After the Rain – Lilliputian Spring

After months of drought, Wednesday evening the sky turned charcoal and clouds moved in as dark settled over us. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and rain pattered on our metal roof. I opened the upstairs door to breathe in the long-lost scent.

 

 

 

 

The following morning, I put on my hiking boots and headed east. Below is  a photo of the Arkansas River from the railroad bridge that I cross to access my hiking trail. The river is lower than I’ve seen it in fifteen years. There won’t be much runoff for the rafters and kayakers.

 

 

 

 

After a 20-minute hike uphill hike,   I reached a certain  granite boulder. I’ve hiked to this spot more times than I can count. The rock speaks for itself – in a quiet way. If you’re into talking to rocks, you’ll understand what I mean. If not, just know that this is a special spot that feels private and comforting. I brought  my camera to photograph the lichen that covers its skin.

 

 

 

 

From an ant’s perspective, this rock hosts a world of weird shapes and colors – small wonders cover the granite from top to bottom. I came to witness the turning of seasons, lichen-style, from winter to spring.

 

 

 

 

A knobby, brain-like formation caught my eye:

 

 

 

 

This flat lichen has taken up residence in a crack, low down on the boulder.

 

 

 

 

A splash of rusty red, which rivaled tulips and poppies in a city garden, satisfied my thirst for colorful Spring. (I could have used a magnifying glass for this one.)

 

 

 

 

I spotted this prize – a granite crystal resembling a crocheted jewel, as artistically designed by nature as pieces you’d find in a jewelry case.

 

 

 

 

Surrounded by chirping chickadees and wind song in the pinons, I headed home. Clouds piled up behind the Sawatch Range, carrying humidity for another round of precip – maybe.

 

 

 

 

Even in drought, the tiniest bit of water plus April’s sunlight lifts my spirit.

 

 

Pottery Isn’t for Wimps

Before I met Jim back in 1982, I was a potter (and working an office job). I was recently divorced. I had bought a house, poured concrete for a kiln pad, hired 6 men to move my kiln from my ex’s house to mine. I had hired a friend to build a redwood fence around the kiln area, and I had designed a neoprene cover with zippers to keep it dry, and had that fabricated by a tent company in Denver. I had set up my own studio in the downstairs bedroom. I was perfectly capable of lugging 50-pound boxes of clay into my house and loading my kiln with 27-pound shelves. I was often up till all hours of the night firing my pots. Then I met Jim – a six-foot-two, 170-pound man with a man’s physique. He was a potter himself and we hit it off in a New York minute.

 

Jim designed and built a room onto the back of my house for a pottery studio. That was even before we got married. You can see what was important to us! When we married I was 39 and he was 45. We both continued working in the corporate marketplace, making our pottery after work and on weekends. We schlepped it to craft fairs all over Colorado on weekends.

 

Jim took over the heaving lifting, but we still shared the glazing, stacking, and kiln firing. We moved away from craft fairs and into craft galleries. I took over all the pricing, and recording of sales and inventory. He did the ordering and pick up of supplies.

 

In 1997 we kicked the corporate habit and moved to our present home in Central Colorado. Both of us were in fine shape – strong, energetic, creative. At last we could do what we loved every day.

Here’s a picture of Jim a couple of years ago – just a kid, right?

 

 

It’s now 2012. We generally work hard in spring, summer and fall; then we take off after Christmas and resume firing the kiln when the weather warms.

 

Alas, Jim had an accident two weeks ago. Ironically, he tripped over a curb after leaving the Channel 9 Health Fair, landed on his right shoulder, which now is “separated.” That happens when the top end of the shoulder blade (scapula) becomes separated from the collar bone (clavical). The two bones come together at the top of the shoulder, connected by a joint call the acromioclavicular joint (the AC Joint). It’s an area that’s tied together by ligaments and cartilage. Shoulder separations are graded I – VI. His is between a Grade II and III. He’s been told it will get better on its own. He must do specific exercises and ice it when it hurts. And he must wear a harness kind of sling that binds his upper arm to his side and his wrist to his chest. This position allows the shoulder to rest. We don’t know how long it will be before he’s well and able to resume his pottery.

