RavenWood Forest

Inspiration

2012-03-04T17:48:00.002-05:00

I drove out on an adventure last weekend: a gray, snowy day with mists rising from icy

ground, filling the deep spaces. The cold and wet wind blew in through the car window

as I pointed my camera towards the softened treetops and distant ridges. I can clearly

see that this place has rooted itself in my imagination - deeply - to become the inspiration for my work.

"Ridges", watercolor 2011

It was a strange and variable weather day. I drove through white out snows and high winds, then suddenly bright sunshine illuminated icy branches and sparkling brush.

The day was a long, woven braid of sun and wind, snow, ice and mists. Subtle blues

and grays played with the dancing bare branches in fields where the evergreens

at the edge of the forests, watched. I wonder if I can do justice to the magic

when next I put paint to paper? As soon as I ask this I know that THIS is the quest,

and it will never be done, because always, the next painting holds the promise of

some other subtlety I might capture, some color, some dance of light and pattern.

Warm days of sunshine melted almost all of the snow,

revealing the source of other creative endeavors.

But early March is hardly spring, and I awoke one morning to soft new snow clinging

to the beech tree outside my bedroom window. My bed sits next to a large

picture window, from which I see the view below. Once, an enormous bull moose

walked under the window, his rack slowly rising from the earth as if a new tree was

sprouting there. In the early morning light, he was dream-like, melting into the forest

with a grace that seemed incongruent with his bulky form.

By early afternoon a warming sun turned snow to water and an endless

shower of drops and plops was the rhythm of the day.

Strange how fast the day shifted from cold and frozen to warm and soft and wet.

More snow came but just as soon the sun, and my late afternoon walk yesterday

was full of a hide-and-seek light, surprising me at every turn.

A Tiny Stroll in the Forest

2012-02-24T22:25:00.003-05:00

I thought that spiral drawings might be the first work to be made in the new studio,

but inspiartion came in the form of misty mountain ridges and dark, reaching trees:

small paintings that relate to the ones I was doing when last I worked. The studio is

starting to feel lived and worked in, with familiar piles of spiral drawings on the table

and small inspiration shelves above that are beginning to collect objects.

Very exciting news for me - and anyone who comes to do a workshop or take a class-

is that they can now meet most of their needs in the studio! Thanks to a generous

loan from my mother, I've installed a Nature's Head composting toilet. Originally

designed for boats, its smaller than most others of its kind and about half the price.

It will also be a wonderful way of introducing people to green technology as all the

toilet needs is some peat moss, a vent to the outside and a tiny bit of electricity for

the built-in fan. Lots more about it on the website in the link above. I'll let you

know how it works as time goes on.

Pasha has made much progress making friends with the new space. The photo below
is from the early days when he wasn't quite sure. Now he comes inside to visit for
fifteen minutes or so, several times a day. He no longer seems to think that the
ceiling fan is a huge bird of pray which was quite scary at first!

We are in a strange cycle of unusually warm days when soft spring-like winds
call me outside. From the back door of the studio, a trail winds through the hemlocks
to the mossy wetlands.

I've never looked quite as closely at this plant before and am

struck at how much it looks like a succulent.

The deeper we venture into the forest, the deeper the snow, and Pasha finds

the mossy trunks more comfortable than the hard snow.

Little more than a husk, this badly diseased beech tree clings to life.

At the top, it rests on a hemlock tree, and maybe because it is supported there,

the trunk rounds out again and isn't quite as ravaged looking.

The forest has much to teach me if I slow enough to notice it.

I've been watching this tree carving being worked on for months, and now that

the snows have melted around it, a large mound of woodchips is visible. I

told the pileated woodpecker to stop here, but alas, woodpeckers are not

quite as receptive as my students.

Pasha and I walk back towards the house, passing the brown and shriveled

garden to the lookout bench on the ledge.

I lower myself very gently onto the bench as I think it may not

last much longer, and wait for Pasha who has gotten side-tracked

in the garden.

Here, the sunshine has melted most of the snow, and we drink in the

green moss medicine and delight in the compimentary color scheme.

As if announcing their arrival, a band of crows calls out just as it flies

over. I shift my gaze from the microcosm to infinity, and so does the camera.

Even a tiny stroll in the forest weaves invisible threads of belonging,

and seems always to stitch Pasha and me closer together.

Imaginal Soup

2012-02-09T21:20:00.000-05:00

"This is an absolute necessity for anybody today. You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be, This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen."

Joseph Campbell, in 1985 interview with Bill Moyers

I found this quote one morning as I was preparing an assignment for school. It was

tucked away in the "Inspirational Tidbit' file that I keep for my Myth & Symbol

class. An enormous YES poured forth from me upon reading it. As I stand on the

threshold of my new space, I walk through the physical threshold into the studio,

and know also the symbolic threshold that this moment is for me. The enormity

of the grant process, and all that entailed, and before that years of mystery and

challenge as I worked to clarify my intent, and then the dreaming of this dream -

it has all pointed to this moment. So now, as I walk through the door, I find

I almost collapse from exhaustion.

