The Medicine of Home

A cool breeze carrying the scent of purple petunias snakes past my toes. I've 

shut off the music to listen to the evening songs of Hermit Thrushes and 

Robins and watch the breath-like movement of the canopy against a blue-gray 

sky. My breath is slow and even and I finally feel a deep sense of calm - I am 

home in the cool forest, the studio is finished, the opening festival has come and

gone and I think just maybe I can begin to find my natural rhythm and flow again.  

I see that it has been about a month since my last post - back when the forest 

was lush and full of salamanders and gleaming with moisture. With plentiful spring 

rains, the foxgloves grew high on one side of the old studio, and the lupine 

on the other.

In the moss garden, a stone bunny shelters in the low growth, and somewhere 
in the forest, Pasha found a bunny-family and brought me a few. The first one 
was quite dead, an offering dropped on the Persian carpet with great pride. 

The following day, he came dashing in and dropped a live bunny at my feet. 
I whisked her up and into a box and still in my bathrobe drove down the road to 
let her find a new home near the field. 

It seemed that June (and maybe April and May, too) was full of dashing about 
preparing for this and that, with less time for art-making and forest-dreaming and 
more than the usual amount of stress and anxiety and goings-on. The day after 
Solstice, I ran off to Florida to help my mother when she returned from the hospital 
after major surgery. It was to be for a week, but ended up being two: a gift 
that my not-so-mainstream life-style allowed. Mum is doing quite well, but 
recovery is slow and intense and has its ups and downs. 

Shortly after my arrival, tropical storm "Debby" came whirling in bringing a week 

of rain and tornadoes and a bit of anxiety. Eventually the sun came back out,  

and the duckies put on their sunglasses and hung out at the pool. There was little 
time to explore the jungle around the house, but I did steal a moment with my 
father for the tour. 

Entering the garden through the arbor, one is met with the smell 

of jasmine and gardenia and little geckos scurrying away. 

 Tall laurel oaks and live oaks support climbing plants,

and twining vines and bands of happy blue jays.

My favorite place is occupied by a magnificent stand of bamboo. 

Silhoutted in the morning light, it was a joy to awaken to everyday.  

My proud Dad leads the tour, and I'm amazed at how much work he has done 

here since my visit last year. We share a deep love of the land - and of creating 

beauty with plants and stones. A shame there are no stones in Florida for him 

to place here and there as he did in Massachusetts, but maybe better for his back! 

Beautiful scented shrubs and flowers and strange succulents 

clinging to coral, birds of paradise, palms and passionflowers fill 

this small garden, as well as orange, grapefruit and banana trees. 

At the far edge of the garden, a moss covered pine marks the boundary. 

I love the draping of the Spanish Moss, but Dad says its a bit to raggedy looking 

for him. 

Back at RavenWood, the garden is dry and thirsty. Little rain has fallen in 

the two weeks I was away and a few favorite plants died. Still there are plenty 

of well established plants in the right soil that are thriving, and happiest of all 

are the native plants.  

One thriving and very happy native is Pasha -kitty. For a kitty who is rarely 

ever inside, he endured the longest time on house-arrest ever! He had visitors 

to feed him, visitors to play with him and even one to do some writing so he 

wouldn't be alone one day. I wasn't sure how I would be greeted when I returned, 

but it was the sweetest purr-fest ever!

The luna moths have gone, replaced by other moths - but none so spectacular. 
Without much rain, evenings are quiet without the singing tree frogs. Even the cricket
hum is strangely low. I'm anxious to get into the studio and see what emerges and 
to wander amongst the trees with Pasha to sit with the stones and drink the wild
forest medicine. I appreciate the lush beauty of Florida - the fragrant flowers and 
amazing birds - but I belong to this land of mosses and hemlocks and pools of still
waters. I'm happy to be home to watch the garden grow for a while. 

Remarkable Trees in the Land of My Ancestors

Many years ago, my father's grandparents lived in 

Florida surrounded by acres of orange trees. I've 

heard stories of that wild land, the various people who 

worked in the orchard, and a brave neighbor who swam in the

 river with the alligators. There was the time that my grandfather

shot a hole in the bottom of the boat because a very large, very 

poisonous water moccasin jumped aboard. He killed the snake, 

but also scared his passenger half to death as he hadn't seen the 

snake come aboard.  

I remember stories of the orchard hands teaching my father to fish 

and tying bacon to his ankles to protect him from chiggers. My 

ancestors hauled water, and lived with the fragrance of 

orange blossoms in the night air. 

Though these stories are a part of my family history, they never 

seemed to take root inside me as something that bound me to my 

great grandparents. I have always lived in the north, comfortable 

and happy away from heat and humidity. 

Last November, my parents moved to the West coast of 

Florida. It surprised me, as I always considered them 

connected to the northlands here. As a family, we spent a 

considerable bit of time in Puerto Rico when I was child, 

as my father had a factory there, so who knows why 

it seemed so surprising that they should feel drawn 

to the tropics once again. 

I flew down to visit them last weekend, in the land of sun and 

alligators. My first sighting of an alligator was at the creek by 

their house. At first I thought a tire was floating in the water, 

until the fish started jumping and the alligators tail - with 

remarkably good tread - sank and re-appeared near the bank. 

If you look closely, you can see the nose sticking 

out of the water to the right. 

We went hiking on a boardwalk through a swamp.

Gray, Spanish Moss hung from the oak branches, 

and the palm leaves created linear light 

patterns that enchanted me. 

I recognized  many forest species, surprised to see

them in such a tropical climate. The old man's beard

below is a familiar forest lichen. 

I leaned in close, marveling in vine lines and leaf textures.  

Eventually, the swamp opened up to a river plateau, 

and we watched vultures soar on the thermals overhead

and egrets forage in the marsh. 

We were gifted by a sundog - a rainbow 

encircling the sun. 

Gnarled live oaks draped in moss

held court in the clearings, and shadows 

danced on palm leaves. In a moment of midnight

magic, I wonder if this palm leaf might turn 

into a peacock?  

One day we visited the Myakka River State Park, the 

largest state park in Florida. We took an airboat tour

and saw herons, egrets, cormorants and many, many

alligators. 

We climbed high into the canopy on this tower, 

walked across a small suspension bridge through the 

foliage, and up higher for the view. 

In the town of Venice, I met remarkable trees, and 

would have spent hours with them, though we were 

just passing through. Below is one of several 

Banyan trees in the center of the boulevard. 

The oaks lining the street also captivated me, wearing 

their Spanish Moss finery and shading the sidewalks. 

All of a sudden, when I viewed the scene below, a 

memory of a painting that hung in my grandparents' house 

came to me. Palm trees, and a man, or men, leaning on a trunk. 

A thread of memory, something familiar though distant, began 

stitching me to this place. These visual stories have been 

with me since I was a small child, though only called up again 

now, as I hear the whispering of the palms in the warm, 

afternoon breeze and smell the grapefruit blossoms 

and jasmine in my parents' garden. My father has come 

full-circle, choosing to return to the land of his youth, and I, 

on a pilgrimage to the land of my ancestors, 

feel connected to stories rooted here that

 I didn't know I had lost.