Creation

We come into this world as artists, creators, and how we express that is for us to find out. It could be in how we organize an event, handle a customer crisis, write, draw, read, cook, tend house, farm—the list goes on. Life is art; art is life.

Yesterday, in particular, I felt on fire. So much racing through me. I continue to feel the inspiration and encouragement; and to find ways to remember to see the world with fresh eyes. I feel the nudges of the universe in a way like never before, or perhaps it’s the same, but now I’m listening more. I feel as though I am giving birth, birth to myself, birth to something that has always been—is a part of where I come from—from this earth, a series of connections, large and small, always a new page, always “emptying the cup” seeing the cycles and then allowing them to fade and then discovering them again.

All of this fire, made me think of a long lost memory of my real father and how he made me an easel when I was a little girl. I didn’t get to use it much. We lived apart. I had another father too. I was upset when my mother told him to take it down, take it apart. No easel. Why? Why! No! I cried. He wasn’t happy about it either. He was an artist, a fine cabinet maker. He would make me wooden dolls with block heads, but they were so beautiful, unique. He made a large crib, dollhouse, high chair. The only gift I kept because of circumstance is a treasure chest he made for me and here it stays, and when I open it, it still has that fresh wood smell that I love so much, and a flush of memory rises.

Ours was a complicated family story—to be saved for another place, another time—I’ll never quite understand, but I know that the easel he made with love, with his hands, my hands—that this drive in me to create in quiet and loud ways has always been there, and sometimes it disappears. I had never really made the connection. I see it now, and I also feel how it transcends all memory, into a larger memory beyond myself and my world.

To connect with that spark, that glow. It never burns out. The fire needs tending, keep blowing on it and see the sparks, hear the crackle. Know that it will never go out. It may need to recede, but it is always there: The drive to create and connect with the great beyond.

Rain

This Morning a beautiful shroud of rain mists through
the valley.

All movement to the West,
as the trees raise
their arms to the silent
ones to the East.

The wind, a consistent hush,
with high notes that carry
the scent of moist wooded trees. The bamboo
leans back gracefully and
then forward again.

This morning the trees dance,
the whole valley moves.

Journal Sketching Workshop – It’s a Wrap

Like art, life is a series of shapes, of lights and darks intermingling. If we keep squinting, keep looking, those shapes begin to form before our eyes, into our sketchbooks, into our minds.

Today was the last day of our four-day journal-sketching workshop. Our last sketch spot was a shopping plaza. I found a cozy spot and decided to start out with a circular cement seating area with a statue in the center. As I walked to my spot, a security man on one of those upright two-wheel scooters asked me if there was a scavenger hunt going on. I told him what we were up to; he smiled and scooted on.

Today, I found myself slightly frustrated with not being able to fully grasp perspective. Of course, this is not a class in perfection. It’s a class in getting that idea down on paper, of jogging memories. So I have to keep reminding myself: Be gentle with yourself and do the best that you can. And have fun!

I really like how quick sketches force me into my subject. It feels a bit like free writing. If I am able to push myself and get out of my own way, I find my “flow.”

Our assignment for the day was to go out on our own through the plaza and find different objects or scenes to sketch, and then we would meet at a central location after an hour or so. Once we met back up, the instructor went over a few things. She talked about water coloring shadows for trees and how rather than make the cast shadows black, she would add a little violet. She also said that the form shadow for the tree bark should have some violet in it also. Browns and violets. “Can you see the violet,” she asked when she pointed to a tree in the near distance. I squinted. I could not see the color she saw. To my eyes it was grey and brown.

Before class wrapped up, the instructor sat with us each individually to look at what we had sketched. She offered praise and suggestions. She helped me see the layered shapes of the water fountain that I had sketched a bit askew. After class concluded, we each went away with a little more confidence to sketch. I’m glad that the workshop wasn’t too long, four sessions was perfect for my temperament. But in this short period of time, I feel like I’ve gained a lot. The best part is she had us sketching right away, rather than getting caught up in details. That’s really the only way to learn: By first jumping in and then having a guide ready to give you a helping hand and encouragement.

