The white cylindrical forms are (the dried-up bodies of) white crust tunicates (Didemnum vexillum). I found them on the beach on a calm spring day--nothing remotely similar ever seen before or after. The encrusted sticks immediately reminded me of the rock candy you make by crystallizing sugar over a suspended string.  But this is not a crystallization process: tunicates are “sea squirts” --so called because when lifted out of the water, they contract and squirt water out, although it is hard to imagine these hardened bodies contracting at all. The animals formed a colony around some form of sea grass or other vertical element. Tunicates are filter-feeding animals with a sac-like body form. They live within this outer “crust,” which actually functions as a kind of living tunic. They reproduce quickly and in their larval stage, a square centimeter may hold up to 300 tunicates. Thousands and thousands must be in use of these forms—think of the amassing colonies, holding, enclosing, enveloping. It’s not rock candy, but it is a kind of eye candy, the always astonishing world of form, which is so complex and so simple, so much an example of her infinite variety.

When the porcupine fish inflates, its usually-flattened spines rise to vertical positions, forming an all-over armor reminiscent of porcupine quills. This happens because the skin is so stretched that it pulls two of the tripod-legs of the spikes backward and the other forward, snapping the structure upright. An inflated porcupine fish can’t move very fast—it is the opposite of streamlined—but it doesn't need to go fast with this kind of protection.

I was immediately interested in the spines—beautiful white external bones, almost begging to pulled out.  I started with brute force—tugging, trying to extricate them from the skin, but they wouldn’t budge.  I didn’t yet realize the ingenious structure of the spines, or the two layers of skin they stitch together. I soaked the skin, making it somewhat more pliable, and with great effort and snipping, slowly retrieved them, one by one. I admired their tenacity.  Removed, they were like trophies, and I loved just looking at them, at their smooth, plastic-like surfaces and their satisfying shapes. It was especially lovely to take in the different sizes and how they each grew to fit their position on the animal.

Spines still attached to organic matter.

Many years went by before I encountered this type of fish again, this time on the eastern shore of the Gulf of Mexico. The ones washed up there had different coloration, and they were smaller (no more than 10” long) and their spines less lethal-looking.  I haven’t a definitive identification, but they may be what is sometimes called a striped burrfish.  Its spines are always visible, and while the animal also inflates when threatened, it would only grow to about twice its original size. Burrfish live in seagrass beds in bays and coastal lagoons associated with reefs. They are nocturnal. They have widely-spaced, bulging eyes and fused teeth that form a beak-like structure.

I saw a number of partially dried-out porcupine fish in the aftermath of a red tide (an off-shore algae bloom that reduces oxygen in the sea), and was excited about extracting more spines, but I hesitated because the decaying bodies were quite rank. I also remembered how difficult it was to get the spines out when I was in Mexico. I took some home and kept them in covered container until I could decide what to do (fire up the new grill and risk getting a pot messy with the flame or stinky with the fish smell?). While I was deliberating, I found a remnant of another dead porcupine with just a bit of the skin left on the spines. As the skin dried even further, I was able to extract the spines with some poking.  
 
This still wasn’t going to help me get them out of an intact fish. I put one in peroxide to soak and of course it bloated out, got soft. As it rehydrated, I was able to really see its patterning—to take in its stripes and the false “eyes” on its back.

I put on my gloves and got ready to gut the fish. It had few spines on the belly, so it was possible to hold the little fins and start there.  I used a grapefruit knife with a serrated edge to saw away at the flesh. Once the innards were removed and the spiny skin was rinsed, I hung it up to dry on the clothesline. The smell was mostly gone after the peroxide rinse.

I varied the process to see what worked best. I never soaked the second fish, but wetted it down enough to rinse it off. It was easier to work when less saturated; I could actually get the inside out more easily. I peeled back the skin and let it dry further. The pattern of the spines in the flattened-out skin is stunning. They overlap in what looks like a mathematical progression, not unlike the “boots” of the sago palm that are so common in southern Florida.

The last steps of the spine extraction were done in the kitchen. I first tried to soften the skin in the microwave, but that only made the bones brittle. Remembering how I extracted hooves and bones from deer legs, I then boiled the spiny skins. This worked beautifully, especially because I could slit the skins to make even smaller pieces. The skin eventually broke down in the boiling water, and I could pull out the spines, much as one would extract a bone from a fish on a dinner plate.  The spines were a little yellow from the fat in the skin, but a short soak in peroxide brightened them nicely. I love their form, which seems to hold a key to something mystical—it reminds me of some aspect of sacred geometry I can’t quite name.

