A Song at the End of a Life

"The death of a beloved is an event that rings and rings through life:

bearing it is not a problem to be solved, but a long, slow piece of music to listen
 to. And mourning, like music, is best listened to with others."    Sarah Miles 

I'm not one to avoid the hard things...and coming here tonight feels hard. Mom died 

in mid-October, the day before my birthday. She loved reading this blog and was one 

of my most enthusiastic supporters. My sister and I got to Florida in time to spend 

two good days with her before she began the active dying process. On Saturday when 

we arrived, she was alert, talkative, sitting up and and so relieved that we made it in time. Hospice came a day and a half later, and by Tuesday afternoon, she had flown 

away with the birds. There were profound gifts of beauty and love along with the pain and deepening grief. It was a gift to be able to offer her healing work during her last days, and to sing to her as she died. My sister and father sang with me as she slipped more and more into dreaming. In her final moments, we sang Swing Low Sweet Chariot and marveled at the chorus of birds outside her window as she took her last breaths. 

Being with the land is a great solace, as always, and soon some of Mom's ashes will 

be spread in the moss garden here, a decision that she made after I first moved here, 

long, long before her illness. I think a stone bench and a birdbath are in order, to 

tuck amongst the mosses and ferns, so we - the birds and I - can continue our singing. 

I don't have a lot to say tonight, so I offer you images. I needed to come here and 
write this to mark this moment, to say that I am OK, up and down as the grief process 
is - not making much art. I'm walking and looking and taking photographs, and marveling at the astonishing beauty of water drops on shriveled weeds and the November forest surrendering to the coming winter. 

Invoking with Ink and Brush

A golden light glows in the October forest, and my energy - like honey - drips down
to the roots. September left me worn and worried and dreaming of routine and  
normalcy, but finding an ocean of intensity to navigate. My dear Mum went back 
into the hospital in early September for a second cancer related surgery. Being 
already weak from surgery in early June, the second surgery was risky. Her recovery
is slow and her spirits are low and its difficult to be far away, difficult to feel bowled 
over by the autumn color as I usually am. 

I've needed to be quiet, to find strategies to cope with anxiety, startling the 

first few weeks after Mum's surgery when the phone rang. I've needed to sink into 

roots, to invoke stories of guardian spirits and wise women and dreamers in the earth

with my brush. It occurs to me that if a collector who owns one of my minimilast 

landscpaes were to happen by, they might be shocked at the shift in my work. 

But my work has always been a deeply storied invocation to spirit, whether or not 

a gallery or collector sees it as such. Drawing these spirits into being right now is 

something I must do. 

They began showing up in my journal pages a few years ago, coming and going 
with a kind of seasonal flow. Today in the studio I began exploring them with 
a bit more of a commitment. With sepia and yellow ochre ink, pen and brush, 
I spent an afternoon in the root realm. Seeing them here and editing the photos 
helps to see what else is possible. 

Another image in the margins of my journal of late is ferns. I've been obsessively 
decorating the pages with fern patterns, speeding through my word entries to 
get to the drawings. A few days ago I played with fern patterns and bleeding, 
and will continue with this obsession as well. 

Leaves drift quietly to the earth, and a muskiness scents the breeze. On my walk 
to the studio this morning I felt a bit of the heaviness leaving me as the beauty 
of the changing forest moved me.  

My sweet, dependable friend has found a new place to focus these days. He 
spends much of his time staring with such intensity to one spot in the garden. 
One morning I walked outside to greet him, but he did not move an inch as I 
approached. I like that he is so close by, so that when I wander out to the studio
steps and call his name, he's there in a flash to sit with me while I drink my tea.