, in deep bounty and grace.

This is such an intense time where we are stopped short, having left (the illusion of) normal, having gone through all the energetic portals to this other world, the one not yet formed or clarified. So many in fear, discomfort, untethered. Heart open to the seismic changes, the earth seemingly breaking apart at people’s feet.  Without a long treatise about any of it, and with the caveat that I am hardly Pollyanna—I know just how much disruption lies ahead, how huge this shift really is—I remind us to never lose sight of joy. In the midst of it all, remember it. Help others remember it. Proclaim it. 

“Stay joyous”  is what I plan to use as my new signature (a stronger phrase than “stay well.”) Turn your attention to the energies of connection; firmly put your energy in dreaming and embodying the reality you want to live in. Be firm about it. Acknowledge the fear, but don’t stay there; turn to the trees or the breeze or flowing water, even in the kitchen sink (and right there is a miracle: clean water coming out of a pipe at the turn of a wrist!). Am I preaching? It must seem so. There are people dying (as there always are) and there are so many now out of work and so forth. Yes. And. There are also countless people living, in their hearts, helping one another. There are new ways of connecting. And there is all the powerful energy of the earth, and there are the spring flowers and the taste of raspberries and so much more. Yes. And.

My own inner guidance is unequivocally clear right now: turn to joy. Put your focus there, even if you are making or sanitizing masks or feeling the collective fear at the grocery store, even if you’re seeing the literal barriers that keep people apart. Help others remember joy, brightness, not-suffering. There's always a spark of that, and we can fan its flames. That’s where I stand; that's my post. Lift the spirits, keep lifting, and then lift again.  I know some will turn away from this message, dismiss it, looking back to their worries, their pain. I know some will think I’m cold-hearted or foolish or even sadly duped. But that’s my post. The herald, the town crier, who says it:  Remember joy. Choose joy. Be joy. Be joyous, inside it all. I invite you to drink a cup of joy with me (as Allaudin’s Sufi song says, “fill your cup, drink it up…”). If you can’t handle the whole cup, take a taste, a drop on the tongue—like a homeopathic flower essence, it will affect you.

I offer joyous things today--things that I am blessedly able to fill my cup with. May you catch the wave!

First some images of scenes on my land--my sequester delights.

Look what's growing here! I planted the cut-off top of a pineapple in the ground, and here it is! This is fairly sandy soil and far from the garden hoses; even though I try to build the soil up, most things I've planted in this area don't get watered often enough and don't thrive. I know that pineapple plantations are everyday ho-hum in some parts of the world, but this is a magical part of reconfiguring my kitchen waste and my discovering this semi-tropical environment.

And here below, the pigs are flying!  (we never thought pigs would fly, but the impossible becomes possible...)  This is a detail of a giant purple flying pig that is a sculpture in my front yard. It was part of the property when we bought it.

     (Remember you can click on the small images for the full view).

 
And next, some images that come from my recent art play (it isn't really art work..) The first two capture something of the feel of this odd corona virus time we are living through. To the right here is an altered or enhanced view of something very ordinary--can you guess?  (It's actually a view of looking down at my pants legs) I like the image for its colors and textures, but also because it holds the feeling of rupture, of the kind of seismic parting I alluded to above. Our societies and realities have been so bifurcated, so two-camped. We may hope  that will change now, but the bifurcation and pulling apart of the earth feels very real.

The second captures the jaggedness and burning quality many are feeling now--the on-edge terror that underlies the experience of fear. At the same time, it seems to hold the enormous sense of aliveness that is in the energy around us, the great sense of waking up or awake-ness. The image is taken from a photograph of tufts of a low-growing grass, taken on a walk in a nearby preserve.





And finally, a few images from what I think of as my "Crossing Over" series. I had this theme in my mind for quite some time now--people on boats, in transition, crossing from one place to another. In the passage, on the way, moving across. It makes even more sense with the energetic shift I and so many others are attuning to now; we are in the collapse stage, when the caterpillar has to essentially melt and re-emerge in its new form. We're on the journey.

..At 2:00 this afternoon (EDT) we felt the peak of the super "full worm moon"-- an extra bright March moon named for the worms that are beginning to stir under the soil with the coming of spring (although what this really means is that they're beginning to stir upwards, since they dig down deep enough to where the earth has a constant temperature and they never actually stop moving. In any case that characteristic is certainly not true everywhere--there are many places, including the one where I am, where the ground has never frozen).  But the worm moon is a fun mental image, and I found an illustration from the Farmer's Almanac that illustrates it delightfully. I'm including it here.  

This image feels inviting to me: I want to follow that worm wherever it's going, since it seems so strong and determined and forward-looking.  And the look of the moon (is it yellow cheese?) is quite jaunty too.

I used associations and energies around the moon as prompts in my "Writing From the Inside" workshop today, and the group went in a very different direction; our writing led us to a peaceful place of bathing in mystery and magical moonlight. There were wonderful phrases/word pictures like "Yes, says the moon;" "the facets of your face;" and "I ate the moon" (which led me to a discovery of Aousha, the beloved "Arab girl" from the UAR who was known as "the poet who ate the moon"--she dreamed in her youth that the moon came down from the sky and she swallowed it).  I'm always in awe when I see what comes through as we explore through the words this way, much as I am when we see what comes through the images in SoulCollage.  It's this kind of discovery I seek to share in this blog.

Thus, I'm presenting another olio or miscellany today--some images of artwork, some poetry--no single theme, but examples of continued creative expression and hopefully, fodder for others.


First, some pieces I made for participants in the Inner Guidance by the Gulf workshop I led last week. Each started with one of my photographs, which was altered and enlivened, and then used as the basis of a dimensional collage--there are pieces of flora and fauna added to each one. Do click on the images for the full view, and see if you can determine what the added bits are. They are identified in the captions.

Next, more of the amazing forms in the landscape around me. I just revel in the variety, form and color. The first two are from my yard: the surprising seeds of the cardboard palm--which is actually not a palm at all, but a cycad, an ancient plant that has been around since the time of the dinosaurs; and a view of the curry leaf plant--still small but will grow into a tree. Stunning mandala!

Interlude: two recent poems.

       OPEN WEAVE

The light comes through, gently latticed,
shining softly through the spaces.
Iridescent threads pull into small circles,
their cavities playing arpeggios of color
for our deep delight.



            GIFTING

She came, bearing a large box
wrapped beautifully and finished
with a perfect bow.

She held it out, offering,
"Here," she said, "this is for you."
"Take it," she urged:
the discovery, untying the ribbons,
feeling the slight unease
of not knowing what's to come.

She made a little bow, backed away,
and left the room.
Her gift was the promise,
the very moments of wonder
and anticipation.

This kind of economy is truly rich,
wrapping the presents and receiving,
the give and take flowing every which way,
always offering and
always taking in.

I've been busy with new sculptures and collages as well, but have no good photos yet, so I will save that for next time.  Remember, I appreciate your feedback.  How do these offerings affect you?   Thanks for sharing.