From My Sketchbook, June 7th 2010

I am being utterly overwhelmed by all that is alive this very moment, just within the humble confines of my own backyard. It's as if sometime last night, when the moon was obscured by this dense marine fog and the night creatures had sought the safety of their nests, a rebirth occurred. Not some large flashy event where the stars shone down and the tempests shook, but a quiet, hidden event. One that passed in a silent strain noticed only by the mitochondria who never sleep. But it did happen. And when the winds pressed hard against the mist and light once again illuminated these soft edges, it was there.

Tiny.

Like something I could balance on a single fingernail but with a potency that saturates every life force breathing in this particular brand of atmosphere. I could see it in the slender blushing shoulders of the radishes and the plump drop of the season's first sugar snap peas. It was evident in the smallest bulbs of new raspberries, pale and hard but swelling ever outward. I could hear in the trill of the red-faced finch and in the sharp hum of the bumble bees.

I think to myself: this is why I eat, this is the whole meaning behind that base need. Look at this Life,

this pulsing,

throbbing,

chanting,

swaying,

spinning Life!

I would consume, I would be consumed, I would be caught up in this flood that dances so fast across the soil for a glimpse of eternity manifest in a single aged ray of sunlight. I would be this part, this element so carefully constructed into the great web of organisms sharing life, each interpreting and reinterpreting photosynthesis, changing the structure of energy once again. This is it. This is why. This is Life.

Wherein the Pot calls the Kettle Green

I'm positively obsessed with chartreuse. It's nearly an illness. I should join a chromaholics anonymous, where I'll stand up in a church basement and utter the words "Hi, my name is Umber and I'm a chromaholic with a special penchant for greens of all shades. And turquoise. And burnt orange since we're on the subject. It's been less than three seconds since my last color swoon and more than five weeks since I wore black." And everyone else will respond "Hello Umber" and say kind things while they squeeze the fushia handkerchief hidden deep in their pocket.

Actually that sounds truly awful. Scratch that idea. I'm going to wallow in my chromophillia till the end of my days. Black and White be damned!

Apparently it's a day for strong opinions. Somedays are just like that.

It's also a day for a pot of soup.

Bottoms up me chickadees!

From woods and water

When I left last week I felt like a treasure hunter.

And treasure I found.

My cup, which has seen little else besides a few swirling dregs, is filling up. I'm willing it to overflow. For the first time since the move, since the call, I opened up the door to my studio, spread out a huge sheet of paper and began to work in earnest.

There are little splish splashes all over the floor.

I think the cup might be running over.

Go Here Now.

So I was gone, back, and leaving again (promise there's more to come!). But for now, just go here now. Chop Chop, Click Click.

Dear Myself,

I'm in need of some head space, therefore I'm driving out tomorrow morning in solitude to that particular stretch of sand and those particular mossy trunks that are etched like runes across my soul. I'm taking:

The new sketchbook and a slew of pencils.

My field guide to North American Birds.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard (which is good for a reread pretty much any time).

A new book of poetry (Owls and Other Fantasies, but Mary Oliver).

My camping knife.

The mundane necessities (down sleeping bag, tent for pitching, a half-pound of coffee - the coffee hiatus is on hold for a couple days - a bunch of turnips from the farmer's market).

... and precious little else.

I'll see you in a few days.

Love,

UmberDove