The Virtue of a Good Sweat

[Disclaimer]

This may veer in the direction of a confessional.

(hang in there with me)

Yesterday the skies shone mottled grey, the light cold and pale.  My skin felt itchy, stretched too tight, like the suit of me, the one that fit perfectly yesterday, was ready to molt.  My feet felt restless, wandering these rooms without purpose, fingers clumsy with brushes and pencils, my mind a slush of distractions.  I tried to push through in the studio, but found myself back in the kitchen.  I tried to scrub the countertops, but found myself strolling the backyard.  I tried to check in on the last of the kale, but found myself driving to the post office.  I tried the usual quick fixes: herbal tea and a short letter, trolling the property with Pierré grabbing images of black rain and frail new shoots, turning the speakers up high and belting it out.  But after each half hearted attempt, I found my discomfort still firmly attached, my mind still heavy with unfounded fear, foreign tragedy, future frustrations, and pressure of time on the back of my skull.

So I tied my laces tight.  And I sweat it out.

Now I'm not one of those girls who glistens with a pretty flush and can walk out of the gym and out to dinner.  I'm not the type who maintains a well styled coif while covering miles of trail.  

I'm the type who feels sweat rolling along her clavicle, sliding down the small of her back, hair plastered to her ears, breathing hard, skin glowing red.

It's not pretty.

That's not what it's about.

Yesterday I dived in to long, double workouts, back to back, pressing those toxins, those toxic thoughts out through my pores.  I gulped air, sucking in hard, blowing out the muck clinging to my insides.  It was like spring cleaning in my cells, baptizing each one in the salty sweat, then leaving it out to dry in the brilliant light shining once again from my chest.

Afterwards I fairly floated.

Now this morning I can feel each of my ribs, expanding in unison.  The sun has broken through the hail storm and my raspberry starts are shooting out chartreuse.  The studio is fairly singing my name.

What are you doing for YOU today?

And tell me,

any one else out there confess to being a sweater?

P.S. I don't often give photo-less posts, but in this case, I though NO pics were the best pics. Yes?  You too?  Well good, we're on the same page.

The Path Less Traveled

~ or ~
A short story of where my feet have wandered over the past two weeks.

I left the wilderness of the North in a flurry of snow; unheard of drifts piled along these ocean highways, pristine crystal structures glinting in turn as they fell fast and thick, then melted in a blaze of sun.  As the ice clung I drove slow, mesmerized: This winter I've been touched with a sort of reverse seasonal affect disorder - a slight panic with the lack of cold, a deep desire to see fat flakes dusting the earth, a pining for the ache of cold that reminds us just how alive we are.  In truth, I've prayed for winter to touch down on this coastal town.  And on the day I drove out, the day I finished radiation, the snow fell and I laughed out loud, childlike in sheer delight.  I felt like Noah seeing the rainbow, the dove returning with the branch.  As though the snow was my very own promise of life after the flood.
* * * * *

Two words: sugar coma.  And red dye number 40 be damned, but that cake quite literally took the cake, reducing a gaggle of grown women to squealing and clapping like preschoolers at a roller skating party.  A party with lemon drops made by the pitcher that is.  Nothing like getting tipsy with the fam, eh?
* * * * *

I played with fire.
I smacked hammers.
I snuggled with the studio mascot.
The truth is, I am ever hungry to learn, hungry to explore new art forms and determine if and how they compliment and inform my own art.  I never want to grow stale, trapped in the verbiage of labels ("I am a painter" or "I am a seamstress."  No, I am a free ARTIST, and the song of my soul is as complex as the movements of my fingertips and the truth I seek is the translation of the message written on my heart).
* * * * *

In the expanse of coming Spring, I stretch out my fingers and feel only sunshine.  There is peace cultivated here, heart-space, head-space, space to expand my ribcage wide, space to feel the beating of my living.  All nature intrinsically knows the globe turns, the seasons come, and the sun will warm our bones.
* * * * *
Over the course of two weeks I felt the chill of snow numbing my toes, the wind whipping my skirts into an inappropriate frenzy, the rain thundering, rainbows spanning the skies and the turn of the tide as bare skin answered the call of the spring.  The day I drove out, the hillsides grew lush and the sky flushed cobalt, cumulous clouds hung like accessories.