But, alas, the urge to have my sacred, creative space and all the things that
Campbell speaks of cause me to move through the tiredness and make my space.
Friends have shown up to help paint walls, to build shelves, carry boxes from the
old studio to the new, and even to rent the studio for an evening to do spiritual
work. Having income from the studio is one of the most important things for me
now. One might think that being a university professor means I have a reasonable
income, but the truth is that I am a 17 year adjunct professor. I have no benefits
and make about a quarter of the income of the full-time faculty though I teach only
one class less a year. Partly its my choice, because few full-time positions open up
locally. I would need to move far away, and this isn;t something I'm willing to do.

So at the moment I feel a tension between the need to sink into a creative flow,
and the urgency to gather myself and begin the outreach to bring in students. I will
need to find a way to do both. Early in the morning while sitting with the fire, deep
soul stories flowed from me into my journal and I saw things more clearly. I was
dropped into my soul-well by the beautiful work of Barbara Beeckmans and her post,
"Reclaiming". At the end of my journey, which of course we all know is also the
beginning, I understand that I am working with moth medicine.

I understand that the studio is a cocoon, and my desire to wrap myself up in silken
threads and dissolve into imaginal soup is indeed much like Campbell's "...place
of creative incubation". (go here for a bit about imaginal cells and metamorphosis)
I have a much greater understanding of why I need a place separate from my house
for creative work, and how very necessary the creative process is for me. Rooting
deeply into the space will take time. I am not quite ready to "make' in there yet,
but the process has begun as I arrange pods on shelves and decide which mugs
will live in the studio.

I need to get cushion foam cut for the window seat that my dear friend, David,
made for me, and I wonder if I should attempt to sew a few covers for the old,
worn out pillows. I must admit to all you amazing cloth and fiber followers
that I DON"T really sew (at least on a machine) - so this might take me a while!

The stones and snake have found their places in the new space, pods and skeletal

leaves and husks create shadow-laces with the light.

Books that were tucked away in the old space are visible here.

A set of cabinets that came from my parents' kitchen many years

ago found a new look with branches for handles.

Pasha is still not sure he wants to come inside, but today

he had a short visit, but only for a minute,

and only through the back door.

And soon, very soon, I might know what work needs to hang on the walls.

For now, the emptiness holds the space of possibility, and I am

dreaming some new work as I disintegrate inside my cocoon.

Fire in the Hearth

2012-01-26T22:43:00.000-05:00

Spiral & Stone

Outside the snow has turned to rain, towards morning though, the freeze will come

again. Inside rain rhythms play on the metal roof. Pasha just left his rug by the fire

to sit with me. He grumbles when he sees the computer on my lap, and walks across

the keyboard in protest. Giving up he goes back to his rug. I'm feeling a bit guilty,

but have just settled in to this post so his invitation must wait.

After much fuss, the gas stove in the new studio is working well and I have been

painting the walls and getting ready to move in. I thought maybe I might need

a cargo sled to pull across the frozen driveway, but a warm week has melted

much of the ice.

I chose a white with a hint of yellow giving the room a wonderful, warm glow.

It was a practice in restraint to chose a subtle color as the saturated yellow-oranges

were tempting, but I'm delighted I resisted.

I wish I had two weeks to dream into my new space, but now that school has started, setting up the studio must be wedged in between class prep and the usual winter

tasks that come with forest living.

A deep longing for the feel of ink gliding from my dip pen and bleeding onto

paper pulls at me. I have been away long enough to loosen habitual ways of working,

and crave the structure of practice in my life.

Soon the sacred objects will collect on the studio table, and my dialog with

the new space will take shape. How will this new place inform my work?

What will be the first thing I work on?

Looking back at drawings and photos from my old studio, I feel myself entering into

my process even before my materials have found their place on the new table.

Tomorrow, I'll begin to transfer my things from the old studio to the new.

As always here at RavenWood, the land and creatures remind me of my
wildness, and with the snows I see who has come to visit in the early morning hours.

More than once today, while bringing wood inside, I paused to feel the cold
air fill my lungs and listen to the chickadees twitter in the birch trees.

In the early morning, just as the sun is rising, I light the fire and sit watching

as it catches. In these moments, I feel a long line of ancestors behind me whose

mornings started in the same way. My mother recently asked me if I minded heating

with wood. How can I explain the need for the first moments of fire when the

kindling snaps and the warmth begins? In winter, when the hearth is full of fire,

ancient, primal stories rise with the heat of the flames. No, I don't mind, in fact,

I am grateful.

A Softening Snow

2012-01-14T19:36:00.000-05:00

When the snow arrived on Thursday, it brought with it a feeling of purification
and relief. Not much has changed since my last post with the various challenges this
moment has presented me with, but internally a deep surrender has settled in and
soothed the sharpness as the snow has softened the hills.

The juncos have moved close to the feeders, fluffing their sweet feathers and
darting from branch to branch and from seed to suet in a never ending dance.
I attempt again and again to interest Pasha in watching them from the big living
room window, but he is much more of a mouse-cat than a bird-cat, thankfully!

Before the snows, Pasha and I took a walk in the cold and frozen forest.

Jude walked alongside me that day as I noticed frozen moon-rings,

and Sophie came to mind when I visited this favorite tree. Its wound

reminds me of so many things, but this day it was a seed pod.

