The Proverbial Pathway - Another Day

At the break of day when I do not feel fruitful, I go into the woods to sing. I sit on the Prayer Rock to witness the immeasurable canvas sprawled before me, touched by the paintbrush of creation. The sun beckons to all upturned faces, living on the margins of winter, anticipating spring and the promise of re-birth.

I revel in cosmic chaos – the pulsation of sound amplified by miracles orchestrated in wind, bird and brook songs (accompanied by the rattling of last season’s leaves that cling tightly to the branches in the Ash Grove, awaiting new growth). I look to where the anxious mountains melt away the last traces of snow where my friend, the red tail hawk, circles above.

I wander down the proverbial pathway, lingering before the roses, exposed yet rooted in love as they stand naked, desperate for the return of their aromatic blooms to cover their vulnerability. Intoxicated by their scent, reckless in their presence and wildly imperfect, I am willing to bleed.

Further down the pathway, the remnants of milkweeds – the host plant for Monarchs and others – sway tenderly in the wind releasing the last few silky white strands, transporting papery brown seeds. I watch them float indecisively to the opposite slope.

Before it becomes a bit of a marsh, I head towards the spring pond that exists long enough for peepers to come out and sing and lay eggs for future prosperity. Predictably, the chorus halts as I approach. I catch a glimpse of an olive green frog – a possible prince during the essence of my becoming – before he disappears under the shelter of a faded bouquet of oak and maple leaves that float on the surface. A smile emerges from within as I spot at least a thousand eggs in various clumps knowing that soon it will be tadpole bliss.

I then sit on a mossy stump beside the twin trunks of two immense trees which shelter life amongst gnarled, trailing roots. The trees embrace, knowing that a love like this is rare and only threatened by the woodsman’s ax. I think if I were a tree I would want this and if I were a small creature I would live somewhere within.

To bathe in the woods is to draw strength from Nature’s womb. The milk of Our Mother nourishes my creative soul. So another day ends and another moon rises.

Journal: Babies Breath

Creativity and a Killing Frost - Nature and Art

Thawing and re-freezing can certainly shake the creative energy of a natural artist. The imbalance of our environment may prove to be a challenge if not acknowledged and treated suitably. I found myself wondering why I froze, which is a quandary since I do not believe in writer's block (and the like) and prefer to accept nature in Her raw form (pertaining to myself as well).

So, I decided to allow the blank page to serve as a tool for re-opening the passageway to my creative essence, trusting that I would get to the bottom of it [deep creative freeze]; and I did. Apparently, my bond to nature is reflected in my reaction to the recent thawing and refreezing of my surroundings. As much as we [as a species] separate ourselves from and try to harness nature; we are very much a part of Her. We have strayed away from our original state of being; however our authentic connection to Our Mother still resonates deeply within. For some this force is more profound than in others.

When allowing myself to merge with the record breaking temperatures by digging in the earth, planting, meandering curiously through the woods, walking barefoot in the mud and snowfield – I started a flow that was promptly interrupted by Our Mother as She reeled us all back in, maintaining balance and returning us to where we should be.

Like the early opening buds of trees, plants and bushes; I responded to the premature warmth, light and melting away of winter. I sat outdoors under the clear canopy of stars while the thunderous night chorus of peepers stirred my heart. I acknowledged how wrong high temperatures [reaching the upper 80’s] are in Northern New England in mid-March. The innocent, childlike part of me wanted to enjoy it, but the intelligent, knowing part of me was aware of the reality of this radical climate change.

I surrendered. I finally removed the sap buckets from the Maple trees and aligned my thinking towards gratitude rather than loss of what could have been. In a tank top and shorts, I planted seeds that were okay to plant when the ground is workable and can handle a frost. I rejoiced that there were no bugs. I went with the insanity and waited for what came next.

With the return of frigid temperatures, (well beyond a killing frost) strong north winds blow hard through the swaying pines. I bundle up in my flannel shirt, winter hat and collect dead wood to stoke the fire.