I packed up my supplies and walked to the grocery store to get a snack before heading back home. On my walk there, I felt that I was seeing everything a little clearer. The outlines of the different trees, the way each had a dark side and a light side, and how I wouldn’t have to put all the details in to be able to “read” that it was this or that tree I was seeing. I was getting it—I was seeing what the instructor was saying. During our sessions, I was able to capture these concepts somewhat, but now, walking without sketching, I was able to truly see what she meant. I saw the different flowers, in their little clumped shapes and again, their light and dark areas. I saw more distinctly how the cast shadows appeared. And when I passed a few trees, I did indeed see the violet in the bark.

**

Here are a few sketches from today.

This first one is a pencil sketch of a different water fountain. I decided to leave it as is.



This flowerpot was done with black pen and shaded with dark and light grey. I could have added color, but I thought I would keep the color in greys.



The last one is my favorite and it's not because it has color, which does add to it. It was done in pencil and I really felt like I was able to capture this moment, and I love palms like this. I added color when I got home using watercolor pencils. I don't want to mess it up, so I probably won't be adding water to blend it so that it looks like a watercolor.

Journal Sketching Workshop ~ Reflection One

This weekend, I spent part of my mornings in a journal sketching workshop. The idea of the class is to learn how to make quick sketches, so that if we are traveling or out and about with our notebooks, we have a better handle on how to get down our observations quickly. The focus is not on detail, but on getting the idea on paper, so that when we see it, we can say to ourselves, “Yes, I remember that day exactly.” I thought this would be a wonderful compliment to my writing journals. I’ve sketched a few things and dabbled in different mediums, but I wanted to feel more comfortable with knowing how to approach quick line sketches.

On the first day, the instructor went through some basics. We did some 45 second sketches; 1 minute sketches; and then towards the end, we did a 2 minute sketch. This is my 2 minute sketch that I first did in pencil and then I went back and put in some defining lines, and shadows. I didn’t know we would be adding any color, but was happy to hear that the instructor had intended for us to add color to our longer sketches, once complete, so she brought lots of supplies.



I appreciated very much that she reminded us, “It doesn’t have to be perfect.” We’re jogging memories.” She shared her sketch books with us and as she held one up said, “You may not recognize that, but I can tell exactly where I was when I drew that.” She also had words alongside some of her sketches and words dispersed throughout randomly. She found her pictures much more interesting to look at than the words on her pages. For her the images were much more telling. Even though her journal contained words, she was first and foremost a visual artist. Her preferred mode of expression and recall was through her sketches and painted images.

The most challenging object for me to sketch was a pinecone. I tried three times, and I’m still not entirely convinced my last sketch looked like what it was, but I suppose when I look back years from now, I’ll know it was a pinecone. I’m going to pick one up on one of my walks and study it. It will be a fun challenge to keep at it until I can make sense of the shapes.

The second day we met at Borges Ranch in Walnut Creek and it was beautiful. I used to hike the hills of the surrounding area, but I had never stopped in at the ranch. The gorgeous rolling green hills took my breath away. I had to keep my eyes on the very narrow road, lest I topple over. This day, we would sketch animals, barns, and any other parts of the ranch that caught our fancy. We talked more about shapes and how a lot of what we see is shapes, but the instructor really helped me to see the shapes a little better. It’s difficult though for my mind to overcome seeing a sheep standing in front view as a series of overlapping shapes, but when she demonstrated it on her large pad, I could see it.

Our last drawing of the day was a 5 minute sketch and then we would add color once we were done. I was pleased with how this one turned out because it jogs my memory and I can tell what it is. It was very hot and I chose to sit in the grass near a visitor house and the geranium caught my attention. The instructor sat for a moment with another student, so I put them into my sketch and you’ll see they are just lines, but you can tell that there are two people. I wasn’t able to do the geranium justice, but I can remember how lovely they looked and I can remember how the sun was beating down on my head and face and how warm my body felt and how peaceful I was in the surrounding environment with others scattered around trying to capture their experiences that day. My last drawing that I was somewhat happy with, is not perfect, but it’s a start.