 

The day before the accident, Jim had fired the glaze kiln. Several days later, I removed the pots from the shelves without moving the shelves. Here’s a photo of some of what came out of that firin

 

Also, he was just about finished stacking the electric kiln for a bisque firing. Two days ago, we lowered the lid (he, holding onto the left handle with his left hand, and me, holding the right handle.) The following day, he fired the bisque. I unloaded it two days later, removing all the shelves. (They aren’t terribly heavy). Here’s a photo of the empty electric kiln.

 

 

And here’s a photo of some of the contents — heads!

 

 

Jim has been making lots of faces – watching many You-tubes of sculptors creating clay heads. He’s made about 20 of these, and we will eventually glaze them. The first ones were clunky, and several cracked in the bisque. They are just practice pieces.

 

I’ve been packing up small batches of pottery for our stores. Generally, I’m the one who prices the pots, while Jim wraps and loads up the boxes. Now I get to do both jobs. Here are a couple of boxes ready to go to our Salida store, Mountain Spirit Winery next Thursday.

 

 

So today, I thought I’d try to remove the shelves in the gas kiln. I managed to take down the top four, but my abdominal muscles weren’t up to the task. I’ll need to call upon a hunky neighbor to finish the job.

 

I’ve always wondered when  Jim and I would ever give up the pottery. We’re not there yet, but I see the shadow of that possibility on the distant horizon.

Liking Lichen and Lightening My Load

Lichen grows very slowly.  Like all of nature, it doesn’t question its purpose. It grows where it finds the right combination of nutrients and climate. It thrives according to the season – spring: awakening; summer: reproducing; fall: shutting down;  winter: sleeping.

 

 

I walked to the river yesterday, camera in hand, seeking something new to photograph. It’s been the driest winter on record in Colorado. The color brown is our color of spring. Take our Arkansas River for example. We have had many warm days already and thus the river should be rising – the beginning of spring runoff. As far as I can tell, there’s very little additional water coming downstream. One could almost walk across it.

 

 

What cheered me were the bright or muted colors of lichen.

 

 

Lichen on our granite rocks, survives on the tiniest bit of moisture. It can go dormant in hot, dry weather, and spring back to life on a foggy morning.

 

 

In drought, I feel dry inside. My enthusiasm shrinks. I look to the sky for signs of rain, and there are none. I stand under the shower in the morning, and wonder how our well is doing. Should I cut back on water usage?  I wonder about my own purpose–what’s next? I thrive on creative projects using – paints, pastels, colored pens, clay, beads, pen and paper, computer. But none of these are calling to me.

Instead, the still, small voice tells me I should be cleaning out, lightening my load. Like the 80 mph wind gusts that have been raking our valley, I should allow the metaphorical wind carry away my accumulation of 15 to 30 years. Start fresh. Perhaps I should become monk-like, paring down to only enough belongings to fit into four boxes.

I’m starting slowly. Yesterday, after my lichen walk, I began weeding out one bookcase. I love books, but I’m keeping only those that still hold meaning for me. I’ll keep my art and writing books and those on spirituality that still feed me. I’ll unload half the shelves and donate the rejects to a local used book store or to the library sale.

 

 

I take heart in this dry spring, that some lichens are sparkly orange as if to say – “Celebrate!”

 

 

Another lichen has added a new ruffle to its ray-green petticoat – a miniature garden in the bloom of health.

 

 

They don’t need my fussing over them or my worry over drought. They’ll be just fine.

My own dry nature will persevere, too.

 

 

 

Mask-making: A Transformational Process

“Mask making is a powerful way to step outside of the limitations and barriers we create for ourselves,” says Tamara Herl , an art therapist from Salida, Colorado.

