Sketchbook Writings

~ From my Sketchbook Writings, June 14th 2012 ~

[after a long night of insomnia which transformed into the gift of a pre-dawn beach walk]

It's colder than I expected, a world of gray and sound and clear orbs of jelly washed up on the beach.  I can not walk a straight line here; the damp imprints I carelessly leave behind weave and warp in a pattern of crazy.
I pick up another feather, this one tinier than the last, and understand something instinctual about humanity's need to adore themselves.
I need to wear feathers.
I need communion.
I need to imbibe the feeling of flight, feel the tug of wind across my scalp and the yearning of gravity toward my airborne hips.
I need the solitude of fog to wash through my chest, spitting out those ten thousand grains of sand I managed to pick up along the way.
I need the fire of dawn to burn off these lies I forgot to disbelieve, to leave a hot core of truth in its wake.
And then I realize:
this is no longer about the walk.

* * *

Sleeping in Bear Country

Last night, 

as the final hot arcs of sun stretched over the hills, after the tent was up and the sleeping bags unrolled, when the hum of ten million tiny wings grew to a roar,

I walked along the dirt path neatly separating the redwood forest from the open fields.  Sancho and I took our time, he busy sniffing out the trails of wild turkeys, me stuffing pockets with blue Jay feathers and plump rose hips.  Regularly I squinted into the sun, scanning the meadow; past the blackberries and thistles, around the scattered wild apple trees, keeping the pup close just in case. 

And then, against the far tree line, two black ears rose above the fescue.  Standing perfectly still, pale brown muzzle, sloped shaggy shoulders.  

I would be lying if I did not say my heart was beating a wild waltz.

I walked a few steps, shielded my eyes against the watery glare, and looked again.  The shape had changed, moved, but that profile was distinctive.  Was it a coy trick my retinas and my subconscious had paired up to play?  The sun was boring into my face, fading color to nothing but hot outlined shapes.  

We retreated calmly but with quick feet, climbing back up the short path to our site, glancing back at the now obscured meadow, adrenaline rushing in my ears.

When we entered the park, the ranger told us black bears had been sighted recently - and when it comes to caution I'm not a gal who needs to be told twice.  Before we tucked in for the night, every last stitch and crumb was locked away tight.  With the pup snuggled close at our feet, bellies full of flame-cooked food, and filtered moonlight on my face, we fell asleep to the sound of crickets.

When I awoke the first time the moon had set.  The black branches of the redwoods above us were barely perceptible against the midnight sky.  The pup was growling low and something large was rustling nearby.  SNAP a twig would break.  CRACK a branch would give way.  I tried to breathe silently in the futile way of humans; slow, open mouthed breaths so as to not compromise my hearing.  I poked BC's shoulder until he stirred with grunt.  The thwacking and crackling continued on, but no nearer the tent, until eventually we fell back into fitful sleep.  

When I awoke the second time, the stars were out, winking merrily through the needles.  Something walked across the tarp on the far side of the site.

When I awoke the third time, I needed desperately to pee, but a loud crunching sound was all I needed to convince my bladder back to sleep.

When I awoke the fourth time, the woods were blissfully silent.  Clear light was beginning to pool in the eastern sky and for the first time that night, I shivered.

When the first light of dawn brought color back to the forest, we pulled on layers and piled out of the tent.  Our little site was untouched, but the wild apple at the base of the hill, the one not more than fifty yards from us, looked worse for wear.  The ground below was scattered with broken limbs, healthy green leaves, and the largest pile of bear scat I had ever seen (composed primarily of apples, for interested parties).  The trunk held several sets of fresh gashes, deep marks from claws on their way up and one long stripe from what must have been a slip of the foot.

All of this to say,

I love the wild.

But I think I'll sleep sound in my cozy bed tonight.

Sketchbook Writings

~ From my Sketchbook Writings, Sunday May 1st through Tuesday May 3rd 2011 ~

(Along the Northern California Coast, in God's own best Spring weather, with naught more than a sketchbook, a pair of cowboy boots and kindred soul to share it with)

* * *
Coffee suits me well this morning.  Thanksgiving blend indeed!  The sky is an expanse of brilliance, causing my eyes to squint and water as I outline bits of tile and glass in my sketchbook.  The people in this town feel easy, and I wonder how far reaching the cadence of their footsteps carries. When I leave, how long with I carry their slow swagger?
* * *

* * *

For now I sit with bare feet, cold on the railing, watching waterfowl of every size floating and soaking toes in the estuary.  In the dunes below a cat hides in marsh grass, all controlled breath and snakelike tail.  He triggers a zephyr than sends my thoughts clutching at a dream; he must have been there last night, whispering feline fantasies about goslings and ancient wooden stairwells.  A single osprey hushes the noisy chatter below.  We nod, exchanging respects. The sun of the afternoon, evidenced by my scorched neck, has been masked by a marine layer.  My toes are cast cold and blue in this light.  I should stop eating pretzels.  I should pop in the shower.  I'm giving up should from my vocabulary.

* * *

* * *
I'm drunk on the luxury of the sky.  This little trip, passing so quickly, is best described by light: the flickering hot glow under the canopy of redwoods, the quiet cashmere cape while consuming eggs and toast, the bright afternoon which reduces everything to raw shape and form, the ethereal gleam of bluffs at sunset while the quail cooed and the rabbits scattered.  These are colors for which there are no names, only fleeting memory and stuttering tongues.
* * *

Research and Development Dove-Style

I do love an honest work day.