Though I am in between studios and haven't made art in over

a month, I'm never far from my process as long

as I continue to look.

Contrasts of conifer greens and browns and ice

reflecting winter sky struck me.

This afternoon I put away the Christmas/Solstice decorations.

I moved into it as a grounding ritual. Bitter winds howled

outside and I paused to watch the

magic moment of dusk.

A white winter cloth replaces a red one on the table,

and I celebrate the cleansing and deepening gifts

of snow and ice.

This moment:

Waiting and Walking

2012-01-04T21:48:00.000-05:00

Solstice Fire at RavenWood

Overwhelm - that's the truth of it. I held the dream that the break between

semesters would give me needed quiet and inspiration as I set up the space

in my new studio and found my roots in creative process again. But I see my sacred,

winter break slipping fast away as I wait still for the heater to be properly installed

in the studio - days turn to weeks and I wait. Tomorrow it seems, the man that sold

me my heater will come and put the piece in place that the gas company forgot to,

so it will all be safe to use.

Bigger than this, though, is finding out that a family member is facing a health

crisis. It seems we have just come up for a bit of air, finding some normalcy after

losing my niece's husband last year. Without much time to breathe, we've plunged

deeply into another intense journey. I know that through these dark and

challenging moments I am being given the opportunity to show up fully and learn,

but I am truly craving relief. The moment to moment shifts inside me are extreme.

Taking myself to the land is the most healing balm right now - and always. My nerves

are soothed by the daily visit and calls of the morning crows and the enormous

flock of juncos that peck around the moss garden.

The first day of January was warm following a night of rain showers. The mosses
glowed green and the light seemed more like spring than early winter. Usually we
are snow covered by now, at least a few inches. Until yesterday a few snapdragons
still bloomed on the porch.

I walked slowly, close to the house, noticing small details,

A rune-like scratching in the red squirrel tree:

I've been watching this pincushion of moss grow

lovely reaching rays for months.

And Pasha has grown his winter ruff.

Thin ice, just at the edge of freezing.

The garden looks more like it does in early April

than January, but the cold came today transforming

soft and green to hard and brown.

Though I grumbled and moaned at the start of this post,

let it be known that my excitement about this new space

can hardly be contained! Here is the completed studio,

waiting for heat so the walls can be painted,

the shelves built and everything moved in.

Looking from the front door to the back:

The front door and storage loft above.

Behind the partition wall is a closet.

The beautiful gas heat stove on a test fire:

Inside, One can tell the temperature of the wood stove by how

close Pasha sits. Here, he's far, but this morning after his outside rounds in

the cold 13 degrees, he was practically on top of it!

The house is dressed up with the Christmas tree turned World Tree that

holds white feather prayers from all who visit.

and of course, there just wouldn't be magic without owls....

December Light

2011-12-10T19:03:00.000-05:00

A brush of a small, warm and furry body against my leg in the cold afternoon ~ come,

he says, come to the green wood and remember. So we step gently onto the mossy

path, pausing often more than we walk, feeling and sensing, more in body than

thought. I need this, and I wonder what it is for him. Sitting on the log bench, I

watch him settle onto the stone under the small hemlock, our usual spots. We sit in silence, two beings who have been together for fifteen years, he and I, cat and

person. The way we are in silence together is a treasured meeting of souls.

In the forest, we have entered another realm, but do not mistake it only for a

gentle place of peace and silence, for you'll have missed its power. We find our

freedom here, the raw beauty of a place mostly left alone by humans. We are

sharply aware of each sound and movement - and he of each smell - it would be

risky not to be. It is quiet, but not silent, and the peace I feel comes from

touching the edge of wildness, not from escaping. I am a visitor, and most of

what lives here has slowly slipped into the shadows, and watches. Soft wind blows

through high hemlock boughs, a distant raven calls, a gathering of chickadees

flits about nearby.

In the more cultivated clearing, an early mornings frost edges the thyme like a

coating of sugar. I wander to see simple forms transformed and dipped in golden

light.

December seems filtered through a veil of white light by afternoon. Even a
bright blue sky feels cold against the bare branching of the oak. From the front
steps of the house, I glimpse the little cottage through the trees.

I walk to the studio, and watch as the light fades behind the snow-dusted trees.

Settled into the forest now, the cottage seems sure of itself, awaiting the final

details and finding its form. I imagine the souls of all the trees that were taken,

coming together to find one song.

On a very cold evening, I ventured down the hill to sing carols and go for a wagon
ride. As we stood awaiting our ride, I couldn't help but be inspired by the steaming
horses and flickering lights.

Something in the image below looks to me like a still from an old movie. I imagined

a cobbled street in England or a desolate outpost in the American west, tumbleweeds

blowing down the street and guns hanging from holsters.

Steam rising from horse silhouettes and bright spotlights to guide the wagon
resulted in an image that might be mistaken for a sunset over a mountain ridge.

I found myself writing to you in my head the last two weeks, awaiting the moment

when life slowed enough to actually post something. Alas, what came in the moment

is nothing like what I imagined. While raking leaves and cutting plant stalks I thought

to tell you of the scent of chocolate mint and how much I love it, and to share with

you the sound of dry baptisia pods - black and empty - clacking in the wind, and to

tell you of awaking in the night to listen to the coyotes singing somewhere close by in

in the dark and creaking forest.