 

I have created dozens of clay masks during my life as a clay artist. For example, below is a typical nature mask I made a few years ago. But I had never intentionally created a mask to assist my personal growth. . . until last week.

 

 

I knew that I would take Tamara Herl’s March workshop as soon as she announced it. My mask started letting me know what it was about right away. For instance, I knew it had something to do with universal energy. What could have more power and potential than a galaxy in our universe? But how would I create a mask that looked like a galaxy? I didn’t try to figure that out. I simply collected feathers, stars and glittery jewelry at Hobby Lobby. And I knew I wanted the mask to be metallic blue or black, so I bought the spray paint.

 

We gathered at Tamara’s studio in Salida last Saturday —just four of us – Tamara, her daughter Kaeylarae, Jessica Saunders, and yours truly.

 

We began with ceremony:

Tamara had asked each of us to bring an item that would represent our intention for the mask. I brought a small crystal skull. Crystal skulls are reputed to hold within them the history of civilization – or at least the history of the times during which they were formed. I felt that this might reflect the “other-worldly” intention I was imagining for the mask. We set up an altar for our symbols with a candle in the middle. Besides my crystal skull, on our altar were a turkey feather, a BioGenesis pyramid and a piece of opalized rose quartz. Here’s a picture of our altar.

 

 

Next we wrote about our  intentions. I wrote that I wanted my mask to represent the next phase of my life as a facilitator of creative play through art and writing; and for the mask to be a reflection of my multi-dimensional self. Although I came to the workshop with thoughts about how my mask might turn out, I wanted it to emerge in whatever way it wanted to.

 

Tamara said we would be drawing upon the language of archetypes to create a life mask, and it would represent an aspect of Self we wanted to step into. I had not thought of a galaxy, or even a sun, moon or star as being an archetype. They are all part of creation, though, and being a nature lover, I settled on the archetype of a galaxy to assist me in whatever way it could.

 

We paired up and began, first slathering our faces with petroleum jelly so that the plaster wouldn’t stick to our skin. Kayelarae applied the plaster strips to my face. Here are the three of us. Kayelarae and I have masks that are ready to remove. Jessica’s elaborate face and head sculpture was about half finished—a mask that she had seen in a dream the night before the workshop!

 

 

 

After we had removed our masks, we wrote about the process thus far and  plans for decorating them. I wrote my general idea, but didn’t know how to make it happen.

 

As soon as I started to decorate my mask, I knew exactly what to do. Inspiration came “from out of the blue.” After spray-painting it a glittery purplish-blue, I hot-glued a cardboard flange all around it – a foundation for the feathers. The black feathers needed to be applied to look as if they were swirling to the left, giving the mask a sense of galactic motion. Then the white embroidered stars needed to be glued on just so.

 

 

The final touch – I hot-glued glass crystals in the eye sockets. Now my mask really looked inter-stellar—the personification of a galaxy.  (See below).

 

We ended our day around 4:00 pm, with a little “performance” and journaling about what our masks had to teach us. Mine had plenty to say. Bottom line – there’s no lack of potential. And it wanted me to  hang it prominently in our dining area. Here’s a photo of my mask, with its weird crystal eyes, on our wall at home.

 

 

Tamara plans to do another mask workshop in April. I’m already sensing what my third mask will be about. Its color will be green, and I’ll go from there.

Highway 24 – Homesick for Colorado?

Jim and I drove to Colorado Springs on Highway 24 last Tuesday with a list of chores that included investigating Mac computers, finding charcoal replacement filters for our kitchen range hood, buying a scratching device for our cats, eating lunch at India’s Palace, taking old financial records to be shredded, and getting my Hobby Lobby fix. On the trip in, I asked Jim to stop at the top of Wilkerson Pass (9,507 feet) so that I could take this photo of South Park. Those are the Buffalo Peaks, part of the Mosquito Range, in the background, and our home is on the far side of those peaks.

