WILDFLOWER PICKING

Not long ago,

I went with my sister to the cutover land

We drove out an elderly two-lane road

in a leisurely way.

Our focus was to each side of the road.

Our focus was wildflowers.

Mary is rather an expert at this;

she takes after our mother.

Mama took her four children on special outings,

frequently ending up at the cutover land,

Her eagle eye would scan the thinned-out field,

noting the charred bark on the tall pines.

This was an ideal place for Orchids, Wood-lilies,

or whatever seasonal jewel she might spy.

Mary, too, has the eye and the sensitized soul

that told her when

to pull her old Honda onto the precarious shoulder.

We spilled out,

disregarding the honks and hurled imprecations of drivers

in too great a haste to notice the flowers.

Some time later

we reassured a state patrolman…

who presumed these two elderly ladies

must need assistance.

We held up our glorious bouquets

with smiles of pleasure

and he left us in peace.

And we are at peace.

We allow this place to draw us in…

to transport us quickly back

to the idyllic ramblings of our childhoods.

Our mama’s presence is palpable

when we stand still and listen for the sound of the wind

as it plays in the pine branches over our heads.

We breathe in as sisters

though our approaches differ when it comes to picking.

I dive into beauty

the moment I leave the car,

drawn by color and delicacy of form

without needing to know the names.

Mary crosses to the other side of the road,

her magnificent mind full of species as intricate

as the names she sings out with glee.

I forget them as soon as they enter my ears,

and photograph all I see.

We both know we are united in our sisterhood

and the road is easily crossed

when it’s time to go home.

At home

I placed my bouquet below the window…

just next to the kitchen sink.

And the light that found its way

to these blooms of the wilderness

found its way to me also.

Together we greeted each day…

each influx of light.

We gazed at each other,

our eyes like stars remembering…

sisterhood in the cutover land.

LESSON IN SURVIVAL

A path curves through the woods

that surround my house.

Since I moved there in 1992,

I have yielded the right away repeatedly to wildlife:

Birds, mammals, reptiles lay claim to this area

long before I dared to build and settle in the midst.

This fierce Brown Thrasher and his constant mate

presumed to build their nest

over-close to the path I walk each day.

Of course I discovered the tiny smidgeons

of blue and gray fluff

that turned out to be babies.

I puzzled over the blue for a while,

as I raised my camera high

to capture a fuzzy likeness.

I earned a most definite scolding

from an upset mama,

before she lured me away with a gentle cooing

and posed beguilingly for my camera.

As the days rolled by this became a routine of sorts:

My curiosity pulled me back with my upraised camera,

and the parent birds appeared to scold and lure me away.

The babies took on a brownish hue,

but my respect for the privacy of the little family

prevented this wood-be photographer

from getting a clear shot.

Instead I focused on the ever-present parents

and was rewarded.

This little mama lives her life on a tightrope,

 exercising – minute by minute – the will to survive.

My empathy for her –

and for her mate and offspring –

makes it difficult for me to see myself

as the invasive human.

Yet that is what I am.

And the only contribution I can make

to their survival –

after the nest is empty and the birds moved on –

is to decorate a little pot and tell their story…

as I see it:

and

LOTUS WOMAN

She sat on my shelf but briefly…

before moving on,

gladly sharing space with creations out of my past.

She graciously gazed into my camera lens…

as I recorded my brief moments

as her student.

When I had floundered

at the beginning of creation,

she calmed my fingers and my mind.

She drew attention

to the curving lines of vase…

of woman sitting.

Beyond surrender I flowed easily…

into the center of what came to me:

Woman meditating on the lotus of her life.

FAMILIAL DANCE

Emotions were intense –

and asking for expression –

in the week I began this pot.

As I picked up my pencil,

sorrow still swirled

in the place between my breasts.

No wonder at all

that I fell back on dance…

appealed to the passion of my youthful years

to counteract the heavy ache

of body and mind.

My soul complied…

The child leapt

from the passionate and driven man

that was her father…

leapt into practical, dependable connection

with her mother.

