Sketching with a bent-nib pen...

Writing as much as I have lately, I've discovered rather a lot of draft posts that apparently never got published.  So...a break from rewilding, a post that's been in hiding for quite a while!

As noted in my pen conversion posts sometime past--this is FUN, with a huge range of line widths possible!

Sketching our friends in the Copper Creek Band, with a bit of gray wash added...

Molly Hammer and Joe Cartwright at Chaz on the Plaza...

See all the line widths that are possible with just one pen?

I added a wee bit of color today...this is my new softcover Stillman & Birn Beta sketchbook, LOVE it.

Quick sketches of details...

I've got several Hero and Sailor calligraphy pens, almost like drawing with a brush!

Day 16, re-wilding...life, and death, and the eternal cycles

"Missing people in our lives are like wounds we reopen with our thoughts." - Hunted, The Iron Druid Chronicles by Kevin Hearne ...and so it may be.

That is often true for me, in a life of change and loss--and finding again. But it's a normal and necessary part of life, and we get through it.

There is beauty in all the cycles of life and death; in nature, in the forest, this is especially so.  We have a plethora of these lacy leaves here, and I can't resist picking them up to study and use as prints and stencils and collage.

But still I do love that Nature will repopulate, heal, restore itself--if allowed to.  I am most blest when I can help in some small way in that process; it is a cycle that nourishes and heals me as well.

The Smallwood reclaims the ancestral forest that once covered this land--and I protect and aid it when I can, picking up litter, discouraging invasive plants, rejoicing in the burgeoning life, exploring the forest floor.

The air smells of the fertile green Earth--as well as the cycle of decay that makes possible a NEW cycle of life.  Leaves fall to earth, decompose, and become rich, life-sustaining humus.  When trees die, colonies of lichen and moss and fungus grow on their recumbent forms, breaking down the cellulose in trunk and limb.  The slow combustion of decay returns them to earth as well.

Just a few short days ago these little mushrooms looked like this...

They are among the quickest to return to the earth, with the aid of insect larva, moisture, and time...

Even the bones of deer and fish and small animals provide sustenance...I see the toothmarks of rodents searching for the minerals in the bleaching bones.  Eventually those minerals return to the soil to nourish new life.

Some indigenous cultures believe that vultures carry the souls of the dead back to Creator; huge black shadows swim through the sunlit leaf canopy as they circle above the trees, and I smile to greet my own departed loved ones.  Parents, sister, cousins, friends...I wish you peace and joy.

Weather changes, and so do I...Drumming, ancient crafts, Day 15

I was taken by the notion of making my own when I got to play and hear The World Drum, which has traveled all over the world, from hand to hand.  It has been played in ceremonies and quiet celebrations and riotous dancing, and seems a miracle of worldwide cooperation in these turbulent times.  It brings peace to the heart.

For more of its amazing story, read this from Morten Wilf Storeide.

My first still goes everywhere with me...

 

My drums absorb the moisture in the air, changing tone day by day, hour by hour--I sympathize!  The weather affecs me greatly as well.  Their voices become lower and lower these humid days--and less resonant--and finally, soft and flat.  I warm and dry them as ancient peoples have done for eons, and once again their voices rise and ring and resonate, each with its own mysterious song.

The rawhide still carries within it the life of the deer and elk that once walked the land; the wood of the rims was born of stately trees that grew tall and took nourishment from the earth...as do we all.

I have loved making my own drums...and will make at least one more.  The most recent I call my healing drum; the rim of ash wood reminds me of my ancestors and of Yggdrasil, the World Tree of old Norse tales.  The hide was a gift from a friend, who prepared it himself.  And each step of the process was meaningful, respectful, and sacred.  The big elk drum is the family drum...Joseph plays it too and loves the deep rich sound.

Each one is different, and sounds different.  Each has its own demands, and resonates in its own way. 

Day 14, Re-wilding--creativity in ancient ways

I love to explore how our forebears might have worked when creating art...discovering my own pigments, grinding and making paints, making my own pens or other tools, trying out natural dyes or inks...