The crocuses and snowdrops, which wilted in unfamiliar heat, are thriving now. Except for the deepest part of the shaded woods, the snow is gone. Strewn about like abandoned wreckage, autumn remains in decayed brownish remnants. The pond is freezing again.

The night chorus, which was double forte a few nights ago, has diminished into regretful silence. The mountain streams that rushed over and under ground have been humbled to reassuring, melodious quietude. My footsteps – faithful to the cold, frozen in the mud – follow the old logging road, leaving a memory of what was, promising to flourish again. Together we wait.

Journal: Babies Breath

This Balmy Winter Day

I remember that one word spoken in a voice quite like my own. It woke me up. Today when I entered into the woods, I finally understood.

“Needles.”

An unbroken stream of sunlight illuminated one particular Balsam tree, making it appear silvery and alone. I shivered as I witnessed ordinary transition to extraordinary in an instant.

The Black Capped Chickadees called to one another, flitting from branch to branch while the upside down bird sang an intuitive rhythm. The forever questioning Goldfinches begged me to follow them beyond the Prayer Rock, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The snow was peppered with an abundance of seeds, fragments of pine cones and half-opened, Copper Beech seed pods. I stopped to fill my pockets with wild tidbits rich with raw earth tones and of appealing texture, envisioning merries not yet created. I got close to admire the delicate lace patterns of shredded moss and lichen that cling to fallen branches, logs and well worn stumps.

The quickening brook carved a clear path through the slushy snow, carrying an assortment of fallen leaves, feathery fronds, curled birch bark and other woody debris. The water was pristine! Grateful, I praised Our Mother.

The sun warmed my face and shoulders. It was odd being in the cool woods in winter wearing shorts, a tank top and my favorite chunky snow boots. The best part was that there were no bugs.

It was too warm – 81 degrees – and there I was, trudging through the snow with my new walking stick that I found at the beginning of the path and later left by a stream when I stopped, distracted by a gathering of diverse mushrooms and a plush, mossy stump.

Soon moose tracks merged onto the path. Secretly I want to catch up with it (I decided that it is a grand bull moose by the size of the tracks), but it doesn’t happen like that. Then I dreamt of how I would respond if I met with a just awakened bear.

More tracks – coyote, deer, rabbit and turkey – enter, cross and leave the trail in somewhat melodic lines. I studied the imprints and wished in a childish way that we could travel together.

In contrary motion, the brook curved in front of me. It seems I crossed it over and over again, this time not jumping far enough and my right boot filled with water. (It’s always the right boot).

Almost home and at the edge of the woods, I stopped and listened carefully for droplets in the maple syrup buckets. Many folks had given up, but I never give up easily. My smile began in my heart and made its way to my face when I distinguished four steady syncopated drips of much different tones. I would make another small batch of maple syrup or at least have delectable sap for making tea. I gave thanks to the great Maples before going indoors to empty my pockets of the divine trinkets gathered on this balmy, winter day.

For those who claim that global warming isn’t real, I would like to invite you in for a cup of wild earth tea. Let’s talk. I mean, I will be the first one to admit that I delighted in walking barefoot in the mud before dashing across the fast melting ice to the snowfield to bathe in the sun. However, while I was sitting on the old log where I often do, I concurred with the forever questioning Goldfinches when wondering what will be?

Journal:Babies Breath

The Path:Sound and Unbroken

When it is too cold, I look beyond the intricate ice fractals painted on the inside of the kitchen window. I seek that which hides deep within the core of winter – so obvious yet consistently inexplicable. Our Mother holds her breath while the trees, plants and surface of the snow are beyond still. The once jagged, granite rocks and random stumps in the field are strangely rounded, appearing soft under a glazed white blanket. The pond wishes to protest with a rebellious crack but refrains, reaching far into the depths of resilience. Creatures feathered and furred nestle tightly inside of nests, burrows and dens – leaving no tracks or stories behind. And at night, the moon peers through the unmistakably clear atmosphere, waiting for us all to exhale.