The mother’s love was based on faith.

Her spiritual guidance would be lasting.

Her dancer daughter –

born of opposites –

would not forget the familial dance.

The circular and grounding source

must be repeatedly returned to:

for nourishment…

for rest…

for stabilizing.

And equally,

repulsion and rebounding.

I know this now as I renew the bond

with the women of our family…

renewing also the creative drive.

Even as the body ages and subsides,

the spiritual fire lives on.

So does the dance…

PRAYING WOMAN

This praying woman

appeared on  a pot

not long before losing Star.

The little dog was fading

and other things were contributing also

to a pervading sadness.

I sat in the annex with the other women

and willed my hand to draw something other

than a female figure

weighted with what I was feeling.

Yet I found that I was rubbing out more

than I was drawing.

Surrender gave me the truth:

a sorrowing woman appealing for mercy.

And mercy came in the form of angels:

child-shaped…

plump and earthy with determined love.

Generous and wise

as children can be,

they danced in the woman’s night sky…

and with them came stars.

Sweet natures,

whether in children or angels…

or dear little dogs  –

always and innocently –

bring comfort.

And STAR-LIGHT…

STAR

Little dog, Star

has moved on.

She has left us behind:

her earthly companions…

to grieve, to remember, to grieve

until we grieve no more…

but celebrate her well-lived life.

She came as a puppy

almost fourteen years ago,

and embraced her new world

with enormous enthusiasm.

She looked up to Music

 as older brother

and constant companion:

purebred…and handsome as all get out.

Star was a Cocker and Beagle mix;

a little comical and downright cute.

She loved to ride in the car,

deferring to Music

when it came to who rode where.

She lounged in the back like a happy queen,

eager for whatever Mama had in mind,

though Mama knew she loved East Beach the best.

She lapped up fresh salt air

with obvious pleasure,

and gave herself completely

to a windy romp along the hard-packed shoreline.

In this she came to lead the way,

and Music scrambled to keep up.

Star’s wonderful tail

was a flag we simply had to follow.

Her love was irresistible…

a source of joy.

Dear little dog…

For so many years she gave her love

and tolerated my human foibles…

my comings and goings

physically and emotionally.

Mostly she kept her sorrows to herself,

thumping her tail delightedly

each time I spoke her name.

She was always good for a snuggle;

Comfort should have been her middle name.

Even in her later life

when physical ailments came…

one after another:

Torn tendon, Cushing’s Disease, Thyroid problems,

failing Kidneys.

Dr. Duke and Dr. Randall did their best,

 and Star was grateful.

Yet finally…

the inability to relieve the pressure in her bladder,

and cancer discovered by dear Stacey Randall…

Star’s friend Ellen crying  with me

as I said goodbye…

She never meant to pull on my arm so hard.

It was her eagerness that pulled;

she couldn’t wait  to get where she was going.

Her magnificent nose picked up the smell

of fox, raccoon, armadillo, strange cat…

or dog friends with their humans.

Orvis!

Her appetite was whetted by berry season:

Dewberries, Blackberries, Mulberries…

especially Mulberries.

Star grazed beneath the Mulberry tree

for berries the Cedar Waxwing dropped…

especially for her.

Oh Star!

I can’t help wondering where you are…

 

GOODBYE MAY

Poor May…

I may have too many expectations of her.

May: the transitional month

between spring and summer.

I want her to last forever;

birth month for me

and for many plants and creatures

of the natural world.

May: Month of promise

when wonderful things may happen.

Pre-hurricane season…

May: Pretty name, pretty month…

But now it is June.

In May, shortly after completing the pot encircled by dancers, I held this mug in my hand and waited without expectation for an urge to begin. When the line appeared I followed, surprisingly free of judgment…expressing amusement only at the generous bottom of the woman, her leg thrust through  the opening beneath the handle . Bold woman, believing in what she would find on the other side. And she did find… We found the balancing energy we sought, and the story unfolded. Love among the honeysuckle vines, or perhaps a larger reality: anima/animus realized in one complicated being. I saw both and all as I incised the lines and applied the slip: the layer of liquid clay that would whiten and prepare the surface for color.

