harvest

the grass on the river dike is suddenly tall, up to my chest.  the false bamboo is wiggling through the dry silt on the river's edge.  the morning glory is twisting and twining it's way up up up the garden.  tractors chug along  waking up winter's mudpack.  it seems like it all happened in a flash overnight, while i wasn't looking.  i start to get that overwhelming feeling, like spring and summer all happens so fast, whizzes right by like the scenery from a car window.  i fear i need to soak it up harder this time and store it deep within me for the next long winter, the winter that comes on altogether too soon.  wearing shorts for the first time this year, walking through the tall grass, my legs feel the familiar sting of nettles, somehow comforting, like a pinch to wake you up from a long dark cold dream that wouldn't end.  the dogs are just wiggles in the grass, flickers of color hidden beneath the fronds, they run through the cut paths but can hardly be seen.  they cannot see out to where the valley opens up,  which makes them a little more nervous than usual, staying close to our feet so as not to get lost.  this is their first spring, ever.  you can tell it's overwhelming to them too.

my hair is long now, longer than it's ever been, long as that grass on the river's edge, almost to my elbows.  last time i talked to my dad, he reminded me:  it's been four years since mom passed, jessie, not three.  i guess i stopped keeping track, but my hair is a good measure.  the last time i really cut it, i cut it short... it was this time of year, about four years ago.  when your mom loses her hair, a woman's best accessory as kate describes it, you may find yourself wanting to lose your hair too, to take away the pain, to shake the vanity that we still somehow cling to until the very end.  and now, all i have is hair, long as i can grow it, my hair.  it's heavy, tangled, dirty, and hard to wash.  it's beautiful, and real, not as much ash-blond as my optimistic mother would describe it as the greyish brown of dry earth.  my dogs pull it, chew on the ends of my braids, and step on it, yanking from the roots.  james loves it, how it reminds him of the nurturing yet untamed hippie women of his childhood. that hair, it's mine, for better or worse: every cell of my being, every life experience is in there, every breath, every tear, for the last four years.  

this spring, i think it's time.  i think i'm ready for harvest.

find your voice

one of the things i like best about being an artist is that you can reinvent yourself every day if you want to.  this year, for this one-a-day project, i'm trying hard not to fall into the same ruts, working to stretch my technique and abilities, going for something different every single day.  I want to create new flavors of art that surprise even me, work that reflects not only my personality but the various influences and artists i've admired over the years.  influences are a major part of developing one's own style.  my mom used to tell me, if you like a certain piece of work, it behooves you to try and copy it, just to see how it's done.  as a student of painting in college, we were challenged to imitate the work of an old master.  my monet copy wasn't half shabby!  by examining the work closely, even if only through photos, and dissecting it with my eyes, i learned a little about the artists approach, something i could later consciously and subconsciously incorporate into my own work. because as i see it, there's no such thing as an original idea, but there's also no one with an original voice identical to yours.  so let er rip!  find your voice!  because the only thing worse than taking a risk and making a dumb mistake is making nothing at all, and the only thing worse than giving up is not trying.

digging holes

*

  

as of last week, thursdays are now "home days". james and i have committed to spending an entire day every thursday of every week bettering our barn-home and tying up loose ends.    it feels good to dedicate a day to work together towards our goals, to nest a little.  it has become increasingly necessary when almost all of our time is spent working for others.  you see, the problem was, i begin to panic inside my head if i don't feel like i'm making progress on the never-ending master list of tasks.  i look at every nagging issue, point at it, look at james and say, now why isn't that done yet?  poor james.  yeah, so i may freak out, i may go a little off the handle.  it's embarrassing.  i'm supposed to be a mature adult for god's sake!  now we certainly don't need any more panicky moments out of me, do we?  hence, the invention of thursday, home day, a new and constructive preventative measure.  so far, it's working great.

today was a day full of digging holes and planting four gigantic blueberry bushes that we had salvaged.  each hole was about four feet in diameter and had to be dug through a five inch layer of gravel.  the rain didn't deter us, it almost made the work more fun, the clean smell of water on grass, sifting rocks from the soil, getting muddy up to my elbows. I fed the eager ducks every nightcrawler i could find, dangling it in the air to catch their attention. they always come a'runnin, flapping their flippers through the puddles in a quick waddle. those ducks are smart, they know to follow us around when we dig in the garden, searching for fruits of the earth, keeping us busy company.  

afterward, we washed the earth from our hands, drank some water, admired our progress.  every day, it feels more like home.  

springtime

*

it's that time of year again where i really start to think about my mom a lot.  right about now, three years ago, she went into the hospital, which is where she would spend her last days.  i remember counting every blossom of every flower in my yard in portland... all of the plants i had planted, dirt under my nails in the hot sun, turning in the year-old kitchen compost, everything we ate becoming black gold, churned into the vapid soil to make hospitable beds out of dry clay.  i remember cutting those blossoms proudly to bring to her room, anything, anything to fight the beeping and buzzing and clicking of hospital ephemera, the sterility of plastic and the smell of sanitizer.  i would bring fresh flowers from my own garden, a new bouquet every time those flowers started to begin to wilt.  it was all i could do, everything i could do, even after she went to sleep and didn't wake up again. how it all flashes back sometimes, especially this time of year.