 

 

The following day, we finished up our shopping and headed back, wanting to beat the predicted snowstorm that never materialized. Highway 24 climbs out of Colorado Springs and up Ute Pass toward Woodland Park.

 

 

Jim pulled over so that I could take several photos of the “druids” in a two-mile stretch of granite boulders near the town of Florissant.

 

 

West of Lake George, the beautiful South Platte River flows near the highway.

 

Heading west, ponderosa trees line the climb toward the summit of Wilkerson Pass. This part of the state is in drought. Jim and I remember the summer of 2009, after a particularly snowy winter, when, the following spring, this section of highway was a riot of wildflowers.

 

 

As you drop down off the pass, the view across South Park is breathtaking, even on a dreary winter day. I took this picture through the front windshield at 60 mph.

 

The town of Hartsel is a crossroads between highway 24 and highway 9, which goes to Canon City.

 

 

This forlorn pioneer cabin in South Park sits beside the highway about five miles southwest of Hartsel near the turnoff to Antero Reservoir. Judging from the big windows on all sides, whoever lived here enjoyed the 360-degree views.  I imagine they hung heavy quilts over those windows during winter blizzards . . .

 

As we snaked down Trout Creek Pass toward Buena Vista, Mt. Princeton and the Collegiate peaks loomed ahead. Sixteen years ago, this view from Highway 24 convinced us that we had made the right decision to move here.

 

 

Turning north at the junction of 24 and 285, we headed into town. The greeter-deer raised their heads to see who was disturbing their evening meal. Those two white humps  are the Buffalo Peaks  again, from a different perspective. They form the east side of the Arkansas Valley.

 

 

Home again in Buena Vista. We passed the Chamber of Commerce – once a little church.

 

 

And settled in at our house, under the light of an almost full moon.

 

A Windy Day of Spontaneous Drawing

Last Saturday was another indoor day. No one minds staying out of the wind in February. And nothing beats compounding the creative energy of three women making art.

 

I began cleaning the pottery studio on Wednesday. This room is normally filled with piles of clay in various stages of formation. Jim sweeps the floor daily, but that removes only the large grime. I was in the mood to get to the bottom of it, and spent the better part of the morning washing the floor inch by inch. After that, I obsessed over the utility sink, which I swear has not been attended to in ten years. When I was done, it gleamed.

 

What to do with a husband who’s been kicked out of his castle? He took his clay to the garage and made an elaborate mask while Debby Cason, Diane Kuss and I did our thing. He joined us for lunch, and then went back into seclusion. Debby and Diane visited him in his garage domain, ooohed and ahhhed over his finished pottery, which reassured him that everybody cared about him.

 

These two women said they were not artists. One of them had flunked art in high school. I said that you couldn’t flunk my kind of art because it’s not about creating a barn that looks like a barn. It’s about allowing Inner Wisdom to come through your fingers and draw what it wants to. It’s about letting go and allowing the body to move. In the photo below, Diane (left) and Debby (right) are doing Touch Drawing.

 

 

I drew along side of them. For an hour, we awere quiet, just rolling out the paint, laying tissue paper down, and moving our fingers on the paper to create the prints. Diane said that she would look at the design already present on the tissue paper when it contacted the wet paint, see what image it wanted to become, and then finish creating it. Here are several of Diane’s Touch Drawings.

 

 

Debby started each picture from scratch, which is what I do. We asked Inner Wisdom a question, and let the process produce an answer. Examples of questions I asked were, “Show me what Focus looks like,” and “Show me what Letting Go looks like;” and “Show me my heart.” When Debby asked, “Show me what going with the flow looks like, her hands drew a waterfall.

 

 

While, at first glance, a picture like the one below looks like a mish-mash of blue, upon closer examination, you can find many faces in it. Look closely, and you’ll even see a bear’s head at the top-middle and several human faces. This piece is speaking to the artist, and may be providing answers to the question she asked before starting to draw. This is one of Debby’s pieces.