I can hardly believe it's already been two weeks.  Today the rain is pouring down sideways, a purr machine is flicking his tail on my lap and my house feels like Sunday.  I'm home.  And I've missed you like the dickens.  Let's make some magic, ok?

~ Umber ~

HALLELUIA!

If you're reading this (and it's still Friday morning),

I HAVE JUST FINISHED MY LAST ROUND OF RADIATION!

Can I get an AMENNNNNNN-ah!

Can I get a HALLELUIA!

Can I get a PRAISE BE-ah!

(let that inner preacher man out!)

'Cause my sister and my brothers,

I have made it through.

I've made it through two surgeries, months and months of chemotherapy, seven weeks of radiation, biopsies, scans, mamagrams, MRIs, so many needle pokes I couldn't count them if I tried and today,

TODAY

marks the end of the massive hoops and major deals.*

And so I'm getting outta dodge.

I'm heading down the coast and into the central valley to bask in the warmth of my parent's home, to take a class (adding to my tool chest of knowledge and abilities... I'll fill you in later), to visit with friends old and new, and just,

generally,

celebrate!**

So grab whatever you have nearby, coffee, tea, champagne, or a smooth shot of scotch and let's toast to ALL our health!

SALUT!

See you soon lovey doves!
~ Umber

* From here out, I have a plethora of checkup appointments, a list of scans and tests to run (after I heal from the radiation), and this little drug I'll be taking for the next five years.  And God willing, I'll just look back and remember that one crazy year that I had cancer.

** I'll be flitting about on the interwebs as it suits my soul, but know that I'll be back in town and ready to answer all emails and convos two weeks from now.

While We're On The Subject

Of Barn Owls that is.

It occurs to me that I've yet to tell you a tale of where my owlish love began: in the second story of a elderly farm house on a street called Louie.  I was still in single digits of age.  My sisters and I grew up in a house partly made of science, partly made of magic, and full of encouragement to question and explore.  My father was the town science teacher, known by each and every child still in school.

I realize this is sounding like the opening to a Mary Shelley novel and while we did have a great many questionable objects floating in formaldehyde, and what I'm about to reveal may lie akin to grave robbing, we were a somewhat respectable family living in California's central valley in the 1980's.

My first experience with barn owls was not so much with the birds themselves, but rather with their digestion.  On special Saturdays my father would deliver a few choice nuggets coughed up by local barn owls, filled with the remains of their prey.  Delighted, I would spread out my tools:

Probes.

Picks.

Scalpel.

Needle.

Forcepts.

And ever so carefully, while other children watched The Flintstones and Small Wonder, I would dissect owl pellets, carefully identifying rat femurs and mouse vertebrae.  Consulting creased pages with drawing of bones, spreading digested fur out to see if any treasures lingered behind.

What kind of wonderful creature was the owl!

They could swivel their heads 280 degrees, soar soundlessly through the night, scare the pants off of you if you happened to be wandering in the dark, AND their stomachs did all the work of forks and knives and cutting boards and garbage compressors.  And if that wasn't enough, they delivered all the information of who they found in swaying grasses and lonely country roads in a tidy little pellet for my scrutiny.

Amazing.

And so the love affair was born.

While it's been a great many years since I had the pleasure of a pellet, it's easy to recall the first mysteries the owls presented to me.  I've been chasing them ever since.

~ Both the Barn Owl and Barn Owl Feathered Stones will be in the shop lickity split ~

~ I'm off to take the Pup to the dog park before he loses him mind ~

~ CHEERS ~

PS: LADIES, YOU ARE UNBELIEVABLE!

An Owlish Sort of Day

In the name of silent flight, winged messengers, moonlit feathers, hearing without sound and viewing without sight, I offer the third cuff in the Totem Cameo series: The Barn Owl.  Cut, tooled, painted in a slow rhythm, like the flap of an owl over midnight fields, knowing that the woman who wears this piece will know exactly what it means.

(for the original post on the Totem Cameo Cuffs, please click here)

In the shoperoo momentarily...
screech screech croak! (since barn owls do not hoot)
- Umber