Sketchbook Writings

~ From my Sketchbook Writings, Sunday March 20th 2011 ~

(At the summit of the Trinidad Head Trail)

(In the lightest rain the heavens could drop)

Up here the air is thick.  Rich.  Each mouthful a culinary experience.  Up here the wind has tidied her kitchen, taming the brush into an orderly existence, perfectly uniform curves and closely shorn foliage.

I check in on my senses one by one, lest I'm overwhelmed with all this peak has to offer.  When I open my mouth I can taste the sea.  I detect a hint of sweetness from the sugared blooms, each pink saucer smaller than my fingernail, a tang that causes my jaw to clench from the years of detritus below my feet, a chalkiness from limestone grinding away, and finally a bright note that can only be attributed to the ten thousand trilliums raising their holy faces to the wind.  My undeniably human odor is mixed in there too; I wonder if the sparrows sense me on the air, breath in all my idiosyncrasies, if my scent compliments the rich soup of this coastal air.

Sketchbook Writings

~ From my Sketchbook Writings, Thursday January 20th 2011 ~

The Moon, like a pied piper, stole my heart away this morning, dancing and luring it through cerulean skies.  I stood on the stoop and shivered in the blue light, stamping my feet and blowing great clouds of heat through my lips.  There was no time for photoshoots, no time to arrange myself to watch the show, for directly east, the Sun was charging over mountaintops in a shameless flood of luminosity.  He chased La Luna like a jilted lover, warming her skies with toasted apricot hues, warming my cheeks to a rosy glow, warming the breath of the crows to puffs of pure white, like tiny steam engines in the grass.

She, however, only laughed and slipped westward over the sea.  Westward singing my heart over the waves.  Westward till only the frigate birds could spin in her reflected light.

I tried to drink it all in, tried to record those subtle shifts of color with absolute precision, tried to imprint my mind with the way the atmosphere vibrated when their lights clashed.  But like all moments of glory when the heavens open and mere mortals peek inside, I found myself dumbstruck with beauty.  Drunk and heady, stumbling forward with wide eyes.  I opened my mouth but only single notes and the scent of paperwhites came out.  

Now, I look at my hands and recall, ever so faintly, when the sky was the color of my fingertips.

Sketchbook Writings

Somedays I just chat in my sketchbook, keeping a record of sorts.  Today was one of those kind of days.

- From my sketchbook writings, December 16th, 2010 -

Today the sea offered up a veritable smorgasbord of color and texture, along with a fine grit of salt to line my lips.  I felt like the month of April was vacationing on the coastline, taking a break from anywhere that utters the words "deep freeze," so I gladly traded out my jacket for a pashmina, stripped off my gloves, rolled up my sleeves and bade it please, please warm my skinny forearms.  The sea stone cache was so grand that two exceptional things happened: 1) A trip to the car was required, as I was dragging a fully laden bag, only to empty it to the floorboards and walk directly back to the shoreline for more. 2) The second bag, filled to bursting, gave up on this life and loosed itself from the shoulder strap in a huge tumble of noise and chaos.  How great is a haul that breaks the back (or strap) of the bag that carried it?  I take this as a sign of overwhelming bounty, absolutely topped off with fresh material.  I want to lodge my soul firmly in this place, to line my thoughts with a tapestry woven from seaweed and sword ferns.

***

I adore this tiny cafe, in this tiny town, nearly airplane sized but with a heart of pure gold.  As I sit scratching away in this book of mine, the bubbly barista in the enviable stockings pronounces to a [traveling] patron that they have no paper togo cups, reason being that he has now stepped into the land of tree-huggers and would he like to purchase a mason jar for his coffee.  I'm quite content in this land, drinking my tea from a well-used hunk of ceramic, nibbling on a homemade lemon bar, my mood matching the sunshine splashed up the walls.  I sip more maté and contemplate taking home a raw, vegan cinnamon roll made by someone up the lane named Joe.  I just feel good.  Which is the most simplistic set of words to describe the state of my heart, the color of the light pouring from my sternum, the downy wings I'm pretty sure are sprouting from my spine.  

**********

Home.

I'm thinking about Dwelling.  

I have new work to show you.

I have a new piece almost ready to reveal.

