Tag Archives: the gloaming

A glorious something else

“A glorious something else awaits.”

~Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things

I sit with the sadness this morning.  Like so many of us in this time of so many griefs big and small.  Not anything in particular really.  I am fine actually, personally, just now.  The sun is beginning to peek through the clouds and it looks to be a potentially nice day.  I may get to see my sister today, from afar, and we will relinquish the little red dragon back into his normal life back home with her and her support team. He is welcome back here any time of course but  I know he will bring her comfort between her shifts in the ER.

Here, comforts are bursting forth from the ground up.  The long (long) awaited deer fencing is up so we can finally grow some proper food in a real garden bed.

Here are the young-uns. Did you know, egg shells are the perfect little vehicle for growing seeds? It’s true.

A few things are in the ground of course already.  The cold weather kind.  And it looks nice to have some life amidst the structure of it all.

Planted strawberries in pots so they might come inside again over the winter and rest in the warmth. I am learning along the way.
Garlic survived not only the winter, but our trampling around it as we built the garden from the ground up. I wanted to get them in the ground last fall and so it rested whilst we laid cardboard down, then leaves and straw and so much time. Later came more straw and wood chip mulch. Building soil, without tilling. This little patch is the only one with no grass barrier. We will see how it goes.
A note about these lettuce plants. They have served us so well. They started out as seeds in a bag of soil under a plastic bin for warmth over the winter. Here’s the how to: *click* 
We created some archway trellises for the more climbing kind of plant-creatures. I look forward to them shading any summer greens we might be able to plant.

I have nothing against deer really.  Like all of us they are just trying to make a living in the world.  But they are decimators of plant life.  And so, while most of our little acre is at their disposal to wander and chew,  we’ve cordoned off just this little bit for ourselves.  I’ve thought for a long time that growing some of our own food could be paramount.  I always thought this notion might be a bit dramatic really.  But now it all seems closer to home.  Closer to reality.

The deer have been warned to move along from this place. With all due respect.

“Oh the summertime is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming”

~trad. Irish/Scottish folk song

I am grateful it is spring time.  It is good to walk and watch the wild world come alive.  A normal spring time here would see my work year ramping up into full gear.  Today I was due to be waking up in California, ready to find the weekend’s sketching spots for the upcoming weekend.  Well, we all know how that panned out.

And I would usually be chomping at the bit to get back to the Land of Enchantment for a taste of big skies and grand ideas and the feeling that anything is possible.  That is Taos for me.  But, alas.

A thousand tiny griefs.

It is a difficult balance in this strange new era of corona to make space for all the grief.  We as a culture are so quick to categorize the griefs and the joys as big or small, important or trivial – at any given time.  And here’s the thing, we don’t know what one thing or another might mean to any other person but our own true selves.  The joy of a new sunrise to one person might be equal to the birth of a child to another.  Circumstances differ.  We must make space for what that sunrise means to that one person on that very day.

I think the same holds for grief.  There is so much of it just now.  But it does us no good to hold one grief up against another for comparison.  Better to just allow.  and honor.  All of it.  It’s hard to do.  I’ve been heartbroken this last week or so with the cancellation of not only my Taos work, but the magical week of Swannanoa as well.  I had a good long snot cry over each of these in the bath, I’ll be honest.  I’m doing my best to honor these losses, to give them space, even while I read the headlines of the death toll mounting, and hear stories of the front line from my sister and her co-workers.

All of it is heart breaking.  We must make space.

Stunning photography by Seán Mac an tSíthigh. @buailtin on instagram

And we must compost this grief and cultivate joy in this space.

A wee peach tree given to me last year by my dear friend Kim Taylor. This year I shall place it into a larger pot and it can summer out in the garden, to get a taste of life in the big world. I shall continue to nurture it…..