today, i woke up sad.  it happens when i don't expect it, even three years later.  i guess that's inevitable.  james asked me:  is there anything you can think of that will make you feel better?  outside, through the window, i could see the sun peeking through the clouds.  springtime.  suddenly, i knew exactly what to do.  I pulled up my sleeves, grabbed a spade, and set to work in the soil.  life abounds in the garden.

wild world 

it's a stretch

watercolor on paper 9x12

This evening I had to have a reality check with myself.  I realized: I have to be honest about what i can and can not do on a daily basis.  I am ambitious, but i don't have superpowers.  I am ambitious, but sometimes it gets me into trouble.  By aiming too high, I set myself up for failure.  This is something i learned the last time i did my daily painting project, working, scanning, typing frantically, tears in my eyes, delirious tired.. sure, I can paint a painting every day....but just barely.  Some days, it's a miracle that i can even find the time to wipe the boogers out of my sleepy eyes.   Stacking even more responsibility onto an already full dance card leaves me with two left feet.  I do a lot to keep this ship afloat, hustle hard to keep my animals, my bandmates, my friends, my family and all of my customers satisfied.  I work a hell of a lot of miracles around here.  But I admit: I just can't do it all.  It feels good to say it aloud, to let go.  So repeat after me:  I can't do everything.   I can't paint a painting every day and, on top of it, write something meaningful every day.  It's just impossible.    So there.   Now, it's out in the open.  This time around, things are different.  I'm a little smarter.  And as i wait impatiently for today's watercolor to dry, you'll have to wait until tomorrow to see it.  That's just how it's gonna have to be.

to each their own

watercolor on paper, 9x12

when it comes right down to it, even after a six month break, i can still whip out a realistic watercolor by staring at an object, painting what i see.  this one came remarkably easy, like i could do it blindfolded, like i was born to paint squished beer cans.   oh, how i love painting squished beer cans.  and yeah, i guess painting a particular way every day for a year conditions you.  in the process of that year, i didn't exactly love every painting i did.  some were downright awful.  but the errors are a necessary part of the trials.  and so i don't censor my little basket of loose leaf watercolors that sits on a table in my store.  i let people see them all, thumb through them, for better or worse.  i let it all hang out, and they can decide what to make of it.

  usually, people respond in an overwhelmingly positive way.  today, a biker couple giggled over a painting of a smooshed pack of  cigs, "this one's perfect for you", said the woman clad in black leather, then finding the bic lighter painting that could possibly be paired with it.  another couple of youngsters whispered back and forth, "this is my favorite, no, this is my favorite....oh, this one could go over the bed".  it's funny, hearing the comments, hidden behind the counter, when nobody knows it's me that painted those pictures. and then there's the other side of the coin.  today, while james was working, some fella picked up a painting, showed his whole family, and remarked something to the effect of, "can you believe it?  sixty dollars for this!?! who would pay sixty dollars for this??", hastily throwing the paper back into it's basket.  now that, my friends, is more honest than a college critique or a review in the paper.  luckily, i don't really care.  to each their own.

 

for the love of trouble

*

oh, puppies.    last night they got into my yarn stash and tangled four skeins of the *expensive* yarn to holy hell.   it's hard to get mad at those cute little faces, those big sad eyes, but i do my obligatory reprimanding, theatrical stomping and a deep booming voice, shaking the yarn at them, asking sternly whooo did this?  was it youuuu?  i'm silently laughing to myself as they both hide under the bed, tails tucked, until i decide it's over.  somehow, they seem to know while they're doing something mischievous that they're in the act of being bad boys.  but they still grab at socks, every now and again, after ripping holes in many a heel.  they know it's wrong.  but it's a guilty pleasure, that stinky sock tastes so damn good!, and defines the bad boy mentality to the core:  getting into trouble is half the fun!  i know these patterns well, i've watched it unfold time and again: i've been surrounded by "bad boys" my entire life, including my father, who hides it fairly well in his work clothes, (but i know better), including my brother, who has somehow lived through and witnessed more than what could be seen in a season of Cops, including a large portion of my friends and including nearly every fella i've ever dated.  but that's part of why i love em, what i love about them.  hell, my mamma was no angel, and  neither am i.  and maybe that's why i've always been drawn to "rebels": i do deeply understand the desire to bend the rules, to break the rules, to make your own set of rules.  i don't always understand the rules in the first place, or how one small set of people can govern what is best for the "greater good" of all people.  some rules just don't apply to me, and so i ignore them.  maybe that makes me some kind of a rebel.  or maybe i'm just like my puppies.  maybe rebellion is just a part of nature, after all.