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. 

Sound Tracking in the Forest

We've had a bit of rain.... and mornings 

with magical mists while I sit drinking 

coffee in the moss garden. 

The same brown mossy hill I photographed in an earlier 

post bejeweled after a rainy night. Today it is back 

to brown, but more rain is expected and this 

hill knows how to sing exuberant songs of green

after a good shower. 

Gentle ferns do a lovely dance with the wind, 

swaying back and forth and dipping into the birdbath, 

kissing the stone bird. Not many birds come to this 

little bath, but the chipmunks who live in the stump

behind it drink here in the morning before Pasha 

is out and about. 

I do love balancing stones in stacks around the gardens, 

though they always lose their little top ones when 

those same chipmunks perch there and eat acorns. 

Though we really could use a week of rain, I have 

been enjoying being outside in warm, dry 

weather. Needing to write on the computer 

today, I had the grand idea of setting up outside 

in the moss garden. It has been such a sanctuary 

this summer and mosquito free. Dappled sunshine all day 

and cool with gentle afternoon breezes. 

Strange and wonderful this world of technology, 

that I could bring my computer outside and still 

check email listening to the Baroque iTunes

channel thanks to invisible waves passing through

my router.... wonder if the sound inaudible to me

 is too much for the dragonflies... 

"Storm at Dusk", watercolor 2009

On Sunday evening I was called out by frog songs and

the just past full moon. Sometimes at night, 

in the midst of doing evening things like 

reading or listening to music, I suddenly silence 

the artificial noises and move outside into the

sounds of frogs or owls or coyotes, 

or light rain on the 

metal roof. 

quick forest sketch

Sometimes the forest sounds are just so...

so soothing and wild that I am reminded of 

  the myriad of creatures living here as they 

sing their night songs. Vast spaces

feel measurable when filled with the far-off call 

of a coyote. Last night I could track the 

path of one as it moved around the forest, 

calling, calling as it traveled. A few 

nights before I heard the clattering 

of a branch as something lighted on it. 

A moment later, as I climbed into bed, 

the owl in a tree just eight feet from 

my window began calling to its mate.

So close I could hear slight resonances 

and nuances in her call that would be 

lost at a distance. Off in the forest, 

just at the edge of my hearing, 

a faint response.  

another drawing from my youth, 

"HawK" - age 18 or so

Day sounds in the forest are often quite 

shrill due to the resident ravens. 

If you've never heard them, they are 

amazingly diverse vocalists. Sometimes

sounding like other corvids - crows mostly- 

but a bit more throaty, and other times 

creating a variety of clicks and shrieks 

that find me shaking my head or laughing. 

three night bugs on a branch

As I sit here, a sweet buzzing of crickets fills 

the night, a clear marking of the seasons 

flowing toward late summer. July is frog songs,

August crickets. The buzz invites me to shrink

and travel the spaces between grasses, 

imagining the night view of a bug.