Short Days of Rust & Brown

2011-11-23T21:00:00.000-05:00

I leave school at the end of the day as the light is fading,

a good audio book in the cd player and astonishing skies

that might someday find themselves the inspiration for

paintings.

My wee cottage is finding its form steadily week by week. Each day the crew

is here, I am amazed at how much is accomplished. Monday the windows and

much of the siding was installed, and Tuesday most of the rest of the siding.

I am beginning to feel what the interior will be like, and when the crew

isn't around, I climb up the ladder to wander inside and imagine.

Most of the siding is on this south side now (below), and I love the burgundy

roof. Its a tad more subtle than the red roof on the house: a complex color that

is hard to pin down. I like that.

Short November days of rust and brown are here, as are the hunters. Many creatures

are on the run, searching for food and fleeing. Yesterday, I heard a gunshot nearby,

and three does sped across the road in front of me. A buck that was traveling near

them hesitated before slipping back into the trees.

Last week a small bear crossed the road right in front of the car. I sat admiring the

thick, inky fur and strong, rooted body as she lumbered by. Soon she will be heading

into the earth for many months. I've read that many moons ago, some of the old ones native to this land did much the same. Some say that they didn't store up food as once thought, but let the snows cover the lodges, and survived on roots and melted snow

or almost nothing at all save the sweet murmurings of the dreaming earth and the

warmth from the fire.

Only when the bear had made her way across the field did I remember that my

camera was right next to me. She politely paused at a little birch tree to stare back

at me before dashing off to the cover of pines.

Most of the animals around my forest are wild, except for Pasha cat,

but there are plenty of farm critters close by. I did a little goat care for

my friend, Boo, who's wonderful Stonebridge Farm is a great place to come stay if

you're passing through. One of the goats peeks over the stall door as I'm about to

toss in the hay.

I took a morning walk to check on her Norwegian Fjords,

and found them grazing in the far pasture. I love their

multi colored manes and strong form.

Much of my time away from school is focussed on tasks related to the studio

project, and lots of looking. The camera helps with that, I often see

details in the photograph that I missed with the naked eye.

Here I am merged with a tree - or maybe my true silhouette

can only be seen in my shadow....

That photo reminded me of this:

This photo,

of this:

Decaying milkweed pods and what's left of a tomatillo husk

took me to ground to marvel at light and shadow and textures.

The biggest accomplishment of late is the shrinking pile of wood.

It is now ALL neatly stacked in the shed - four cords - which is sort of

a lot to stack alone. If you look closely below, you'll see a

luna moth on the corner of the shed (July photo of the pile).

Tomorrow I head off to spend Thanksgiving with family. There is

a list as long as my life of things I am grateful for, so I will say only

that I am grateful for everything - even for the hard things, for they shape

me in ways I never expect and help to smooth out my rough edges.

If you've been following my blog for a while, you might recall that

my niece's 31 year old husband died suddenly last Thanksgiving, so
this year we will be with that - with her - for she is,
of course,

with that
every single moment.

A Spiral Dance of Seasons

2011-11-12T22:23:00.000-05:00

Autumn and winter danced in a spiral in and out and back again. Amber jeweled

beech leaves hung from branches, but winter could not wait and flung October

aside for a spell. I grieved the end of the orange days, for the forest is a magical

cathedral when the rusty beeches take center stage. Two feet of snow fell the day

before Samhain, and we in the higher elevations were the lucky ones for a change

with lots of dry snow and not many power outages.

Then all of a sudden spring came, with temperatures in the 60's, and the

amber orange beeches reclaimed their moment with a vibrant glare at winter.

Inside, warm-toned wood and walls and collections echoed

the forest's celebration, and I wandered, noticing.

The green mantle of mosses sparkled, and Pasha and I enjoyed sitting

in the unusual warmth and bright sunshine.

One morning, on my early morning journey to school, I had to work at

keeping on as a magical mist hung in the valleys.

Having fretted just a tad with a forest full of snow, the speedy spring-like melt was
welcome and a cottage has sprouted in the clearing. Soon, but not soon enough for
me, a roof and windows and doors and all the rest will be in place. I'm very much
looking forward to the break between semesters, for there are shelves and tables
to be built and enchantments to be conjured and much, much gratitude to be stirred
into paint buckets and sung into the wood of this new place.

Into the Mystery

2011-10-27T10:45:00.000-04:00

"Treetops", watercolor on paper, 2011

A dark and wet morning. I come down to light the fire well before dawn, watching

as a misty November light slowly fills the forest. If I could fly up above the treetops

I would see the image above. We are in the dark and dying time, the ancient crone

looking straight at us, if we dare to meet her gaze.

"Ridges #4", watercolor, 2011

Many thought-threads have been spinning in my consciousness, inspired by Terri's

posts on creative burn-out over at The Drawing Board and the resulting conversation

in the comment forum. Worth taking the time to read the posts and comments, and

to visit A Mermaid in the Attic for a related post.