I was pleased

as the slow, sweet application of color

intensified union.

The hues were bright and clean.

The relaxed and tender face of the woman’s lover

belied the difficult work of finishing…

redefining lines that had faded

with constant handling.

Yet now came the dangerous moment:

As readiness for firing approached,

so did my expectations increase.

What had been wrought upon the mug

would surely only heighten and increase.

This piece that had emerged

from somewhere deep within my self

would emerge again as worthy and desirable

for placement in the Shearwater Pottery showroom.

Oh dear…

I knew immediately what caused the changes that dismayed my hopeful heart. The slip applied to prepare the clay to receive the color had been unevenly applied. It was my first time using the slip and I had rushed; inexperience combined with over eagerness for color was the culprit. Even so, I photographed her less than satisfying completion, doing my best to appreciate her as she is. I even placed her in the showroom…my little blooper mug. Will she be seen and known, regardless of her flaws? Will someone take her home and wonder at her elegant rawness,  drink from her thoughtfully…rubbing a thumb over brail-like etchings that may tell her story? Or will she sit on the shelf for weeks, months, years as other obviously beautiful objects are selected. No matter… I have released her, come what may…

Update: I placed her on Friday, come what may, and what came on Saturday was a person who saw her, knew her, and took her home…just as she is.

CIRCLE OF RENEWAL

In the beginning

I took the pot in my hand,

smoothed its surface

and sponged the dust away.

Pencil in hand,

I bravely allowed

the first faint tracing of a dancing woman.

The pot was round;

one woman led to another.

Limbs intertwined, connected.

Hands took flight.

Flight called to flight,

and small birds joined the dance.

Each woman’s face expressed the joy

I was feeling.

It was time to emphasize the lines

that would absorb the color.

A tiny instrument in hand,

I deepened the impression…

committing further

to this particular dance of joy.

How beautiful to be absorbed again

in the creative process,

to disregard the ache of my still healing arm!

How beautiful

 to celebrate the dance again,

to trust the strengthening and rehabilitating gift

of making art!

Yes, I embraced the process,

though the next step in the process

obscured the lines.

I may have trembled as the green wash was applied,

Yet I had come to trust

the layering and un-layering that life requires,

I knew that here, too, was the possibility

of revelation.

I held the pot and gently rubbed its surface.

The thumb on my right hand

assumed a greenish hue…

as I forgot myself

in the enlightening moment

of re-emerging line.

More glaze was then applied:

a delicate rose brought warmth

to the dancer’s bodies.

The flying birds were lit

by a sunny yellow.

The next step in this dance

would be the alchemy of firing.

Just as dancing women encircle this little Pot, women encircle the table where I am learning to paint on pottery. Thanks to Patricia, Adele, Marie, and Nancy who guide my apprenticeship, and to Penny and Ruth who are mightily adept at working with molds. I have been made welcome by the warm and talented sisterhood who grace the workshop annex of Shearwater Pottery.

NEW GROWTH ON BENT HICKORY

On a recent walk…

I found myself struck still and charmed

by the “blooming” of a Hickory.

Bent low, struck low

some years ago

by a storm’s relentless blast,

she is still growing…

living past the blows dealt.

Now she blooms.

I find myself in love

with this brave evidence of persistent life.

I walk past daily

and as the tree revives,

 I find myself revived

by spring’s hard rains…

by sun’s intense caresses.

Perhaps we are much tougher than we thought.

LONE GREEN HERON

Late afternoon,

and I had walked the dogs;

endured their stops and starts,

their drag upon my aching arms.

Now I had shut the door

upon the ache of our attachment,

was walking freely to the water’s edge.

My arms felt light,

my mind relaxed into the ambience

of soft light spilling over water,

lone green heron standing in the marsh.

My camera was at hand;

it’s eye was open.

My eye was open to perceive the beauty

of a solitary bird.