It can feel a bit like a roller coaster of emotions of late.  I was saying to a friend the other day that if this time teaches us nothing else, it is giving us lessons in the notion of being as fully present as possible in each and every moment.  We don’t know if the things to which we look forward will actually come to fruition.  It is a new horizon in tech as we all try to connect real time with our beloved communities and families.  I can say for the record that the incorrect connecting device for one’s computer might actually drive one to tears (again) and another lost connection is added to the list of a thousand griefs.

And so how to navigate?

“Look at how a candle can both defy and define the darkness.”

~Anne Frank

I am fortunate to know many who somehow manage to exist above the fray.  I look to them for inspiration.  The other day Nuala Kennedy took to the airwaves to do a little concert.  It was inspiring and honest and beautiful.  Much like Nuala herself.

Here’s the post:  https://www.facebook.com/nualamusic/videos/10163320918625188/UzpfSTEzMDEyMzY2NTY6MTAyMjE5OTEyMzA1OTIxMjE/

A couple of far flung artist friends of mine are offering up their teaching online in beautiful ways as well.  Erin Lee Gafill of Nepenthe  in Big Sur, California has a lovely community built over on facebook if you look for “Awaken The Artist Within”, and her tutorials are over on YouTube.  Here’s a sample.

Erin is lovely and calm and brilliant in her scope of experience.  She brings a soothing presence to the canvas and to her teaching.  Getting into the paints is on my list of joyful things to do in these pandemic times….

Would like to translate this tiny sketch of a painting into something larger in scale. The canvas is prepped. But the garden calls.

Fabian Hernandez is an artist I met down in Antigua and he too is offering some video tutorials for free over on Facebook.  I know Facebook is the devil in so many ways, but it is an easy platform in a difficult time.  I find myself finding community there (as well as frustration on occasion too) more than usual.  This is to be expected and forgiven.

Here is a still from one of Fabian’s tutorials. You can find him over on FB here. *click* It’s all in Spanish, but you’d be surprised what you can pick up.

And so, here we are.  In need of a bang trim, trying our best.

My friend Rosemary says “I can get used to just about anything, if you just give me a minute or so to adjust.”  And I agree.  (My metaphor for this same idea is that ” I am not a tug boat in the harbor, more like an ocean liner, and it takes me a bit of time to turn course.”  But you get the picture.)

We are here for a while it would seem and every day brings new challenges.  Like everyone I am learning to sit with it all.  Learning to get my head up in the clouds when needed to get a 30,000 ft view over it all for some perspective.  As the weather improves the garden will go on, giving me focus.  I can get out into the back room (currently under construction) to play some music perhaps.  I’m being more mindful in the last week or so as to what I say yes to.  This to give space to the grief that is and the grief that is to come.  And the joy.

I am trying to see all of this as the space I have been craving for awhile now.  But I do miss my friends.   Especially the musical ones.

*small disclaimer:  I write this from a place of deep privilege which is not lost on me.  I am deeply aware of the bigger broader world, this is just my artful snippet of it.  Don’t forget to vote.  wherever you are.  

Awakening

I’ve made up a pot of stew, and put the kettle on as well, as this is one of those long and winding posts to share with you a few notions of what’s on my mind, in my heart in recent days.  Welcome, and enjoy!

Remember that warning in my last post regarding the poor plants eager to strut their stuff so early in the season?  Alas, the last gasp of winter (one hopes) has been blowing across the eastern half of the country and sure enough, those antevernals have taken quite a hit.  Many of our flowering trees will have to wait until next year to flower once again, as they are already burned by the brutal cold.  It’s sad, but it’s life in a way. Time in the way of trees. Though to be fair, it’s been a strange season in many ways – as if winter got lost along the way and arrived late and possibly drunk to it’s own party.

This probably seems especially true further out east where recovery from the blizzard is just beginning.  As for us back here in the hollers of south-western Ohio, we had a bit of snow the other day, some serious cold and wind in the meantime, but all in all -unless one is a spring time flowering plant –  we find ourselves relatively unscathed.

(I did manage to rescue a few of the daffodillies before things got too crazy.  And for that I am grateful.)

