Evaporating Into The Ether

12"x12" Continental Drift of the Mind

Friends, I really have evaporated into the ether and have no explanation to offer. Perhaps it is the intense smell of honeysuckle wafting from the large tangle of blooms on my back deck that keeps me outside until dark and render me invisible . Maybe it is the miraculous tang of garlic scape pesto on new potatoes that has kidnapped my tastebuds.

It might be the ridiculous conversations I have with Siri on the new ipad that has found its way into my house.  Or it could be the many talks I listened to on Hay House that makes me more and more convinced that the world we live in is swimming in information and connections, that all I have to do is "think it" and you will receive it immediately??  You have been getting those messages, haven't you??

But I could just be lazy and distracted.  That is a good human possibility too.  These days of late Spring, the ones tipping precariously over into summer, have been filled with satisfying activity.  If you live in or around Salt Spring, I will draw your attention to ArtCraft where both my art and that of over 100 talented art and crafts people appear. I did spend some time getting ready for that, that counts in my defense, yes??

16"x20" The Colour of Silence

There is the garden to tend and if it is to be done at all well, it requires time and attention. We are eating radishes and greens, garlic scapes, broad bean, kale and perennial arugula and green onions from our own little patch right now.  There is nothing quite like washing off and popping a white icicle radish straight from the ground and into the ol' cake hole,  except maybe  a kale flower plucked off as you walk by.  And if you want to watch an inspiring TED talk about guerilla gardening, check out Ron Finley here.

I visited the city where I grew up and can report I did originate from somewhere on this planet but it was somewhat foreign to me.  Revisiting old places gave me the feeling that we are slightly homeless in this world.  Those old places that I imagined were home, don't match the film track of memory and the current landscape lacks the depth of memory so it feels as if we are afloat in this vast, groundless  universe (not in a bad way, but in a way that asks us to give up our search for security).

Just for fun here are  links to  Joe Dispenza's TED talk and David Hamilton's website.  I thoroughly enjoyed their talks on Hay House. It's always about how you use that grey stuff between your ears. And on that note I will dive back into the greenness of deep space, very unapologetically. I will continue to send you messages.  You can return them unopened if you like or respond in kind. Happy solstice.

Rowdy Abundance

new abstract "If Trees Were Mountains" 11"x14"

I am still gulping in this season of rowdy abundance that has thrown itself at my doorstep. The sun gets up early and stays up late and somehow I try to keep up.  The settling darkness laughs at my foolish tag along attempts as I fall into bed exhausted. I don't want to miss a minute.  I am full of energy for all that needs to be done, for sipping in the deliciousness of the greenness and the savouring the occasional tepid breeze. The grass is waist high in parts of the meadow. The tent caterpillars have consumed the leaves from entire trees giving them an eerie silvery glow. They are cocooned in in a tangle of emptiness. Soon their little moth selves will bump against my windows at night like little winged zombies.

The birds dart about in frenzied feeding. Even the tiny woodpecker comes to tap at the plastic feeder hoping to find something to his liking. The quail keep look out for each other as they eat, this seems so endearingly sweet, but of course it is merely a survival behaviour. The hot pink hawthorne tree who showed no sign of blooming last week is tosses it hot pinkness into the sky, even in the distance. In my human way I am constantly reading meaning into the natural world where there is none, or at least not my imagined stories of sweetness or worry or delight. They have their stories but not the ones I stitch together for them, charged with my own hope and fear.

And I  have been plunged into this radical abundance, feeling the energetic pull to be part of it. The lazy slow days of hibernation have disappeared into the drawer with the wool socks. The stack of books I am reading is as tall as the grass. There is "In Buddha's Kitchen" and "Gardening At Dragons Gate", both written by women Dharma practitioners.  Wendy Johnson gardens at Green Gulch Zen Centre in California, Kimberley Snow cooks at a Tibetan Centre in Northern California.  As I read these books at different times over the days the stories seem to merge together and I weave one book out of two. But as I travel deeper into the books  their roads of similarity diverge with the writing and story of the gardening book emerging stronger and more vivid. And so the stories separate and the reading of one increases and the other falls quietly into the background.

New Buddha 16"x20"  heading off to Norway this week

Also traveling  from bedside to coffee table are: "Long Life" and "Why I Wake Early" by Mary Oliver, "Pilgrim" by David Whyte, "Broken Open" by Elizabeth Lesser, "Journey In Ladakh" by Andrew Harvey, and "Collage Discovery Workshop" by Claudine Hellmuth. I am living in the waist tall grass of my reading list, sometimes feeling overwhelmed and sometimes simply picking up what I fancy and reading a bit. I imagine the birds and dear (ha, ha, good typo, deer), must feel this sense of lush madness each day as they make their way through the world.