As is often true for me, my process is mirrored by the natural world, or possibly

that by paying close attention to natural cycles, I entrain with it. Looking around

me now, I see the brilliance of summer's fire being released in the turning leaves,

as if slowly bleeding out into the atmosphere.

In the garden, the architecture of decay is just as inspiring to me as the surprise

of spring flowers, revealing intricate forms and structures.

I almost never paint images of bright sunny days, a sky without clouds and mists

seems a less compelling story to tell. As people around me speak their dread of

the coming cold and the growing dark, I sink into my roots, release summer's fire

through my fingertips, and begin the composting of the year. Dreaming into the

dark, I tap the ancient well of blood-wisdom. In the spring, dreams will rise up

through my veins like the sweet sap of a sugar maple.

Learning to dance with the dark is not for the faint of heart, nor is it something
we can avoid. In a culture determined to find a cure for aging and death, its no
wonder we judge pain, illness and our dark internal journeys as wrong. There is
another way - to know everything as a teacher. It is the path of least resistance,
though embracing it is to know we must sit with the discomfort for as long as it
takes. Deep within the singing stones and flowing through our veins is an archive
of all the tools we could ever need to navigate life, placed there by each and every
one of our ancestors. I imagine countless life stories coursing through my veins,
there for me if I sit still and listen. If I lose my way with listening, there is a folk
story to show me the way - a myth embedded with animal allies, elder wisdom
and every imaginable challenge.

Driving home one day, I came across a turkey vulture eating roadkill. This great

composter will soon head south to warmer climates where her task of eating

death and disease will still be needed. Here, the freeze will keep us safe. Did

you know that the stomach acid of a vulture is strong enough to digest anthrax?

As she takes flight and disappears into the forest, I think of how little of her

story, or the importance of her daily meals to our health is known these days.

How might we move through life differently if we learned to sit with our

pain for as long as it takes? Might we find we can digest and transform it into

nourishment?

I leave you with two films I made recently to finally share some of my music

with you. I chose to upload "medium sized" movies as I wasn't sure how long

the best quality ones would take. So I'm not sure how it will go. The first track is

from my CD, Breath & Bone, the song is Into the Mystery. I used some of my

spirals for imagery, because the song and the spirals tell the same story. On

this track, I am playing with harmonic singing, only a little echo has been added

to the voice. My friend and producer, David Chandler, plays synthesizer. This

is an improvised piece which came out the way it is, not much was changed.

I have no idea how this will be, my first time using iMovie. This song, with just

voice and synthesizer is very different from what I thought I would be recording,

but it is now one of my favorites.

This second film has drawings and a recording from the Widow Jane Mine in

Rosendale, NY. Just my voice and drum, the amazing acoustics of an enormous

underground stone cavern, and dripping water. The track is called Rattling the Bones

from the CD Songjourneys, by BoneSong. Sadly we are no longer together.

Happy Samhain.

The Grounding of a Dream

2011-10-11T19:26:00.000-04:00

Warmth and sunshine blessed these past days, drying leaves and plants and finally the mold and mildew of the watery August. All of a sudden it seems, leaves are turning

and cool autumn nights whisper of the frozen days to come. Just at the moment of balanced light, I step onto the path that will lead to the grounding of my dream

and the manifestation of a vision long held. First, before I tell you of this, there are

gifts from the land to share, small jewels of shape and color and pattern.

The teasel has grown two exquisite meandering spirals,

she must have heard how much I love spirals - and teasel -

her form alone is enough to captivate me for hours.

At the edge of the road is a maple tree well-loved by red squirrels,

their small entrance hole is beautifully ringed in

rusty hues.

Turning around, I see another entrance on a tree that

looks as though she might someday get up and walk away.

The beautiful windflowers offered up their petals in pink piles

on the ground revealing their radial, reaching form.

Late color in the garden is so utterly surprising,

I sat with this coltsfoot for a long time learning

about purples and greens and the river-like

meanderings of bugs.

Afternoon light in a canopy of autumn trees is spectacular.

One small glowing oak leaf, low to the ground,

rivals cathedral windows, I muse. I walk from one glittering

light show to another, all only a foot or so from the ground,

each worthy of a small gasp.

A few late bloomers add a touch of magenta.

Northern sea oats dance green-gold and salmon in the

slanting afternoon rays.

I wander to the newly cleared bit of forest,

full of gratitude and a bit of disbelief that

my dream for this place will soon be manifest.

So long have I waited to bring my work fully home:

to earth and ground, to teasel spirals and raven calls,

to owl feathers and the embrace of mosses and

hemlocks and towering oaks.

Two years of grant writing and paperwork,

business plans and meetings, hirings and firings of contractors,

phone calls and deadlines, holding tight to

strong vision and deep dreaming -

soon,

IT WILL BE!

RavenWood Forest

Studio of Mythic & Environmental Arts

Where I will teach many things,

where dreams will be nurtured,

and nature will inspire,

seasonal turnings will be celebrated,

and mostly,

the question will not be how can we save the Earth,

but

how can the Earth save us?

There is a blue sky behind the gray mists,

and some nights I'm so excited I don't sleep,

for soon, my dreaming will find roots in the Earth,

and a small, beautifully built cottage will tuck into a clearing

in the forest.

