A Basket of Stuff

A Basket of Stuff

My house, now known to me as The Cottage, is undergoing a major shift in consciousness and in format. It has been dusted within an inch of its life, vacuumed, curtains washed, plants repotted, windows washed, floors mopped. This is an ongoing list of tasks, multiplied by 3 dogs daily shedding. The studio is still cluttered but hopeful, the sewing room is dusty, and there are at least two closets that are on the overhaul list. There is a sweet massage room set up with incoming clients next week.

I now am living with myself, 3 dogs, 2 cats and 5 chickens. The marriage is over. 

There is no loneliness. There is loveliness.  There is discovery. There is anger, sadness, redemption. There are amends, there is growth, struggle, fear, support, there is living, newly configured. I return to Morning Pages, Back to the Life-Affirming Practices. My heart and mind and soul are revealing layers of “why”, and I am leaning heavily on my grown, complex, loving children. This heavy leaning will lighten. I am grateful beyond measure for the loving support embracing me.

This from Big Bend, a most exquisite place next to my Heart River where the Salmon used to run: Journal Entry with prompt “The Pit”

18Aug23

I looked into a pit:It appeared dark, without a speck of light refracted, not quivering with suggestion, no shadows, no air to move, not even a change in temperature, the pit was dense and of course, bottomless.  I am terrified of static forever bottomless pits. I am scared of the dark. I hate the sound of nothing.

I trip over an unseen root in the path, I fly front first, a face planting free fall, into the damn pit. It actually is cold. It stinks. A fly is buzzing. I crash through the table top, pulling the oil cloth after me a checkered flag tattering behind me. I’m doomed.

Moving fingers, toes, hip joints, shoulders, I raise my head, open my eyes. It’s daylight. There’s a little breeze. I’m not broken. I’m not snoring. I’m not even hungry.

Three days, or a week have passed, an unrelenting curious question floats above the silence. It’s met by the osprey family who live in what seems like dangerous conversational heights above the small green ribbon river of The Lamprey and Pike Minnow. They consider the question without judgey definitions, catastrophic adjectives or even correct spelling. It’s not their question. They watch it float from above the dark hole, the pit. It appears to shimmer a bit.

What I know today: this is a raw, unedited, spontaneous Friday. September 1, 2023

I can do this.

xo

L

A Beginning, of Many

 A Beginning, of Many.

Fluttering as an animated jewel, this Being moves from bright orange to soft pink to brilliant yellow. Does she think, “Zinnia. I love zinnia nectar”? She is elaborate and gorgeous. Her life span as butterfly is quite short, is that state a reward for her experience in the cocoon, turning to soup and reassembling as this glorious thing? Or does metamorphosis even have a reward?

I am an artist, not a scientist. My language isn’t of the academic, the scientific, or even of the art world. My language is of life, love, observation, Recovery, personal growth, and unlimited creativity. I step out of my past into this right now, my bejeweled moment.

My paintings evolve from experience, at times shedding, at times mining the past. Full of movement and drama they are a pathway to a deeper quiet. I work in acrylic usually, utilize materials at hand such as recycled papers, cardboard, bargain house paint, inks, and mark-making implements. Usually the work evolves on a panel, occasionally on canvas. Of course, tomorrow may nullify this recent description, and of course, I am open.