Did I mention I'm painting it for you?

In celebration, in a giveaway

because there is SO much in my life worth celebrating.

(yep. More on that tomorrow after my final post-chemo appointments)

Oh yeah, this funky beat is what I'm sliding my brushes to today. 

"Wont wont wont ba da ta da"

(this is exactly the sound coming out of my mouth)

(also I shake my shoulders with some SOUL when I chair dance)

mmmmmuah!

- Umber

Sketchbook Writings

It was entirely too delicious out to hole up inside today, even though my studio is spanking clean and looks like one of those kitchen photographs that are too perfect to believe anyone actually uses the oven. That will change all too soon, but for the moment, I'll glory in all that is fresh and squeaky.

I left the house today with the singular intention of Serious Errand Running, you know, pick up the mail, grab some epson salt, buy two more finch sock bird feeders (the original feeder suffered the craftiness of the crows who managed to sling it up and over it's bough, then rip huge gashes in the fabric in order to gluttonize on the sweet sweet taste of thistle seed.  I can never find it in me to be upset at the crows; I have too much love for their iron will to thrive).  But when I tossed my sketchbook in the back seat of the Jeep, I knew other plans would arise.

I needed to write, to pour out the words that were bound up tight between my ribs, shortening my breath.   I also needed coffee and and an almond croissant, but the words were what gave me back my joy.  And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to share it with you in the name of all things honest.

- From my sketchbook writings, November 1st 2010 -

Last week dragged me through more mud than I was prepared to admit.  I thought I had finally learned how to deal with chemo, learned what to expect, learned that I could lay low for a couple days after an infusion and then jump right back on the fast track to Doing.  To Work.  To Life.  But this last round, this new drug, snuck up on me like a snake in the grass: I was striding freely, raising my head to greet the dawn, the first break of light blinding my face when he bit me hard in the achilles.  I fell and forgot how to crawl.

***

I'm climbing this ladder to nirvana, this ladder of self-discovery and self-truth.  I've learned a certain gentleness I've never know over these past few months; I've surprised myself with how carefully I can hold my own soul.  My feet have found their steadiness on this particular rung, and the words I've tried out now feel comfortable on the tongue.  Be Easy.  Forgive.  Your worth remains an untapped source.

But we are never static creatures.  And what worked before will not always work now.  The discomfort and exhaustion of now requires a new looking glass entirely.  And so I must reach up a hand and grab the next rung, feel my fingers grip firmly and trust that the ladder will hold even though the sunlight dazzles my eyes and my knees shake.

***

Kindness.

I think that's the key.  To see clearly, to observe myself from across the room and say "you there, sitting straight-backed and cross-legged.  You ARE where you are intended to be and these trials are lessons if you can only see them.  These events may etch themselves on your skin but they do not determine who you are.  

You are still worthy, 

still progressing, 

still creative, 

still lovely, 

still filled with light,

still exactly who you are meant to be."

Kindness.

I would wrap myself in a prayer flag made of kindness so that with every step I took, the wind would carry that message to the four corners of the earth, alighting like raindrops on the eyebrows of every person reaching blindly upward for that next handhold.

**********

Sketchbook Writings

- From my sketchbook writings, September 20th, 2010 -

There is something in this that speaks of rebirth, but I've yet to finger the pulse of it.

It's as though through these biweekly treatments I'm allowed to step through nine lives; Each time beginning as some small helpless puddle, growing stronger, brighter, wiser each day until I'm able to reach up and grab the tail of the comet, hold on for that wild ride.  The day to day is certainly a gritty struggle, but what is the human experience if not made of grit and sinew?  The speed of progression each week speaks volumes of encouragement to my soul - like watching some stop-film documentary that sparks tears in the staunchest disbeliever when the beauty of the full cycled of life is revealed in a bite sized nugget.

This is no foreign magic, no whispered mystery, but an honest viewing of LIFE.  There is a moment when the eyes first open to color and light, a moment when the exquisite realization of taste sets in, a moment of discovery when all those awkward angles and limbs move together in perfect harmony, of moment of recognition at the exchange of particles those lungs can move, a moment when the mind releases it's grip, truly awakens and trembles at the sheer blessing of life.  And so it is.  Dust to dust but the particles glitter.