Profound gratitude is a foundation like no other.

"Blue Sky Behind Gray Mists", watercolor, 2011

Whirling Water and Tinkling Drops

2011-10-01T21:28:00.000-04:00

Its been weeks since Pasha and I have been for a wander in the forest, but today,

in an afternoon break from relentless rains, we steal away amongst the sparkling

mosses and dripping branches. We pass the garden, a flattened mass of tall flowers,

duck under the sweep of hemlock boughs, and enter a glowing world of greens and browns. Pasha leads the way on the well-worn path, his excitement is apparent in

the bouncing of his gait. I can feel the forest's ancient embrace wrap around me, a

voice gently whispers that I've been missed. Off to the west, the river's gushing roar

joins with trickles of the small streams, not a human-made sound can be heard.

We pause at a small pool just as a gentle breeze shakes drops from

the branches. Glass wind chime-tinkling sounds and

whirling patterns on the water's surface - gifts from

the forest's unseen pattern-maker.

I walk now, with an eye to spinning, whirling patterns.

Pasha springs upon the whispering stone, as is his way,

pausing to scan for creatures.

At my feet a mound of moss wears horns of white fungi.

A different assortment of mushrooms has bloomed

in the forest, I'm amazed by the variety.

The patterner paints more magic on the surface of a swelling pond.

Always, as we walk, we find each other's wildness.

Back in the garden,

a very wet morning glory gently folds in

on its starry center.

By tomorrow, the blue will shift to red

and the delicate translucency will melt away.

A Wet and Mushroomy Autumn Equinox

2011-09-23T18:59:00.000-04:00

"Rain", watercolor on paper, 2010

Days slip through my fingers, soggy with rain, spilling one into the next like

overfilled buckets. I can't catch them or mold them into being reasonably functional

vessels of time, they seem to expand or contract easily and not at my command.

I hear myself using the word "challenged" to describe my current state of being,

and feel comforted with the knowing that it takes an earthquake to build a mountain.

Not that I am hoping for a new mountain to form, or that I want another earthquake

(we've had tornados, a hurricane, and an earthquake already this summer), but I trust

that the skills and strategies I am using to move me through the challenges will be

useful additions to my toolbox.

With the hurricane came flooding, roads washed away and houses floated downriver.

Our town was spared anything too horrible, we lost a few roads and the river ran fast

and brown and high for many days.

Rain is so often a gift to the late summer garden, but the plants are bent down flat,

or leaning sideways, or succumbing to mildews and root rot. They seem a perfect

reflection of how I have been dancing through life lately, full of hope, reaching

towards the sun on dry days, but laid flat the next by yet another tropical deluge.

The constant wet has caused an extraordinary bloom of mushrooms and fungi,

delighting the squirrels who perch in trees and nibble mushroom caps like pizza.

Each day a new kind or color emerges from the forest floor, my friend, Boo, found

these amazing green mushrooms, have you ever seen these?

Emerald mushrooms - photo Alexandra "Boo" Cherau

In just a small bit of the moss garden, quite a variety appeared one day.

A toad lily graces the woodland garden,

but I've missed so many of its stories as my

woodland listening chair is too wet to perch on.

The mushrooms and constant rains has meant high mold spores in the air and mildew smells in the house to which I am quite allergic. I've been cleaning, clearing, and

organizing to find the bit of cloth that turned green or a table leg with white spots

forming. Ugh, THIS is one source of my challenge of late. I do see the gifts however,

as there is nothing quite as wonderful as cleaning every surface of the house to

welcome in the new season. I am impatient for cool days and wood fires to dry me

and the house out.

After a whole weekend of cleaning, I decided I must finally make the lamp the

dark corner of the kitchen was dreaming of.

I didn't think I had done much art as I sat down to write this post, but I found

that I have been stealing moments to scribble in a sketchbook, and these have added

up to a few drawings to share. Below is an idea for a RavenWood sign for the end of

the road - the raven in the rectangle - another drawing took shape behind it.

A few pages of tree forms:

When I journey deep down inside myself, I find the root people. Always, in the

dark places, they look out and remind me. What, exactly they say is nothing

translatable in words. Their message is a slap of thunder in the middle of the night,

or a shooting star, or the owl that awoke me last night in the tree right outside.

They invite me to slip into a cool pond on a full moon night and breathe silver-blue

light with frogs. Lately I have wanted to steal away in the night, dig down under

the big hemlock and find the entrance to the root-world. I imagine a great council

of beings dreaming there around the fire, beating drums and singing the earth around

the sun. Luckily I have my magic pen that can take me there in an instant, for I haven't quite found the right digging stick to get me there for real.

Oh, and lastly, the chipmunk that Pasha brought inside today just scurried under

my feet, answering my question of whether s/he had escaped while the door was

open all day.... what now?

Water People

2011-09-01T21:17:00.000-04:00

"Air & Water", 8x8", oil on panel, 1993

Years ago the sea was my world. Images were born from me of light on water,

the rhythm of waves and thick, ocean fog. In my work, I imagined myself far

offshore, navigating the changing sea, searching - on a journey to home. Now,

amidst the sweeping branches of the hemlocks, I can feel that immense blueness

in the center of my soul, for once you are a water person, you remain one always.