Cuter than a Can of Spam

And tastier to boot, is my parent's little Vintage Cardinal trailer on it's maiden voyage through the redwoods of the north.  We called it home base while we traversed forest and fields, chattering and clucking for hours, sitting in quiet contemplation.

Mug after mug of piping coffee, steam rising up to greet the dawn song of the birds.  Hands full with crow feathers, jay feathers, and one small pup who could melt the heart of the hardest stone.

Raccoons scuttling in as soon as Mars shone bright, leaving prints of ash and mud for us to guess their sizes.  Creatures with a multitude of legs and creatures with none, joining us for first meals of the day.

And the small things, the minuscule, the detritus, the ephemeral bits of moss and the tiny legs of lichen, we took them all in.

And the light, oh that light...

Woods and water, these things fill my cup to overflowing.  And so I drink deep, ducking my head low to catch the spill and lap up all that goodness.

Light on the Heart, Easy on the Eyes

And heavy on the inspiration. Hold the mushrooms, add some diced green chilies and a side of fresh fruit if you can. And if I could get another cuppa... Please and thanks and why don'cha pull up a chair and grab a mug?

Hello Monday.

I'm pleased to see you too. The skies have held thick and damp for days, casting unexpected shadows and flipping all the normal colors on their heads. I'm not sure if it's the briskness of the ocean air or the wheatgrass I've been taking every afternoon but something has electrified me down to my toes. I've got 10,000 volts running through my veins and the current just won't let me sit still. Inspiration runs rampant, flashing little sparks at the tip of my hair and zinging forked lightning under my fingertips. I really couldn't tell you what the original catalyst was, but I'd DELIGHT to show some of the fuel that has kept it alive.

1. THISTLES

It's a full-blown obsession. Between those sumptuous curves and deadly spikes they have me mesmerized, crouching down in empty fields to study their dangerous elegance, turning them delicately over and over in my mind, as if by rotating them five times to the left and three to the right I'll be able to unlock their secrets. I can't stop drawing them, in my sketchbook, on old envelopes, on the palm of my hand. And stitching, curving them around in rich black thread (it's a secret but I'll let it slip - I'm sewing again with abandon). Don't even try to stop me. I'm a woman addicted.

2. Twig Hutchinson

It's a strange sort of preoccupation I'm having with this website. I keep slowly pouring over the pages, soaking in those washed colors, delighting in the paint splatters, golden sunlight, and that lone sleeping [Velveteen] rabbit. I'm going to need to buy a pair of creamy cabled socks just so I can plop my bread and jam on the floor and tiptoe around it.

3. Miss 7391

(I KNOW! A jersey maid AND thistles? It's a wonder I didn't spontaneously combust with sheer delight)

I can't help it. I've gotten attached to the cows. One of my favorite evening runs takes me between sprawling pastures with crumbling barns, up and over the Mad River and to my favorite herd of moozers. I always stop to chat with them, and in return they crowd around to nuzzle my hand and bat those huge brown eyes at me. I feel as if I could pour out my heart to those ladies and they would treat it kindly, patiently, knowing that the perfect thing to say was nothing at all.

sigggggggggggggggh.

It's true love I tell you.

4. Interview with Malin Elmlid

This may appear perfectly random (which is how I stumbled across this site) but I can't stop myself from falling in love with the Scandinavian simplicity of these photos. I think it's my Finnish blood crying out for white walls and rustic breads. I crave hundred year old buildings with lumpy wooden floors and I must confess to pouring one full pitcher of raspberry mint water JUST because hers looked so delightful (Do you ever fall victim like that? Watching a movie, reading a book, flipping through a magazine and see something edible and before you know it, you just HAVE TO HAVE IT?).

5. My Happy Anniversary / I am Healed Necklace

Oh BC. Really there hardly need be words describing how I feel about this piece, nor the way it rests upon my chest. Oh Jillian. It's beyond perfect. It needed to live with me as much as I needed to wear it. You BOTH bring me to joy. And love. Thank you.

:::::

Well!

I hope inspiration alights on your shoulders today and lifts you right up out of that chair. Stretch up, open your eyes wide, breathe deep, and shake those tail feathers!

With a zing and a zip,

over and out.

- Umber

- From my sketchbook writings, July 25th 2010 -

I fear I'm becoming a recluse.

Driving through masses of humanity and concrete I could feel the undercurrent of the city; pulsing like a body on the verge of a heart attack. Pumping ever harder, faster, expanding while the confines of cement and mortar fill in the crumbling chinks. It took me less than 48 hours to remember how to drive that speed, dancing through the gauntlet, slipping by countless street signs and steady ambitions. I could feel the beat ringing in my ears and the need to move faster creeping up knees.

But then I hit the open hills.

The Golden Rolling Hills of California. The live oaks whose roots sink deeper than the mountains and reach their gnarled limbs in every direction like Shiva. I needed that space. I needed to dilate my ribcage and feel nothing pressing back. I needed to throw my arms wide and feel only the sunshine on my fingertips. I began breathing slower, deeper. I turned the radio up; I sang from my diaphragm. I let the wind blow hot over my skin, rumple my hair into an unruly tumble, and eased up on the gas pedal.

And then, like water in the desert to a parched woman, I hit the Redwood Curtain.

The temperature dropped and the scent of the forest filled the car. The road was bare before me and the rivers crashed far below my tires. The trees closed in behind me and I could have cried for the sanctuary. In this time of discovering the depths of my own strength and the fragility of my own body I'm desperate for it.

For Safety

For Shelter

For Refuge

This is where I am supposed to be.

There are hundreds of miles between the voracious hustle and my heart. And my heart is home.