It’s been a time lately of a restless longing which I can’t seem to name.  And naming it seems important.  As if by naming this vague sense, I could perhaps grab it by the tail and reel it in a bit to get to know it better.  Is it the annual hushed call to be outside, barefooted and full of wonder, after the long months of winter’s hibernation?  Perhaps.  But I sense it is also a desire to delve even further into work I do from the heart.  This art/writing/teaching practice of mine seems to be doing some shifting and deepening on it’s own over these last months (maybe even years).  Whispers of this seismic activity have been in the darker cornered spaces for a time now, but I am beginning to pick up words of meaning hither and thither, as if I am possibly (finally) learning the language of my own heart.

“How do I talk to a little flower? Through it I talk to the Infinite.  and what is the Infinite?  It is the silent, small force.  It isn’t the outer physical contact.  No, it isn’t that.  The infinite is not confined to the visible world.  It is not in the earthquake, the wind or the fire.  It is that still small voice that calls up the fairies.”

~George Washington Carver (former slave, plant genius)

In the deep desire to learn this language, I have been following bread crumbs down many darkened paths.  In my ears as I draw and paint or do the delicate handwork at the concertina shop day job, have been podcasts and stories from near and far.  By early morning I gobble up books and other publications crafted by such writers as Sharon Blackie, Robert MacFarlane, Sylvia Linsteadt and Mary Reynolds whose words and images evoke lands quite far from here but which sound so very familiar to the ears of my soul.

In the book If Women Rose Rooted Sharon Blackie writes:

“Once, we were native to our own places; once we belonged.  There is a Gaelic word for it and coming from a language which rises out of a deeply connected animistic world view, it is not easily translated to English.  These are the languages of root and leaf, of field and stone, of seaweed and salt.  These are the words whispered in our ears by the land as if by a lover; the languages which tell us that we and the land are one.  In Irish the word is dúchas; in Scottish Gaelic, dùthchás.  It expresses a sense of belonging to place, to a certain area of land; it expresses a sense of rootedness, by ancient lineage and ancestry, in the community which has responsibility for that place.  In the Welsh, the word cynefin has a similar meaning. This is the way our ancestors lived.”

It is this belonging I seek.  It is this belonging we all seek really, if we but take time to listen to the whispers of our own longing.  For me, much of this sense of belonging has come by learning the languages of art and music.  These are languages of pure magic.

Through the language of creativity and the visual arts my true inner self was awoken, around the same time as my children were born.  Birthing and motherhood were for me the creative sea-change which unleashed my inner artist.  The kids and I have artfully come of age together in some ways.

Robert MacFarlane tweeted this quote the other day:

“”With words at your disposal, you can see more clearly. Finding the words is another step in learning to see”

~Botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer

I’d go a step further and say one sees even more clearly through the act of sitting still and quiet and drawing.  The notion of learning to pay attention in this bold and beautiful world is at the heart of what I teach in my workshops.  To open up to beauty in small ways as we go about our travels or our day-to-day is to open up our lives to beauty in general.  Like attracts like.  The more we hone in on that which makes our hearts sing, the more we draw these things to us.   Drawing is powerful, critical magic.  When I started my journaling classes, I saw them as simply a way to make some art, to share the notion of being more creative in our lives.  But it’s become so much more!  What I teach is a life-altering practice.  And it’s wonderful to awaken to this and shout it to the skies!

And then there is the music.  It’s the Season, after all…..

This bright beautiful music for which I am grateful every day of the year, not just on St. Patrick’s Day.  The learning of any music making is a gift of being human in general, but to find that specific type of music which sings to one’s soul – which opens up the notions of community and friendship and travel in new ways – well, that is a true bronntanas an chroí, a gift of the heart.