We set out on our family's last voyage on the Nobska Lady, the boat that has
carried us on ocean adventures for more than thirty years. The clouds grew out
of the shore like towering trees, a light wind blew and the sky promised afternoon clearing.

Since I was a child, I was spirited away on voyages long and short, sometimes
jealous that my older sister could stay at home if she chose. I now know that
wild adventures on the sea stitches folks together with the strength of waxed
linen, and if there should be a tear, the splicing tool is close at hand.

I'm not sure I always understood the intensity of many situations we found ourselves

in, but I learned unwavering trust in my father's skill as a navigator and captain.

I remember many a journey through pea soup fog, sitting on the bow, blowing

the horn. A deeply etched memory is the time when we found ourselves in the

midst of a naval convoy, huge gray hulls emerging like silent monsters from the fog. Stationed as I was on the bow, blowing my little horn, I was in charge of spotting

them and alerting the captain. On a boat when calm sailing turns stormy or foggy or mysterious - as it did when dark hull after dark hull emerged in our path - its all

hands on deck no matter the age.

On that same cruise, I saw my first, enormous shark. It was off in the distance,

basking in the sun close to the surface. When we approached, it slowly sank beneath

the boat and emerged on the other side. I was transfixed, leaning over the side to

get a better look, my mother grabbing my belt loops, holding tight a shrieking a bit.

This last overnight was to Hadley Harbor on the small island on Naushon. Hadley
holds stories from my life from as long as I can remember. On the way there, we
passed by Woods Hole, where I spent most of my childhood. If you follow the link
and click on the photo, you will see a long, low roof of the house my grandfather
built next to the light house.

Many a day was spent climbing around on the rip wrapping below the

lighthouse, resulting in an almost daily stubbed and re-stubbed toe.

We anchored in the outer harbor, the day having shifted to warm and sunny,

but with wonderful clouds still clinging to the shore.

Mom on lunch duty....

You might think that dinner on a boat would be a simple thing, but not on the

Nobska Lady. Not only is my father a popular crew to invite on long overnight

journeys to Maine for his navigation skills and willingness to stay up all night,

but also cause he's an amazing chef. Luckily today the seagulls let us eat our

steak. Once or twice over the years, while grilling off the stern, dinner was

lost to a clever, swooping bird.

Glistening, late afternoon light melted into night,

and a candle was lit to light the deck.

Tucked into our bunks in the cabin, I read aloud from "The Secret Garden",

by Frances Hodgson Burnett. The book, read aloud over several of our voyages,

twines around our memories of this boat like a flowering vine. Our story of this

story is one of my favorites...

One evening on the Nobska Lady, just before bedtime, the Captain

and his wife were readying their sleeping bags. It was the time when

the Captain's wife usually read aloud. On the last voyage, she had been

reading "The Secret Garden", especially for the youngest member of

the crew. As it was a somewhat longish book, the Captain's wife hadn't

finished and had stowed the book away for the next time the youngest

mate was aboard. The young mate had not signed on this voyage, so it

was just the Captain and his wife. Once the beds were prepared, the Captain's

wife climbed in and began to read her adult book by the soft glow of lantern

light. In his bunk, tucked under the navigation station, the Captain seemed restless,

and finally asked his wife if she might read the next chapter of "The Secret Garden".

She replied that the young mate was not aboard, so she didn't think she should.

The Captain reasoned that she could always read the chapter again, the next

time the whole crew was aboard. So the Captain's wife put down her book,

and read another installment of "The Secret Garden", just for the two of them.

(He WAS the Captain, after all)

The journey back offered a stiff wind and respectable waves, and I, the youngest
member of the crew, was in my element - happy, too, to see my father pass
this well-loved boat on to friends of mine who are just beginning their life of
sailing, and, who my father aptly said of them - "they are water people now".

The Long Exhale of August

2011-08-17T23:35:00.000-04:00

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.

August Abundance & Spiraling Inward

2011-08-03T20:10:00.000-04:00

Decaying leaf forms fell at my feet the last few days. I took a few to the table to

look at while I ate, needing to spend more time with them. Lace-like and delicate,

they became veils for me to look through. The camera didn't always know what to

do with them - sometimes focusing on what was behind. It took just the right angle

for the camera to find enough form to photograph.

There is abundance in the August garden, and I find myself feeling grateful to all
the plants and flowers that thrive here. Its not so easy, what I ask of them. Some
would prefer the prairies of the mid-west, others the wet banks of a river, still
others want the sandy soil of the mediterranean. I know just what spots will give
the most sun, six inches to the left or right and there might be a few more hours
of shade than a plant wants. Most of them, save a special few, would be ever so
grateful for a few more hours of sunshine. This time of year, I envy gardens with
tall sunflowers, Russian sage, overflowing vegetables, and a sense of order, but
these are not the gifts of gardening in the forest.

After eight years of growing things here, I understand how far I can push things,

and surrender to the truth that some plants I love just won't be happy in my garden.

So I've begun to dig up some dear plants that have tried hard, but haven't adjusted

too well. I know this will ultimately gift the garden with better health and spots to

try new things, and friends will get very enthusiastic plants for their sunnier plots.

