The Long Exhale of August

I sit tucked into my desk nook, windows wide, cool night air lifting the scent of

flowering tobacco from below. Full-buzz time, high summer when the din of insects 

fills the sound-space vacated when the tree frogs quieted. The frogs leap away 

from the mower when I cut the grass, with other tasks now that enchanting the 

forest with their magical singing has slowed. Just now, in time for me to remember 

to tell you about it, I hear the howl that I know is not a coyote. For the past few years, now and again, some of us here have heard what we think is wolf song. Its something rather rare, and somehow unmistakable, though I find myself wondering if it is truly a wolf. Wolf song is so very different from the yelps and wining of coyotes, the baying of 

hounds and the barks of foxes. When I hear it, I KNOW it is a wolf, but afterwards, 

when the night is quiet again, save for the constant humming of insects, I'm not sure....

The collection of leaves on my table is growing, patterns and amazing color 
now catching my eye to add to the skeletal lacy decay. A few stones have been 
added for contrast, of course, and they all sit on a wonderfully smelling runner 
made from vetiver root. 

Yellow is the color of the moment as the long exhale of August spreads through 

the garden. 

Walking this thyme-scented path is one of the gifts of the garden, and the thyme  
is more than happy here. I find it popping up everywhere, and have plenty to harvest 
and pass along. 

A morning glory folding in on itself has captured some 

spring green inside. I wonder if they all do that? 

Tree rings on the old oak that split and had to be dropped are becoming

more pronounced as years go by, and they make a great transition to 

new work in the studio. 

A bright sunny day today found me spinning spirals in the studio, wondering at the 
obsessiveness of it. The process of drawing these is so satisfying, a very different 
experience than viewing the product. No matter if I like the outcome or not, I 
am always deep in the "spin" of it while in the making. There is a pile of rejects, 
a pile of keepers and a pile of "I don't knows". I like when they sit drying on top 
of the painted stones as the stones were the seeds that planted the drawings. 

But really, these are all about the making. The process is a meditation practice
where I find deep presence and belonging, rooted in the moment and expanding 
out in all directions. When I look at them afterwards, I go in, 

or out, or I follow a form that might be 

stone, or wood, or water. 

Glancing up from my spiraling, the root grandmother spoke to me, 

though I was too involved with my turning to listen to her story. 

I think I know what she whispered to me, as it has had time to find me... she was 
reminding me to follow my heart, my intention for the month. Not surprising then, 
that the heart-stones called to me...

and the moss-eyed enchanter, 

who called me out to play.