Haven’t been here for a while . . . I’ve got what you would call a, ‘good reason.’ Since I’m inherently suspicious of ‘good reasons,’ I’ve taken this one out, snuffling around it like bloodhound following the juicy scent of a bleeding rabbit. It seems to me that often ‘good reasons’ can sometimes be nothing more than a slippery little trick of the mind to avoid or procrastinate something that requires more than my ordinary courage and life energy. On the other hand, there are times and passages in life that occupy more than their fair share for a while . . .
I’m packing up to move out of my home where many years accumulations have been stashed in boxes in the attic, plastic tubs in the closets, drawers, shelves, under bed bins . . . The stream of stuff and decisions to be made about it has felt endless, even though I know there is a limit. What seemed like a really grand idea when buying this house many years ago boasting oodles of storage space now shows up as a tremendous deficit in those terrifying moments when I discover yet another untouched pocket of place mats and embroidered napkins from an older friend now gone, multiple boxes of feathers, sea shells and odd bits of paper and ribbon . . . I don’t care much for clothing or shoes, but I’m simply thrown to caress a smooth round stone, shell, twisted piece of wood, or an old rusted skeleton key that I find along a beach or woodsy path. In my backpack they go like the treasures they are and at some point they move from the window sill to a receptacle somewhere in the maze of ample storage space in my soon to be former home.
As I’ve been sorting, purging, and packing I’ve been thinking a lot about value . . . I mentioned place mats. In truth, I don’t care for them, but I have some for the simple reason that a loving soul now gone embroidered little images of fruits and vegetables on them. I doubt they are of any value to anyone else other than a collector of kitsch, and they tug at my heart. It’s Her I value, Her memory I tap into when I hold them. It’s a way of connecting to Her again. It’s really the same with the stones and photos and theater programs and the copious mother’s day presents like popsicle stick pen holders, clay turtles and paper bird nests. These things have value for they are the crumbs that have been scattered along the trail so I can find my way back . . . and I’m finding out I’ve got a lot of crumbs.
I think there are two different kinds of people . . . the travelers and the homesteaders. The travelers are those able to be transplanted, the ones who never put down deep roots in any particular location, more like they’re heeled-in. The homesteaders are those solid immovable types like the grand old trees that throw roots into the earth reaching for its core and they, ‘ain’t goin’ anywhere.’ I think we need both in this world, another facet of the yin-yang dynamic of life. Me? I suspect I’m a traveler at heart and a homesteader wannabe. I adventure and drawn to movement like a traveler and I confess I collect like a homesteader! I suspect this for the simple reason that while I’ve been packing up . . . perhaps a clue? . . . I’ve been pondering the journey of my garden . . .
I have a backyard garden room. When I moved into this home the backyard was completely sterile--grass surrounded by green hedge . . . Boring? Yes, and also, a blank canvas. Every spring I have chipped away at my garden, digging out beds for roses and lavender, as well as beds for ocean washed brick I’ve collected from countless walks on the intriguingly rugged beaches of the NW coastline and Puget Sound. I’ve created an alcove in the shade where ivy, bamboo and ferns hum a steady little tune and form a pleasant place for my lovely Buddha to sit peacefully over-looking the round stone path that meanders around to another bed--this one for the birds. The birds have low hanging branches from Japanese maples to give them protection while bathing in one of the several water vessels I’ve ‘planted’ for their enjoyment.
In the stone stream I included one larger pool that some years ago caught the attention of a particularly tenacious local raccoon who was convinced I put it there to serve as his toilet. I’ve had serious conversations with him as well as the audacious deer family who munch on the tender shoots of my precious roses. In the end I have to say that our negotiations haven’t gone as well as I would have liked--deer and raccoon have won every year. In spite of hungry, toileting wildlife the garden is lovely, and something quite unexpected happened last summer. It was something like a magnetic pull to another chapter in my adventure . . . the garden so many years in the making felt complete, finished, done.
After years of digging and planting, weeding, hauling stone, hauling sand, pruning, re-planting, watering, amending the soil with compost, waiting for trees to grow, beds to fill in, birds to come, flowers to bloom . . . it’s done. This is how I know I’m a traveler . . . now that I’m done, it’s time to move on. You see, a homesteader would say it’s time to sit back and enjoy, have the friends and family over and share the garden. For me the heart of the value of the garden was in its creation. It’s lovely and I enjoy sharing it immensely . . . and some enticing new tune is singing in the wind. This spring I walk around listening for something that’s screaming or even just whispering a visual imbalance to correct or a lonely space to fill, something that needs attention other than regular maintenance, and nothing speaks. The garden is quiet, yet from an entirely different direction I do hear a song emanating from beyond the top of the hedge, a song drawing me to a new horizon . . . Time to move on.
This is no different than painting. I’m traveling there too, questing for something that I get a little closer to with every canvas. It’s an aching inside me, a fire that burns and demands fuel. It is a journey not unlike the journey of those who climb mountains . . . Every painting is a few steps up, a few steps closer to a summit that reigns in my heart as it does in the heart of a climber. It’s the thing that for most of the journey remains elusively hidden behind tall trees, rocky out-croppings blanketed away from sight under cloud-cover. Sometimes I get a peek at what I’m journeying after in a brush of color or a throw of liquid gold that crosses the canvas like the pointer of a compass revealing my north. Mostly, I’m slogging through dense forest, convinced by a strong internal drive that while I can’t see the summit, it’s there. Most of the time all I can see and have access to is the next step.
The value for me in all that I do or think is to bring as much of my presence as possible to the moment. From there I engage my courage to take the next step as intuited by deep listening to my inner compass. I often move toward something I cannot clearly see from my current vantage point, just as I can’t always see where the paint will lead . . . and I keep on painting. There will come that moment on the canvas when the painting screams or whispers, “Stop!” Then I stop. Or, a similar moment standing in a garden when an odd sensation comes over me and I realize my garden is complete, and I stop . . .
Breathing deeply of this morning’s cool, moisture laden air the scents are different. Something new is leading me out of my garden and down the road a few miles to a funky old house on a lake where I will soon live. I’m taking a few pots of my favorite plants, the ones who, like me, transplant with relative ease. I’m not sure where this leg of the journey goes, I only know it is the next step . . .
That’s what this artist is thinking about today . . .
PS . . . More about roots . . . My grandmother traveled to America in the early 1900’s, a young woman who used to hang with the gypsies in the forests of Slovakia. She traveled the ocean and then settled in the midwest to raise her family and some of her children’s children. I knew her as a homesteader, not in her days as a traveler. We had a very special connection, she was my image of woman. I think I made the assumption somewhere long ago that it was best for women to be homesteaders . . . best for children if Mom was a homesteader like my grandmother, and god knows I tried . . .
What I didn’t factor into the picture was the traveling gypsy she had been and left behind in the forests of Europe. As the years have gone by I have come to believe that the same blood runs in my veins and what’s best for me and consequently my family and anyone I touch in this life, is that I own my true nature. Perhaps there’s room to experience both in our lives, and that’s another thought for another day. In this moment I’m inhabiting my rich colorful traveling legacy and gettin’ on down the road . . .
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