And between reading list and my infatuation with the outdoor world there seems little time left for virtual living. I read the odd blog. I watch Jeane broadcast from the shed, check a few emails but this is the stuff of colder seasons or rainy days. I suspect many of us have the same inclination, torn from our screens by the the energy of growing things, of warm breezes, a world that offers us so much for so little.

How about you? How has the energy of the season tangled and mixed with your life creating a new you? I am reminded of a quote attributed to the Buddha that I have used on a painting: "Each day we are born again. What we do today is what matters most."

A Small Bird Built A Nest In My Heart

A small bird

 built

A nest

In my heart

I saw her

carefully tugging

Prayer flag threads

I didn't see her carry

the dry twigs of despair

the brittle lichen of longing

instead she placed them secretly

knowing they would hold

what was

waiting to fly

from my heart

It is the season of earth's great generosity and abundance. The natural world is bursting with voluptuous Spring greenness, a colour so rich and vibrant that it tickles you from the inside. The maples, the lilacs and the green fingered pine trees.  And all the while in the garden, the weeds grow like -- weeds.

And as a human living in this divine explosion of energy I make some attempt, in my foolishness, to tame a small part of this world that grows up around my door. I pull weeds.  I use the weedeater and the lawn mower. I plant seeds in a garden whose clay soil is a better host to hardy, practiced weeds than to tender veggie seeds. In my grumbling and digging I realize my need to amend the soil. Tiny lights are lit from the candle of despair.

And so the list of tasks that rattle around in my head is also made abundant by this lush season. I am humbled by my role of lion tamer to the natural world. Each morning the overnight surges and spurts of growth greet me and ask me "who do you think you are?"

The deer browse hungrily, eyeing the trellis rose just out of reach, scratching the itch of their velvety antlers. Quail take a dust bath in hollows they have etched with their round bodies and crazy scratching. We watch them argue over whose turn it is in the prime spot under the bird feeder. Seven tiny ducklings swim under the willow that hangs into the pond. Their is always new snacks for the eyes.

I watch the feelings of delight at the sights of nature untamed and then am swamped by the sense of overwhelm that rises in an instant, feeding on my desire to manicure a small square of earth for the part of me that savours order and tidiness. It is a constant movement like the breeze that comes over the hill. My work is to delight in the coexistence of these two senses like a parent of children that like to argue a bit.

And how is it in your part of this lovely planet as it springs to life?

Of Spring & Sun & Skunk Cabbage

There is nothing that reminds me more of anicca (imperm anence) at this time of year than the weather. Lots of grey and wet on the west coast this winter, so when the sun shone Wednesday we knew just what we needed to do. We tied on our hiking boots and went in search of the waterfall that we've heard so much about. Just down the road, you'll hear it at this time of year, we'd been told.

There is nothing quite so restorative as a walk in nature, a place where it is easy to "just be", a place to slow down and experience a contemplative state of mind. Too often we forget these simple pleasures, the smell of outdoor air, the feel of our muscles as we walk, a little bird song, the sound of a woodpecker working away on a dead tree.

And when the sun has been MIA for some time, as it

seems to have been this winter, we really notice our

appreciation for the small pleasures of it's return(like a good friend who has been on a long holiday). So we savoured the warmth of it on our backs, silently admired the pleasing way it filtered through the trees, the way it lifted our spirits with it's simple presence. This week it was one of the things to mention when you chatted with people. Did you get to enjoy that sunshine on Wednesday? Someone did qi gong outside, someone else picked nettles for pesto with her kids. It was an occasion for varied and delicious celebration.

So here is a little taste of Spring emerging on the coast. In my mind there is no colour as divine as Spring green, the lusciousness of the deep moss that has thrived in the winter rains, that incredible pungent, startling green that is the calling card of Spring.

A little skunk cabbage for your olfactory delight. What, no smell on blogger? It's like a little forest glade of skunks, really. How could something so striking and beautiful smell, so, well, stinky? Nature offers us another koan.

And there it was finally after a few over anxious false leads, once along a stream that at first, seemed promising but held no waterfall. Another trail off the road led to a tiny snag in the creek but no waterfall. A little like spiritual practice, don't you think? Sometimes we start following a trail that just leads off into the woods. If we're persistent and go back to the road we might just find what we're looking for.

And how is Spring emerging in your part of the world? Spiritual thaw and blossoming or just the good old smell of the earth ready to welcome new life?