Short Days of Rust & Brown

 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.  

Into the Mystery

"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.