Slowing, Rooting & Winter Work

"Root Woman", mixed media

Outside, occasional snowflakes glide to 

the earth, as a small crescent moon waxes with 

the new year. Inside, I sit by the fire, appreciative 

of the trees who gave their lives so that I may be warm. 

Deeper inside, I sink to my roots, slowing to the speed 

of tree and stone, listening to stories of 

the winter forest.

I had other plans this week - plans to make art, 

to winterize the studio, to finally complete the 

last few tasks on my list. But a borrowed heater was 

too small, a fuse blew because I plugged in two heaters, 

and the mis-marked fuse panel gave me the gift of 

time to reflect on what was really 

necessary right now... 

rest.

I have a gift of slowing, a few more weeks until 

classes begin. I need to dream. I am dreaming. 

Not sleep-dreaming.... I am soul dreaming.

And it is absolutely a necessary ingredient in 

my creative life. I am filling up with visual 

stories, listening, finding deep presence in 

a moment. I remember myself. I feel 

the slowed heartbeats of the bears

in their dens, beating close to 

the rhythms of the earth. 

At the end of the day, I sit outside with Pasha, 

who has begged for one more outing to watch 

the dipping of the sun. It is cold. We watch 

the sky and listen to a fox bark getting closer.

She dashes past, not expecting to see us sitting 

along her usual trail.

It is good to watch and listen with Pasha. He knows how 

to be slow, and watchful, and patient. We share 

an intimate silence as the sky shifts 

towards evening. 

Yesterday, we cleared some trees in preparation to 

build the new studio. Next winter the wood will 

heat the building, keeping me warm as I 

tell stories in paint and spin tales by the fire. 

Shelby and Tim, friends and talented woodsmen 

cleared the land and split piles and piles of wood. 

They made a pile of wood from diseased beech trees 

dry enough to be burned this season. I spent the morning

stacking it in my shed and feeling like a happy squirrel

with a nest full of nuts. I never quite know if I'll have 

enough wood to get me through the season, so to 

re-stock in January is a wonderful feeling.

Later in the day I visited a friend's hill-top farm, 

and stayed out too long in the cold admiring 

the trees silhouetted against a yellow-orange sky. 

Later by her fire, we chatted about our days 

working with trees. She had spent the day

splitting a huge, ancient maple that had come 

down in an ice storm and hauling it 

out of the woods. 

On days of winter work and slow listening, I find 

myself wondering what a different world we might

live in if everyone remembered the language of trees,  

and practiced the art of soul-dreaming.