The next day brings new fallen snow and howling winds that blow down from the far reaches of the north; we exhale at last. Fractals melt into hesitant small drops that trickle down the window pane and onto the sill. Tracks of various sizes and gait bring life into focus. All possibilities meander into the woods, weaving through giant conifers and hardwoods and then out into the field near the edge of the pond. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the fluttering wings of spirited Black Capped Chickadees as they fly from one evergreen branch to another.

I hurry to dress in my heavy winter gear so that I may go outdoors and bathe in life returned. I step into the wind and simply breathe. After two or three moments of deliberation, I decide which tracks to pursue. The story unfolds as I follow the largest tracks of three deer, which I determine to be a buck.

I observe many footprints of scampering squirrels, both red and gray. Their paths cross and end at the base of certain trees. I look up in hopes of seeing a nest or perhaps one of the agile rodents perched on a branch watching me, however each tree is merely the starting point of an acrobatic frolic amongst the limitless canopy of trees.

I wonder what makes the deer trust each step; I know that the forest floor is littered with fallen trees, stumps, limbs and rocks. I continue in his footsteps realizing this vast difference between us – I question and he does not.

I stop in the middle of the frozen marsh where it was impossible to reach the winter berries a month earlier. Tempted to pick a few, just because I can, I decide against it and continue following the deer path.

What if I catch up to them? The tracks appear fresh, but what does that mean in frozen time? Of course if they are nearby, they have picked up my scent by now and have fled.

I stumble across the rough terrain of the abandoned pine grove admiring the buck, for his tracks remain sound and unbroken. The path circles around to an opening near the pond where prints indicate that an Eastern Cottontail rabbit scampered through the long dead remnants of the garden before dashing towards the thickest part of the woods. My heart is heavy at the sight of merging coyote tracks and signs of a skirmish just beyond the Prayer Rock. The canine tracks continue on with a wide swirling line in the center.

The wind subsides, allowing the melodic tones of the main brook that feeds into the pond to crescendo. I break away from the deer path and wander towards the throaty new song. The ground is flawless – no tracks, leaves, twigs or fallen snow. I stand at the edge of where many streams hurry towards the brook and see that the woods beyond are peppered with a flurry of new tracks.

My heart jumps when the earth beneath my feet falls away with a muffled, low pitched crack. I have gone too far (without my walking stick). The icy snow disappears into the black water as it swallows me in one swift gulp. Breathless – I scramble to the edge of the opening and grasp the bottom of a young white birch tree while my boots instantly fill with frigid water. Grateful that it is not deeper, I am able to pull myself to safety. My walk comes to an abrupt end. I inhale the thin crisp air and wonder what the day would be like if I did not leave the deer path.

I head for the house stopping long enough to snap a few White Pine twigs for tea. Regretfully, my boots squish with each frozen step and my jeans have already begun to stiffen. I stare longingly at the smoke curling out of the red brick chimney and when I come across wild turkey tracks, I can only imagine their course.

Journal - Babies Breath

The Art of Change - The Christmas Tree

In 1980, my grandmother – the original Maryjane – gave me a few boxes filled with some of her favorite Christmas tree ornaments that she had collected over the years. It was my first Christmas away from home. Most of the decorations were metallic, colored balls with frosty glitter – some with scenes, others with traditional holiday greetings and my favorite ones had musical notations.

At the time that she gave me these ornaments, she was obviously deeply involved in felt craft. She included an assortment of little Santa and Elf mice with jiggly button-like eyes. I think that she may have made them for a church function where she and other older women sat around in the frigid church multi-function room beneath the sanctuary, toting glue guns and scraps of material, making things for their fairs while eating cookies and drinking strong coffee from an oversized urn.

I never really liked the felt mice, but felt obligated to take care of them, place them on the tree and carefully pack them away every year. At first I bothered to re-glue the eyes when they fell off, but after nine or ten years I just hung the one eyed rodents on random branches to fill in the gaps, paying tribute to my grandmother who passed away in 1989.