Drawing with a twig dipped in paint or ink connects me to ancestors long gone.  They drew on cave walls and stone and parchment, I on paper made from plants--but still I sense them looking over my shoulder.

Hematite on a grinding stone...it makes a beautiful reddish brown color.  That's the hematite stone itself at lower right.

My palette of natural colors! 

This is the healing hand symbol currently on my healing drum...it's limonite I found in our local river's gravel bar.  I've since found a darker stone, perhaps a type of hematite like the one above, that I want to use, so may give it a try.  It's a good feeling to honor our ancestors and to use the kinds of tools they might have used.

I often use this river stone for smoothing, rather than reach for the sandpaper...

Check out Nick Neddo's book, The Organic Artist: Make Your Own Paint, Paper, Pigments, Prints and More from Nature, or Sandy Webster's Earthen Pigments; Hand-Gathering & Using Natural Colors in Art for much, much more.

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It was a honeysuckle, honeybee, and hummingbird kind of a morning and I loved sitting and working
where I could see these little visitors.

This little female repeatedly darts in for a taste, chittering each time, then draws away before chittering and diving for another taste.  None of the others seem to need to vocalize before drinking--perhaps she's giving thanks!

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Interesting, to me, the way my blog offers related posts or those you might be interested in.  I checked back on this one, on nurturing or killing creativity and found it relevant but ironic, in one way.

Though I am normally not one for challenges or prompts, I have taken on this 31-day challenge, and I DO feel a bit constrained by it, as I thought I would.

Still it is one I need, and it's deeper and more personal than most, and completely self-directed--letting the days unfold as they will, grateful for what they offer me. 

(And if you're interested in what DOES nourish my own creativity, that was the post before, here.)

31 Days Wild, day 13...

The air is thick and still this morning.  Thunder mutters and grumbles in the West and another severe thunderstorm is on the way.

Tiny winged vampires circle and land; the indoor/outdoor cats have their small cloud of admirers hovering over tender ears and noses, wherever the fur is thin and flesh is vulnerable.  All creatures may indeed be sacred, but I will admit to sacrificing a few mosquitoes when they would do likewise!

The Smallwood is dark as dusk; the entry looks like a cave's mouth, and I head for home before the storm breaks.  Moments later the wind howl and tears at the trees; rain sluices down in a flood that falls in sheets and obscures Siloam Mountain--as well as neighboring houses.  Primal!  I watch from the porch...

I did a video of the wind rising...no idea if it will open here if you're not on Facebook, though...sorry!

My skin loved the feel of a cool breeze and light, soft fabric...I am aware of the pleasure of just being, the delight in this incarnation, right now, this moment.

The deck is covered with a mosaic of wet leaves in various stages of decomposition...

In the evening, strange bits of light illuminate the shadows deep within the Smallwood...sometimes softly, edges blurred like wet-in-wet watercolor, sometimes sharp and crisp, a glittering contrast to the deepest shadows.  One in particular, at this most fleeting moment, appear like the glowing eyes of some mysterious forest creature looking back at me from his cave.

Then the bright gaze fades into the tapestry of green, as though he'd closed his eyes for the night...when I go to investigate, there is nothing there.  

They say you can only see the Fae of you look from the corner of your eye, or catch a fleeting glimpse, or from a distance, like the Spooklight in southern Missouri...and so it appears.

When I was younger, I would go for drives down country roads on summer nights.  Moving slowly, sometimes my headlights would catch tiny glowing lights winking back like the eyes of a miniature fox or deer.  I'd stop the car and walk forward until I could see a wee spider crossing the road, hoping I would let it be...and I always did.

Day 12, re-wilding, one bite at a time

Perception.  I was hot in the sunny garden; that's why it is there, vegetables need sun.  When I walked into mulberry shade a few steps away, it felt cool.  A few moments in the house and it was cooler still...and by the time I  reached the shade between back door and my shed, it felt hot and sticky.