Meanwhile, I learned more about the porcupine/pufferfish family, feeling more amazed all the time. I read that once the body of the puffer fish is fully bloated, its predators can neither take a grip nor bite through the skin. In fact, it has been found that its tough body remains unscathed even after a grown man stands on it. No wonder I couldn’t win the tug of war with my first Mexican find! (I can’t identify the particular type of that porcupine fish—there are more than 120 species of Tetraodontidae in all, and I only have my documentation photograph.) In addition to their inflation and spines, many of these animals also carry a powerful toxin.  It is found in various parts, including the skin, ovaries, muscles and liver. This paralyzing poison, known as Tetrodotoxin, is about a thousand times more deadly than cyanide; one source says a single puffer fish (species or size not specified) has enough to kill 30 adult humans! There is no antidote. Nevertheless, the fish are still popular for aquarium displays, and some puffers are considered a delicacy food fish in Asia. The dish (known as fugu in Japan, and bogeo in Korea) is prepared by specially trained chefs who know how to reduce its poisonous effects. I cannot confirm this, but have heard that about a hundred diners die every year after consuming it. Even if the figure is apocryphal, we can see what a powerful hold this fish has on human consciousness.

The most astounding part of the story just came through recently in an excerpt from a BBC-Earth documentary that was posted on YouTube. In 1995, divers noticed a small mandala-like circular pattern on the sea floor off Japan. It was mathematically perfect, and nobody knew what it was. Once they started looking, they discovered similar circles nearby. The mystery was heightened by the fact that they came and went unpredictably, and they reminded observers of crop circles, though they were completely underwater.

Finally, observers realized that the formations were created by a newly discovered species of pufferfish—by male fish, who use them to attract mates. They laboriously flap their fins as they swim along the seafloor, essentially carving out the pattern in a circular formation by disrupting the sediment. They even use shell bits to stabilize some of the higher areas. The documentary claims a fish works non-stop for a week to make a single circle! One fish is only about 5 inches long, so it is quite a feat to make something of this scale.  The video of the fish doing this is, in the truest sense of the word, awesome.

I have actually been slow to find ways to incorporate the porcupine fish spines in my work; their shapes are challenging to work with effectively.  I do not want them to appear as they would on the fish, as I want the beauty of the whole tripod-like shape to be visible, rather than just the tip. (It’s as if I must peel away the skin for my audience, much as I had to do in processing the material.) Many of the spines I have are very small and delicate, and almost fly out of my hands when I try to handle them. In Rising From the Sea, that delicacy works well with the impressionistic forms of the background and the solidity of the tunicate. 
 
 

THE 2017 EMERGENCE SERIES
As I was playing with images for new collages this past fall, allowing them to grab my attention and show me how they wanted to come together, I realized there was an evolving series that followed this same pattern and emergence theme. I decided to develop them as a set, with a consistent size and background treatment, so they could work and speak together. (Each is on an 8” x 8” ground.) The ten panels can be arranged in any configuration and any order. Collectively, they speak of a changing consciousness, something happening on an energetic level that I am giving voice and face to.  Here’s what came forward when I asked them to speak:

SPEAKING IN A COLLECTIVE VOICE
We are all emerging now. We have been held in, often in exquisite containers, but we have still been waiting, we have been stored inside.  Our faces and forms are from everywhere—from many peoples, many dreams, many imaginations and creativities. We are rising now to what has not been contained, what has been just beyond reach. See the light in each of us—we each embody it, rest in or against it, have it shining on us, pick it up and transmit it. We are classic, holy, revered, contemplated, we have halos and auras and transmitters. We are all stillness rising. Look: this, our community, that is coming out now.



SPEAKING AS INDIVIDUAL PLAYERS

First, a photographic meditation/appreciation of the environment here in my Florida yard. This time I’ll focus on flowers, but there is so much more greenery for another time. Most of these images were taken on a single day in late January—these were what was in bloom somewhere on my “estate.” I've also planted a number of other plants that have yet to flower, but these were all here for me already. It’s quite awesome to really take in how much life and energy is happening at any one moment.  Check out the captions --sometimes there are comments.

The first, larger image was one of the revelations of the month. I have lived with snake plants for decades, but had never seen these exuberant blooms. When many were blooming at once (and briefly, just for a few days) it felt quite astounding. the plant is also called mother-in-law's tongue, which probably refers to the blade-like leaf, but if the tongues are the flowers, the message is sweet. Since I am a mother-in-law, I vote for the blooms.