Finding a balance between the cultivated plants and the native or invasive

species takes some experience. I once let bracken ferns take over a whole area

thinking they would be "holding the space" until I could plant it, only to learn

that once they are in, they do NOT intend to leave. The ferns and coltsfoot

below are a little better at sharing space, and I love the combination of foliage,

but I will forever be digging blackberry out of this bed...

I'm always amazed when the teasel blooms, it teases (ha!) for a few days with a

slight tint of violet, and then bursts into a soft furriness that completely contradicts

the incredible sharpness of the rest of the plant.

Nothing whispers summer to me like the scent of purple petunias. Sitting by the
window in the evenings, they intoxicate me with their fragrance. No other color
seems to smell quite the same to me.

Flowers teach me more than I can possibly express.

Here, a lesson in radials and points.

Here, points, radials and fast form.

The perennial sunflowers have a wild center

when fully in bloom,

(do click to see details)

and the brown eyed susans really know their

sacred geometry!

Yesterday, I did a little drawing in a new sketchbook. It is not at ALL the right paper

for my spirals, becoming almost translucent with the slightest bit of water. Sometimes

its good to try out new surfaces, to see what's possible, but after a few tries, I let it

go.. sometimes its just wrong. Though I like some of the effects, I ripped the paper

with the nib pen most of the time. I need paper that can take a beating.

The paper in this sketchbook is MUCH better. Its an old book from graduate school
that I never finished and is now filling up with words and spirals. Hope to find one of these again... the paper is just right for what I am exploring with spirals at present.

This spiral -drawn a few weeks ago -definitely moves me inward...

Here is what is written at the bottom of the page.

My mother visited last weekend, and while out on an adventure to the Berkshires,

she gifted me with this necklace. It is a Sun Cross with a spirit animal on the bottom. Though I never draw faces on my spirals, to me, they are alive, so wearing this is like wearing the essence of my work.

I've been musing about how place influences me and my work. The spirals are very

related to forms in the forest and flowers in the garden. This place asks me to be slow

and to look and listen carefully - to lean in. Much of my life was spent living by the

ocean, where movement and expansiveness dominated. There, my work had much

more to do with rhythm, horizons and atmosphere. Shape, form and color, in my

early work was much sharper. Searching around in my studio, I discovered work

that I had done while living in Greece. It was good to look back at work from that

time, to see where I have come from. If you missed the post about that, you can

read it here.

"Sea & Sky", watercolor

"Taverna", ink drawing

"Mountain Road", watercolor

"Kalivi", ink drawing

"Dog", ink drawing

"Kalami", watercolor

I wonder if you can see seeds of my current work

in these?

Leaving you with pics of us...

me and Pasha cat,

staying cool under the oaks and hemlocks,

and dreaming of the sea sometimes.

Well, at least I am.

Wandering at the Waterfall

2011-07-21T21:55:00.000-04:00

Today I am grateful for abundant shade trees, cool water from a deep well and an
afternoon breeze that took a bit of the edge off the heat wave. The elevation of the
hills here kept the temperature well under the one hundred degree mark, but others
I spoke with were not so lucky. I was thankful it wasn't hotter, I tend to melt in heat
and humidity. Pasha and I both moved around from shady spot to shady spot, me
attempting chores in between long sits under the trees sipping lemon verbena and
chocolate mint water. It would have been a wonderful day to go to Glendale Falls,
but, alas, that was last weekends journey.

The hills here are often nothing more than mounds of ledge covered in a wee bit

of soil. Stones and ledges peek up everywhere, whispering their ancient earth

stories. Glendale Falls starts as a small tributary brook with a lovely pool at the top,

then cascades down in a series of falls and pools to the bottom. In spring it is quite

a rushing waterfall, but this time of year the pools are fed by small streams providing

many a wonderful swimming hole.

The pool at the top is deceptively deep, below, a fellow wanderer stepped into

the deepest part to have a real swim. There is a spot for a whirlpool massage as

well, as long as you don't mind an occasional small fish dancing in your hair.

One can climb down the smooth ledges from pool to pool, or walk beside the

falls in the forest. The way down is often a stone path with hundreds of tree

roots holding on for lack of deep soil.

Walking slowly between roots and stone, a magical moment of light captures me.

Small streams and pools sing gentle forest songs,

and everywhere the trees seem quite able to pull up

their roots and join me as I wander.

Two trees reach for each other, perched together

for a hundred years or more, holding root-hands

at the edge of the waterfall.

Scarred and knobbed, this broken root healed into

something that looks rather like the eye of a tree. Or

maybe a giant, green dragon once met a great sorcerer

and was changed forever into tree.

Small springs sprout from stone and moss and tree, and

I find myself walking further into the forest and away

from the people scrambling quickly down the

waterfall to see what is at the bottom. I am reminded

of the importance of the slow, meandering path.

I come upon a woodland cave, cool and dark and deep, and

know this place must be a favorite of bobcat and mountain lion,

once the humans have departed and the darkening forest

belongs again to the wilder ones.

As I look more closely at the pair of reaching trees,

I see tree spirits peering at me. I could feel them

here in this forest, and now I know they saw

me, too.