You've followed me through every awkward phase of my painting and blogging journey, dear reader (well, I'm sure there will be more of those yet)  Now get ready for the awkwardness of my baby giraffe-like video legs.  Thanks in advance for your patience as I learn editing software, camera settings and all the things!

Here's a video in three parts.  With each one the stopping point was a 24-hour pause where I spent time pondering the painting and sneaking up on it during different lighting and from various angles.  In this piece, on a piece of plywood my niece previously painted and then donated to my pile of paint-overs, tools used include brushes, rubber wedge, squeegee, deli paper, paper towel and fingers.  Charcoal and acrylic paint, liberal use of water.  Underpainting in fluorescent orange.

As I ponder my own tumultuous year, I find myself stronger, more courageous, more open and also more prone to tears, softer and quieter - I catch my breath at the breadth and depth of this year's journey.  We are still. here, - you and I, dear reader.   Still wild, still wonder-filled, still digging for courage.  

It's funny what you might stumble upon while hiking in the gorge. Including this tangled root web, which dazzled me and also tested my crampon-enhanced boots with slick bark and mud.  I joked, in the moment, that the advertisement for said crampons might read "Prevents slipping on snow, ice, mud and rock.  Will not prevent tripping. "  Ha! 

And then I stumbled upon this poet, Louis MacNeice, while tumbling down the rabbit hole of googling poetry.  And voila!  An Irish poet (and an outsider, no less) I hadn't heard of and now delight in.  And as the tree becomes a talking tower, perhaps this woman can become - not just woman - but world.

On the day of Winter Solstice,  we can breathe with a delicious sigh,  knowing the days will begin to lengthen and the world will warm.  Perhaps a silly thought, with January and February still firmly in our sights, yet it makes me smile.  We've come this far.  And now, the turning point.

In the meantime, the windy, dark and snowy gorge  beckons.  I am slowly mastering the art of the right layers, the best pace, the seeing eyes. My hiking companion points out how challenging it is to keep our attention on the surroundings when descending - the mind wants wander to everyday things when the downhill easy stride begins.  Even in this  place of exquisite beauty, there is monkey mind.  Oy.  

I listen to the trees and think of the humans of the world.  We, too, groan in the winds of change - pandemic,  news, fear, loss, loneliness.  We are reluctant to embrace this thing, and who can blame us?  But we must, it seems, "go down past things coming up" for a little while longer.   I hold in my one hand the fact that I desire spring,  warmth and companionship without worry.  In my other hand, I hold the knowledge that it won't be today.  In a recent interview with Brene Brown, Barack Obama spoke of the ability to hold opposing truths  and to function in that place of discomfort as a sign of strength and resilience.  

As 2020 goes "down into the dark decayed", I wish for you (and for me, dear reader) the ability to hold opposing truths as comfortably as you can.  And perhaps a lovely, warm slice of pie.  Whatever flavor is your favorite. :)

I jest, but only lightly.  

These many hikes deep into the gorge, even standing at the top of a mountain gobsmacked by the views, I contemplate what it means about me.  It is human nature, I think, to examine everything in relation to ourselves and our own lives.  Initially, the mountain meant I was getting stronger, my spine was healing, my willingness to be cold, wet, muddy, tired, hungry and uncomfortable was growing.  These are all good things, but still, all about me.

After a while, the hikes became an exercise in how long two (or more) humans can slog through extreme conditions over many miles and still enjoy each other's company, or tolerate silence, or maintain conversation.  (The answer is: it's easy if you're of like minds)  But it still wasn't about the mountain.

But recently, on hike with extreme wind and some challenging mud and cold, it became more about the mountain.  The mountain and  its unyieldingly treacherous face.  The mountain and its stony, jagged skin and sinewy fingers at its windswept summit.  The mountain and its voice in burbling streams and thundering waterfalls.  The mountain and its behemoth body, both sheltering from wind and blocking the warmth of the sun. 

Perhaps I am, finally, learning...

On a recent hike, thinking I would love to create art with a piece of charcoal from the gorge, I attempted to remove a small piece of charred wood from tree after tree.  Each of these had been reduced to blackened hulls.  Yet they were harder than I ever imagined - unbreakable.  Ultimately, I recovered a small chunk from the forest floor - a tiny piece of a branch, perhaps, that had fallen off in the fire.  The trees were otherwise unwilling to part with even the tiniest piece.

In an odd way, the petrified trees have become part of the mountain...bony, pointy fingers reaching up and reminding us of the peril that exists at certain times of the year.  That Mother Nature can turn her gaze upon things and, like Medusa, turn them to stone.

In that moment of openness and looking, sometimes I can also see.  See the woman inside.  See the expression of that woman on the outside.  See where the window between inside and outside wants thinning.  Here in this space - this blog and these words, the art and its inspiration, dear reader, I move closer and ever closer to in-here and out-there sameness.

I am so grateful for you and the incredible encouragement and positivity you have given me here since the blog's inception in 2014...whoa.  Wherever you are, here is a hug from me to you. xo