I'd be willing to bet that mulberry shade and shed shade are the same, give or take a degree.

Perhaps perception really is reality, a "truism" I have steadfastly refused for decades, insisting on the immutability of Truth.  But it seems that perception is the current reality, after all.  It certainly can apply emotionally, as well as physically...

I moved a cushion to the floor and sat cross-legged in meditation for a while, just being and breathing...the first I have done that particular thing, during this month of inner journeying, I was surprised to realize.  Then I played the bones and the drum for a while...taking time to focus/unfocus.  No plans, no expectations.

I could feel myself relax into the moment, and it stretched into a shape all its own.

It set the tone for the rest of my wanderings...

The scent of aromatic gill-over-the-ground and the pleasant spicy taste...

The gurgle of water as it courses down the path after the rain...

The feel of the wind on my bare skin...

Someone's home was spangled with mist-glitter...

Raindrop magnifying glasses on a redbud leaf...

The back yard was sodden and the prayer flags hung like wet clothes on a line...

The deck shone with silver moisture...I was taken by the long shadows of the morning...

A colony of lichen has moved in on top of my chiminea's lid.

And oddly, I felt the LEAST a part of nature later at our local park...Pokemon Go has arrived and the park was anything but peaceful.  OR wild.  I chose to ignore that for my sketch but I still see the unusual crowds in my mind's eye...

A Day Late...or two...11 days in, and struggling

Coffee on the deck with Pepi...birdsong, water splashing, early morning sunlight gilding the spiderwebs and fine grass blades...

Pepi likes the new fountain, too...

Peace.  The breeze stires the prayer flags and the small birds sing their varied song....

Peace.  The only sounds are those of a summer morning and the surf of traffic on the small state highway nearby.

Peace.  The surety of love and the gift of having Enough.

The wee dragon sits by the fountain...

Hotei enjoys the scent of incense in the tiny iron pot...

A lacy leaf hangs suspended in an invisible web...

But coffee on the early morning deck keeps me grounded...

Old cat drowses by my side...

The prayer flags are tattered and faded, but as long as they wave, they carry our prayers with them.

The iridescent gazing ball wears a wild wreath of trumpet vine...

We HAVE been busier than usual, both with people and with work.  Over the weekend and unprecedented 6 orders came through...we are grateful but puzzled.

Strange that there are so many distractions and interruptions in this month of renewed attention and focus.  Joseph says it's no coincidence, and I believe he is right.

Inner Journeying, Dreaming, Loss, and the Subconscious Mind

It came to me in the night last night that our dreams are also part of the inner journey...of course that should be obvious, but I often forget my dreams on waking, or soon thereafter, and they don't seem to be particularly meaningful.

Beauty and The Beast...dear friend Dennis Miles and his beloved wife Gwen.

Last night I woke in the wee hours from a dream about a dear friend who died unexpectedly this winter.  20 years younger than me, he was a big man, strong as an ox, a blacksmith by trade.  Tough, incredibly brave, outspoken, and mystical as an ancient smith of Faerie, I loved him  for decades.  A fellow reenactor, we often discussed history...or the foibles of "some folk"!  He and Joseph hit it off, and it was a gift...they'd talk as often as we did.

He was there for me when my first husband died, he shared his own sorrows with me as he did with few others, he shared a laugh--or a recipe for pickles!  He sent me an occasional small product of his hand--an herb cutter, a tiny knife, and more--and I did likewise--a miniature of his dog, a tiny dragon... 

He had my back.

He was the best kind of friend...we accepted eachother's differences and respected them, and loved one another anyway.

In the dream, I had the opportunity to say a tearful goodbye, and share a last hug, which I did not have in life.  One day, he was just gone.  I had talked to him a few days before and he seemed fine...

I was in tears when I woke--I am in tears now--and I realized that I have never fully mourned his loss.  Never really believed he was gone.

R.I.P., old friend.  I miss you.  I love you.