Like so many Americans, mine is a hodgepodge heritage of mixed ancestry.  I know bits and bobs of where I come from, genetically speaking, and lord knows I’ve grown up a child of the world at large – moving from place to place, often country to country in the early years, traveling always and mostly saying, “I could live here.”  My family teases me about this, that I seem to be at home most anywhere, especially if there is beauty to behold and capture in my sketches.  And it is true, to an extent.  I tend to bloom where I am planted, with only shallowed roots.  Yet I am always pining for that ‘perfect place’ to call home, while knowing there is no such thing really.

A number of years ago I traveled over to Cavan, Co. Ireland for ten days of the annual Fleadh Cheoil (“Festival of Music”) with my son and a few other close musician friends.  I had been to Ireland once before to run a marathon.  That had been a memorable trip, full of laughter and tourism and many, many miles with my friends from DC where we lived at the time.  A quick in, quick out weekend really.  And we didn’t even get far out of Dublin as there was simply no time.  But this more recent trip to County Cavan was far different.  In the years since my last visit, I had learned so much about Ireland beyond the touristy stuff.  I had taken some big bites of the music and had begun to make it my own in my heart.  I was so much more wide awake this time around.  And the land itself spoke a good deal louder there in the Cavan countryside, away from the traffic and the noise of a road-race, circus-like atmosphere.  Each day as we walked the village roads into town from our little house, I felt a sense of home that, if I am to be completely honest, scared me.  It’s trite in some ways to admit to that sense of home in Ireland.  Especially at this time of year.  It is not my place to claim.  I live in Ohio.  And yet, I have not been able to shake it off in the years since.

I purchased a tiny landscape painting by local Cavan artist Imelda Bradley on the street one day when the sun was actually shining.  This moody image of the misty, lake-strewn land of 365 lakes (one for every day of the year!) hangs by my bedside now and informs my dreaming.  I look to it to inform my sense of home back here at this home, where I live now.  Because this is where I am for now.

I am seeking to deepen that sense of belonging right here, right now. For now is all we are ever promised.  Just now.  Just this moment.  In all of my recent reading and research, I am seeking to find that sense of dúchas in this place in which I currently find myself.    I’ve been reading quite a bit of Wendell Berry’s work, as he lives just down the way in rural Kentucky.  And funny thing is, apparently so is Robert MacFarlane across The Pond who tweeted this out recently:

“….to defend what we love, we need a particularising language, for we love what we particularly know.”

~Wendell Berry (agrarian, writer)

I am finding the language I seek through a mycelium-styled network of like-minded artists, writers and thinkers, many of whom live far away but whose word-ways feel familiar to me.  Sometimes they lead me back around nearer to where I live now which is nice.  While I read the latest book by Irish garden designer, Mary Reynolds,  I also will sign up for an up-coming plant-magic sort of class with Asia Suler of One willow Apothecaries, just south there in the Appalachian mountains, a bit closer to home.  I find both of these gardeners carry a similar take on the magic to be found just below our feet and the messages it all may have for us.  I also plan to seek out the four stands of old-growth trees right here in my own city (yes, it’s true!!!) as written about by local naturalist John Tallmage in a book I am still devouring called The Cincinnati Arch, Learning from Nature in the City.   

I am learning so many new languages.  Layers upon layers of expression to bridge the gap between myself and the world.  The Spanish language, which I will re-visit and practice once again in Guatemala in just over a week.  The language of Irish music, which I’ll play so much of the day tomorrow on the Feast of St. Patrick.  The language of trees, which I hope to learn on many levels.  Having taken down a number of trees recently, I am wholeheartedly asking our little patch of land what it wants in the way of new trees to replace those which have passed.  I hope to have the ears to listen.

I am eager for the language of story as well.  So many of the stories to which I am drawn are from far away places.  The local stories, at least the older ones, are proving difficult to dig up.  But I shall seek them out, even as I enjoy the others, for if a story calls to your heart, then surely there is something there to be learned from it, yes?.  Here in Cincinnati, we live on land much like The Chalk, described by Terry Pratchett in his Discworld books, the Tiffany Aching series in particular.  This Land Under Wave is as good a place to dig in for now.  This place from which to explore the rest of this wide and wonderful world, this place to come home to.