The decoration collection grew enormously when I became a mother. Not only did I honor my grandmother’s ornaments, I maintained a collection for each of my three children. Decorating the tree was a joyous yet serious event; we always enjoyed homemade sweets, eggnog and music, which was the pulse of our family during this activity. Each child had his or her own box of decorations and with careful deliberation they hung them on the tree. My grandmother’s ornaments were a part of the tradition. Even when a mouse did not make it onto a heavy bough, they were acknowledged in some way – through conversation or finding a lost eye in the bottom of the box. I still have them or at least most of their parts.

One by one, my children grew up and one by one they left our cozy nest. I tried to keep our traditions alive while they were out in the world so that when they returned home for the holidays, they would be able to celebrate with everything as it should be.

The transition from motherhood to crone is one that requires patience, love and acceptance. At first I worked tirelessly at trying to keep everything the same, or at least recognizable. I am relieved to report that after a few years of a somewhat difficult, white knuckled approach, I acknowledge the fact that change is inevitable; I embrace it.

Something as basic as a Christmas tree provides a fine example of transition and positive growth. It takes a great deal of effort to decorate and un-decorate a Christmas tree alone – especially using mementos that represent my entire life including the raising of my family. After my children went away, I began to dread lugging heavy boxes and feeling overwhelmed when I unpacked each ornament that came with an abundance of touching memories.

When my kids returned home from different corners of the world, they loved seeing the familiar twinkling tree. We sat down and enjoyed all of our customary home baked sweets, played music and celebrated our family love. After the holidays… when they left... it was just the tree and me. I dreaded the task of dissembling the mass of memories. Whether or not you have help, it is a chore. It is especially haunting when you are doing it alone. In the past I did not mind packing away holiday stuff because we were in the midst of our busy lives. That was then; this is now.

Last Christmas, when I was taking down the tree, I faced the reality that it had become a burden. I was going to great lengths to maintain tradition, even when its face had become quite different. Until this year, I was unable to look into that face.

Last week it just happened; I did not plan it. When I stood before the plain balsam fir tree, I decided to try something different. The previous week, I crafted many arrangements out of berries, twigs and bark. I try to walk in the woods every day; I tend to revert to my ancient ‘gatherer’ roots. Our house is adorned with natural décor and it was time to extend this art to the Christmas tree.

With pruning shears in hand and a cloth sack draped over my arm, I set out on my usual path in the woods and began harvesting. Before I came into the house, I stopped by the remnants of my herb garden and cut mugwort and grapevines. I did not take anything that showed promise of thriving.

After stringing small white lights on the tree, I embarked upon a new creative adventure. First I tied bunches of grapevine, mugwort and an assortment of small twigs to the entire length of the trunk of the tree so that they looked as if they were a part of it. From there I added milk weed pods that had released their feathery seeds, along with freshly fallen, pitch coated, pine cones. I even stuck clumps of burdock on the ends of tree limbs. I threaded hemp through oyster mushrooms that look like angels and made trees out of lichen covered bark, topped with a birch bark star.

Nothing was wasted. I crafted snowmen out of birch bark and constructed nests from various mosses and grapevine. I dried apples and oranges and made stacks and garland with cinnamon sticks. I also used dried apples as a base for moss covered wreaths. I strung fresh cranberries with hemp for garland. I created angels in flight using pine cones for the body, birch bark for the wings and head, twigs, hemp and moss hair, and bark for facial features and a partial berry for the mouth.

This project took several days to complete. I rifled through bags and piles of natural offerings and continued to create. The only tradition on the tree is the angel on top that my daughter Anna made when she was four-years-old.

At first I was in conflict; I thought that my family would be expecting the customary Christmas tree laced with a lifetime of memories. I don’t want to disappoint them. I decided that they are welcome to get the boxes and add whatever they wish to the tree.

In the future, if we have an opportunity to be together before Christmas, I will enjoy going through the boxes and decorating the tree with my family. In that case, it will not be a burden. I will probably save a few of the decorations that I made this year, but for the most part, the tree is organic and I will place it outdoors with ease. The birds can pick at the cranberries, apples and oranges and I will hang suet from the boughs. After they strip the goodies, it can go into the fire pit for a raging bonfire later in the season.