 

 

In the afternoon, Diane took her favorite Touch Drawing and copied the design in oil pastels. This is her partly-finished piece—a striking design that relates to her practice of QiGong.

 

 

Meanwhile, Debby created this strong colorful piece based on her “Go with the flow” waterfall Touch Drawing.

 

 

Part of the experience I hope to impart is how to use the oil pastels for an effect that will please beginners. We are only together for five hours, and everyone takes home with them around 20 Touch Drawings, one oil pastel drawing, and one or two doodle drawings.

 

Doodling is a form of spontaneous art. I showed them a 3 x 4-inch one that I had recently done using Bic Ultrafine markers.

 

 

It’s important to ask for assistance before starting this kind of art. It’s a form of Sacred Expressive Art, which is co-created between your conscious and unconscious mind. Deborah Koff-Chapin says she always calls in the Spirit of Touch Drawing before starting a session. I do that too, and in addition, I call in the assistance of the Spirit of Spontaneous Drawing, plus my mother’s spirit (who works with me on all of my automatic art) and the spirit guides or artistic muses of the people who come to draw with me. On Saturday, that accounted for at least five spirits (or muses or guides) in the room!  I was astounded when, after drawing my final piece, I realized what was going on. As I drew this picture, I didn’t understand it. A couple of hours later, it hit me—I was being shown that the spirits-guides were indeed present. The one in the upper left corner is my mom.

 

 

The Book Haven – A Haven for Book Lovers

This blog is the fourth in a series about venues that carry my spiritual memoir, I’ll Be There to Write the Story.

 

 

I’ve written about The Book Haven in Salida, Colorado, previously, but not since the store moved across the street. Its Grand Re-Opening happened on the evening of February 3. Owner Lisa Marvel hosted a gala event at 135 F Street. I and perhaps 80 others packed into the new digs, where the finger food was delicious and the layout, marvelous. I didn’t take my camera. I knew I wouldn’t be able to shoot decent photographs in that crowd. There were one-minute readings of prose and poetry by many poets and writers, and two people from The Salida Circus  performed a flawless gymnastics act right in the middle of the store.

 

The Book Haven is an independent book store, which is different from a big city chain store. Independent book store owners care about readers first, and making money, second. They have to make money to survive, of course, but they do that by enticing customers to enter the front door. Here’s a picture of Lisa Marvel, store owner, in her new space.

 

 

Here’s my book in the Local and Regional Author section, top shelf, second from left.

 

 

And here’s a photo of me toward the front of the store,  holding my book.  Notice the great lighting and beautiful alcoves. This is truly a peach of a bookstore.

 

 

One particular attraction, the “living room,” (shown below) provides a natural place for people to meet and visit, or simply curl up and read. Two groups congregate regularly in this area: a writing/critique group, the second Wednesday, and The Haven Readers, a book group, the third Thursday. (Check the Events Calendar online for specific times).

 

 

Another inviting nook is the children’s area.

 

 

Lisa hosts a monthly event for authors and book lovers called Dies Librorum (Day of the Book). In the new store, there is space to set up tables laden with food on the first Thursday of every month. Lisa loves to cook, and she prepares most or all of the food for this event herself in the new full-size kitchen.

 

 

Since she serves wine, people who attend Dies Librorum must make reservations. In the old location, the place was packed with little maneuvering room. I can’t wait to see what happens on March 1, when the second Dies Librorum is set up with a slate of authors talking about their books! Lisa has already announced the menu: Cassoulet, Salade Concombres vinaigre, French Bread, and Banana Sorbet.

 

In addition to womaning the bookstore on Saturday, Sunday and Monday, Lisa cooks for Soup Day at The Stone Soup Café the first Monday of each month. The other days of the week, various people staff the store.

 

The Book Haven is indeed, as stated on the website, “a place to gather, to browse, to explore, to reach out, to find great literature and great reads.” To join The Book Haven emailing list for event announcements, contact the store: 719-539-9629.