Childhood Glue

Reading didn’t come easy to me. I don’t remember taking trips to the library with my mother. Instead, I have a vague memory of her volunteering at the school library when I was in the second grade. She used to bring home stacks of children’s books. A few that stand out are the George and Martha stories; Paddington Bear and his many adventures; The Story of Ferdinand; and Pierre: A Cautionary Tale in Five Chapters and a Prologue. She never brought home Dr. Seuss books, or Where the Sidewalk Ends.

I don’t have memories of mom reading to me and I don’t know if I was actually reading these books or if the illustrations were so vivid, they made me feel like I was reading—reading the images. I do remember being scolded for reading aloud, which helped. “You’re not supposed to read out loud. Read quietly—to yourself,” she would say. Well, now I can do what I want. I love reading out loud. Maybe she was in a bad mood that day.

Out of all the books, the one that stands in my memory as a favorite is one that is out of print: Neat-O The Supermarket Mouse by Tom Tichenor with illustrations by Ray Cruz. It could be the title that left an impression, or maybe it was the illustrations, but it stayed with me enough that I felt the need to possess it again.

I remember searching the web in a fit of nostalgia. I was searching for two childhood items: A musical toy called Major Morgan and this book. That must have been a decade ago. All that stood out was Neat-O the mouse, his mother, and soap suds—something about it stuck, but the details, the actual story were gone, out of memory. All I could go on was a vivid blur. When the book arrived, the cover was just as I had remembered. I looked at the book with wide eyes. I was that child again. There was Neat-O with his soap suds. It was all coming back. The wonderful illustrations that brought this mouse’s story to life, his kind mother loving him, the mouse bullies teasing him because he smelled too good, and Neat-O’s decision not to bathe in hopes of warding the bullies off with his stench.

Yet, with all the bullying, Neat-O was still kind. It was the love of his mother that carried him through the little bumps. I am glad to have this book back on my shelves, glad to have a little slice of my childhood sealed in those pages where I can pick the book up anytime I’d like to be transported with the images and memories, and the emotions captured in the illustrative details.

Mom didn’t always show me outward affection, but I know she loved me, and she made up for it in the stories and characters that she introduced to me. She loved me through books in the most subtle ways, that my now grow up self can appreciate and embrace. She left me clues from childhood that she must have known I would look for in adulthood; at least that’s how my imagination likes to look at it. I never know what clue I will find next. I keep adding to my collection—my everlasting collage of her memory.

The Sun

(Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot Deck. Painted by Lady Frieda Harris)

As I shuffle, you fall out, you chose to shine your rays into the world today, for everyday.

You shine so bright, Radiant Sun, that I feel compelled to share, to place you here, so that you can radiate outward: Creativity. Exploration. Collaboration. Manifest in the ways you will.

“The Divine child within us that is always seeking to express itself in unlimited ways" (Arrien pg. 92).

Little Musings

My calmest time is in the shower, where thoughts seem to float in and out at a pace that I cannot keep up with. I have often wondered if there is a tape recording device that is water proof, and how fun it would be to speak aloud what whimsy comes about. But then—if I tried to catch the wings with my verbal voice, would they flit away, out of reach? Is there something more subtle, less obtrusive in pen, hand, and paper?

**

Dear Moon, where are you today? In Aquarius, Ah…A flight of fancy, dancing with the glow, with the rainbow, dangling with green wings, posing before yourself, looking into the mirror, seeing, gazing, creating music with your hands, with your fingers. Swaying back and forth, holding me like a stringed violin; or a cello, plucking me into your very bosom, into your very soul.

**

I feel the water on my skin,
The soap suds washing away yesterday and tomorrow. I am now.
In the present.