My birthday at the end of January was blessed with a powerful event in the skies. It was a supermoon, blue moon, and then early the next morning (or the same night in my experience), a lunar eclipse.  I took a sunset walk along the (Gulf of Mexico) beach, as I often do, and the heavens were blessing (that is a line from a Shaker hymn I have long held dear). The sunset was stunning, and I turned around to see the supermoon rising.  The pictures don't do justice to the moon, given the light and the lenses, but it gives a feeling.

I returned to the beach for the eclipse. What was exciting was that the parking lot was surprisingly full--many others had the same instinct (we were all drawn, almost magnetically, to the unobstructed view over the Gulf). When I arrived it was still dark enough for the full moon to reflect in the water, although the sun was rising and that soon faded.  The eclipse began and the excitement was palpable; all those bundled-up people (it was less than 50 degrees) facing westward, migrating closer and closer to the water as if they could be closer to the moon.  Unfortunately, in this time zone the moon set before the moon was even fully covered or the eclipse was complete, so we never got to see the whole thing or the blood red effect.  But this was quite a birthday gift!

I'm sharing in some detail about two of my collages--their genesis, their materials, and how they reinforce my ongoing spiritual (and natural world) journey. The post weaves touches upon my nature adventures, my art-as-inner-guide insights, and my artistic process. Comments welcome!

Several years ago, I made a powerful SoulCollage® card. It was the night of the vernal equinox and one of the first water blessings associated with the protests over the oil pipeline at Standing Rock had just taken place. I was feeling happy, and experiencing a strong flow of energy. The card told me its name is Mor, which seemed almost too much of a pun with “more,” but that was clearly it. Mor had a lot to say:

I am the beautiful metallic man, covered with shiny coins and trailing orange wisps of energy as I ease down the river. I ride my bean raft, my living vessel, and I touch the water as its life-giving energy moves through my hand. It is clear, fresh, clean, and carries away debris in a constant state of renewal. I am abundance and radiance, the man of the future perhaps, the reflector (as a woman is a reflector) but also the shining sun. I am bringing forth this orange energy, which beams vitality and energy, a second chakra creative force. I am an empowered male with very strong legs, and yet my posture is reminiscent of a mermaid, and I am open and receptive. I am a guardian for you, one who brings ease, comfort in the body, and the ability to watch it go by. The orange bits are little energy pixies, enlivening, the forces around you—I show them to you and they trail in my wake, like dragonflies.
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This past fall I made a dimensional collage that came to be called Riding the Waves. It was another manifestation of Mor, I realized, one incorporating natural materials, texture, and mystery.  It features elements from a still-unidentified woody pod or root-like structure that I found first on the beach in the Pacific Northwest and then again by a riverbed emptying into Lake Superior. These “fingers” are smooth and almost silky, strong enough to have survived what may have been a long ride in moving water. I love handling and positioning them, aligning with the energy of their exuberant curves. The pointed shape of the figure’s body came from the image of a poulaine, an impractical and showy part of a knight’s armor, and I “tamed” it with a painted mesh paper. The figure’s head is made of soft feathers, and one arm is extended by a piece of fossilized shark’s tooth found near my Gulf Coast home.  I created the warm background surface with layers of transparent paper.  The oranges recall the orange pixies of the Mor images, and I feel the those colors work well with the pale blue of the frame—they are complementary colors, making the whole piece “pop” and hold the eye.  This piece spoke to me, too:

I am riding the waves, skimming along the shifting energies. I am joyous in this ever-fascinating manifestation and pointing to the ever-emerging future. Note how my waves reach up ready to tickle and welcome me, pointing to the heavens and reaching from their own medium. Note my antennae-like hair strands, picking up the shine and energy of what is above. I too am confident, relaxed, and connected with the spirit world and emerging feminine.
 
When I make these collages, I let the images and the materials guide me—they have to feel and look right. They hold all the stories and associations of their components--Riding the Waves holds the embodied memories of being outside collecting in three very different natural environments, the years of teaching about poulaines in a costume history class, the satisfying tactile feel of working with paper and feathers. As the same theme comes through so much later, I am excited and gratified: this too represents ease and confidence, joy, the increasing strength of the feminine, the cleansing of water, and the ability to go with the flow.  This is an ongoing more-ness (Mor-ness), both reflecting and foretelling the bright energies and the rightness of being in the ever-changing emergent moment.