Life changes. Everything that is important cannot be tucked into boxes and then unpacked to bring back the past. It is important to preserve memories, but it is more important to accept change and be in the moment.

The tree is a symbol of how I live my life every day, here and now. I honor the tree and I honor life, which is well worth celebrating.

Journal - Periwinkle

The Perfect Christmas Tree

The snowflakes drifted down from the pinkish gray skies, lingering long enough on my red snowsuit for me to marvel at the intricate fractals. They were the kind of snowflakes that prompted me to throw my head back and catch them on my tongue, and made me dizzy when I stared upwards into the endless passageway to the enchantment of winter.

I held on tightly to the sides of the wooden Speedway sled, jerking with each tug as my father trudged through the deep snow, into the woods beyond the old covered bridge that led to my Uncle’s cabin. Every time we approached Durgin Bridge, my father told us to close our eyes and make a wish and then he would toot the horn of his 1958 Buick.

My father spoke sternly to my two older sisters as they wandered dangerously close to the banks of the raging waters of Cold River. I focused on their brightly colored stocking caps – like our mittens and socks, knit by our mother – bouncing along behind them. Their laughter blended with the melodic rushing river, resonating throughout the otherwise silent woods. A part of me longed to frolic with them, but even back then I was wise enough to know that the snow was unmanageable.

We had a ways to go until we reached my Uncle’s land. My father – a true woodsman in his customary red and black checked wool coat with his tree saw slung over his shoulder – blazed a clear path through the virgin snow. For an instant, I let go of the sled for a taste of snow mixed with wool from the tip of my mitten, but quickly grabbed the edge of the sled again when almost toppling over the side.

We stopped abruptly when we reached the top of the knoll and pondered the possibilities sprawled before us. Black-capped Chickadees and Nuthatches flit excitedly in and out of the nearby woodland garden of Evergreens and abundant Winterberries.

My sisters climbed onto the sled and my father gave us a push. We sped down the hill, narrowly missing saplings and rocks, finally stopping at the edge of a cluster of burdocks and managing to get a few stuck hopelessly on hats and mittens.

My shiny red boots quickly filled with snow as I followed my sisters rushing from one tree to the next while my father explained his reasoning for why we could not take each one home. He taught us to leave the trees that had hopes of flourishing and growing to be healthy amongst the others in the woods. It was vital to find a tree that would not thrive and that cutting it down would help not hurt the future of the grove.

We finally decided upon a charming, wildly imperfect, Balsam Fir. It struggled courageously, wedged between another heartier pine tree and enormous rock. I stood by examining a pitch covered pine cone as my father sawed the tree and my sisters made snow angels and repeatedly sang Jingle Bells.

The snowfall increased greatly and the wind blew hard. My father held the tree with one hand and pulled the rope on the sled with the other and we headed back to the car. My sisters walked beside me, teaching me the words to Silent Night and trying to pull the deeply embedded burdocks from their mittens.

The light of day was quickly fading as my father tied the tree onto the top of the car. Shivering and with reddened cheeks, we climbed into the car, eager to bring the tree home to our mother who we were sure was waiting with hot chocolate and fresh baked cookies.

Without our father’s prompting, we closed our eyes and made a wish while he did the traditional toot of the horn and we crossed Durgin Bridge with our Christmas tree tied firmly to the roof.

I didn’t realize until many years later that when we crossed Durgin Bridge, it wasn’t really about wishes, but to warn possible approaching vehicles. However, to this day, I continue to toot the horn when I approach the bridge and I tell my own children to make a wish.


** Historical Note

“The current bridge is the fourth one on this site, the others being washed away in 1844, 1865 and 1869. In 1869, the freshet was so violent that iron bolts used to connect the great bed pieces of the middle pier to a large rock were twisted and broken. The iron bolts were two inches in diameter. The existing bridge was built by Jacob Berry of North Conway. Berry claimed that the bridge was so strong that it could be filled with wood without causing it to fail. There is no evidence that anyone ever attempted to prove his theory. The bridge is named for James Holmes Durgin who ran a grist mill nearby. The bridge was also a link in the underground slave railroad from Sandwich to North Conway. Milton Graton and his son Arnold repaired and strengthened the structure in 1967-1968. It was rehabilitated in 1983 at a cost of $48,000. The Durgin Bridge is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.”
<  http://www.nh.gov/nhdhr/bridges/p85.html >

Tree Pulse: The Art of Tree Hugging

In the past when I hugged a tree, it was for an entirely different reason; the pulse is new to me. Of course I did not plan on becoming an expert in the art of tree hugging. However, I am what one would refer to as an authentic tree hugger.

It happened unexpectedly one morning when I was overcome with emotion while standing in the middle of a shady, deep, well established, pine grove. I didn’t know what to do. I thought of screaming (a good healthy scream), but decided against shattering the peaceful dawn chorus.

Suddenly, I found myself embracing a giant pine – well over one hundred years of age – my arms didn’t come close to reaching the halfway point. I gained a new respect for the forest and will never view a tree the same way again.

There is a gathering of young trees in a clearing behind the house. I first became a part of this sacred circle when I felt the pulse of the smallest tree, which I believe to be a Silver Maple. When leaning with my back against it, I sensed a strong, throbbing, rhythm. It reminded me of my childhood days when we dared to touch the electric fence, only without the painful jolt.

I tried to understand where this pulse was coming from. I considered that the young tree was absorbing water from the nearby, swollen, pond that had been dry for the past few months. Then I imagined that it could possibly be the heart beat of the Earth and that tendrils from the tree’s woody roots were woven intricately around a vein, tapping into Gaia’s life source.

The cluster consists of a mix of Ash and Maple with various smaller plants such as High Bush Cranberries and an assortment of Evergreens along the border. I approached each tree within the circle – also young, but bigger in diameter and a bit taller – and pressed against them in search of a pulse. I did not detect any pounding whatsoever. Perhaps Bach was inspired by such a phenomenon when he composed his Cello Suites or Violin Sonatas and Partitas, as the Silver Maple was unaccompanied.

I am an artist, historian, and naturalist… not a scientist. In the wild, I operate on past experience, pure logic and trust my intuition. Being inquisitive is a trait that I honor and it often leads to a great deal of research. However, this time I didn’t rush to the computer or bookshelf immediately in an effort to comprehend why the tree had what seemed to be a heartbeat. I preferred to simply relish the possibility instead.

About a week later I returned to the circle and leaned against the young tree. The pulse was reassuring. I wondered what it would feel like if I pressed my own heart against the rough, greenish speckled, bark. I sensed the rhythm, but for some reason the sensation was more pronounced through my spine.

Again, the other trees – without a distinguishable pulse – stood by as silent witnesses. Pondering the tree, I returned to my walk in the woods. I decided that I didn’t need to know; it is more significant to accept it and be grateful.

It is uplifting to see the tree outside of the window. When I go out to visit the pond and walk in the woods, it has become a ritual to pay my respects to the sacred circle and unite with the tree. At times the pulse is minimal, yet always detectable. I have related it to the underground water flow as this region is abundant with aquifers. It may or may not be the source.

When I feel the heavy hand pressing down upon my chest (as I do from time to time), I find myself amongst the inner circle. One afternoon as I stared at the crown of the youngest, at its wiry, leafless branches waving against an unpredictable sky, I knew that I mustn’t become dependent on the comfort, hope, or surge of energy that I experience while in unison.

When I approached the tree this morning, I embraced it with my own heart beating against the slender trunk. The others remained steadfast, nodding quietly in the mild, damp, wind – awareness emerged from grayness. It is human nature to grasp tightly onto the good things – things that we think that we love, not wanting to let go in fear of losing it and tragically not realizing the power of the ultimate grip of death, which does not only apply to living organisms, but to thoughts and dreams as well.

I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that if I rely on the tree, I am not honoring the experience for its worth. We are to be mutual in our existence.

Journal: Scarlet Lily – Babies Breath
                (Higher Souled Aspirations - Nature)