Over the bridge

Gone. Packed up, on the road. It didn't seem too bad. Until I arrived back to my life. Yard overgrown, refrigerator empty and a layer of dust and cobwebs covering most surfaces. How does Jim live here and not see?
I miss the sound of the pines cradling the house in the morning breeze. I miss waking up to put on a pot of coffee, stand at my door and survey the day. I miss my beach walk and painting on the patio. I miss my bottle of red wine!
Over the bridge I went, back to the mundane, the everyday existence which I must endure till the seasons change once more and release me.
I have the beach in my head as K.B. keeps. The way the mist comes off the water, curls up the dunes and rolls back upon the sand, waiting to be burned off by mid-morning. The hot sand on my toes, the sound of the rocks lazily rolling under the waves. The way the seals poke their heads up and follow my progress. I have the sun on my back, although in reality my toes and fingers are chilled here at home. Fall is waiting it's turn.
Tomorrow will be worse. Back to work. The first few days of meeting new people, new assignments and students can be exciting, but then it wears off and become the Job.
My summer life has started to fade, as the warm days of laconic strolls to the treasure have. The cool mists of Wellfleet have begun to be replaced by the even crisper air of Gospel Hill. The scent of farm, apples ripening and buses collecting their charges.
Time to re-charge and put on my bright face.

Change happens.

So, I walked the walk and was filled with wonder as I passed by countless castles. Carved by the storm last night, the beach had been torn away. High tide left little room to pass. Walking close with walls of sand overhead gave me the feeling of seeing the valleys, buttes and cliffs of the Grand Canyon. Turret-like, almost mini castleswith layers of sand in various degrees of drying left stripes and unique edges. It looked like lace along the top, as those miles of carvings held onto the furthest most outposts before they dropped off the jagged edge and were swept away.
Gone were the fish of previous days, gone were the rocks, and absent were the usual pods of seals that greet me along my way. Gone were the ropes and signs that protect the plovers. No boundaries. No lines to keep clear of. The rusted steel beam that held my vertical wood logs in check, gone, but appeared further down the beach in the treasure trove. No landmarks...the square white bottle at the half way, picked clean by another contributor. Amazing how quickly things change. In place, dredged up from another place and time came quite an assortment of new large beams, different logs and stranded lengths of ropes, tangled, bleached and worn. Yellow fins, a hiking boot, a zippo and the ever present balloons made there way to the now well visited trove.
On the journey back, I spotted a beautiful piece of driftwood, worn smooth. My new small sculptural pile untouched by the tide, being high up next to the comfort of the dune appreciated the deposit. I could paint.

Coming to Peace

Time is winding down for my walking the sands. Start of a new year sooner than wanted, but inevitable. As the waves roll or pound depending on outside influences, so my life also takes shape. Will these stream of consciousness reports be inspired from a new source, or dwindle to weekend jaunts?
I need the inspiration of the water and sands, the found objects arranging themselves into new sculptural expressions, yet time to get back to the other world and real life. Will I take this place of power as a life change when given the opportunity? Or will I run? Or will I play it safe? Time only knows.
So, today I prepare to venture out along the edge once more. Others have now added to my guardians and compilations of trinkets. It detracts and devalues my intended spirit, although I know I should be encouraged by the shared experience. There is nothing original, and I'm sure I wasn't the first, but none the less, I am not thrilled to see the clones. But I will try to walk with openness of soul.
There was a violent storm yesterday and I am curious to see what survived and what more was brought forth from the depths.
The constant change actually should bring peace. Add to, or wash away clean...life continues at nature's pace.

Cast of silver

Silver gleaming along the edge. Shown bright in the sunlight, a streak of light along the shore. A vertical piece of lace. Fish, nothing but small fish. Cast about, thrown onto the sand, bitten, and headless, their countless scales sparkle in the sand and sea foam. Their fine bones exposed. Miles of small, silver strokes on the canvas. Birds of all sizes and colors feasted this morning.
My spirits and treasures were intact today. A few additional offerings displayed. I found my smaller shrine also untouched. It is always amazing to see that although the shore seems calm by day, so many new things are brought forth overnight to be discovered in the light. I was able to bring a few new colorful trinkets and pieces of driftwood to the compilation, and spied more for another day. A tee shirt, a hair band, goggles, sunglasses, foam and a swim fin. The twist of rope will have to wait, as will the rust from a ship's past.
Painting went well today. A close-up partial self-portrait with the treasures in the background. Maybe not original, but different for me to include myself.

Quiet time

My face , one cheek receiving the kiss of spray from the ocean, and the other, soft rain. The grayness seemed so appropriate today; the quiet, the pull of nature. I could hear the drops as they fell upon the scattered stones. It was a good omen. The water was also soft today and gray. Not diminished in power, but just softer with the day. I rebuilt today. The careless, unseeing visitors of the other day were gone with the sun. I searched, I uncovered, I stacked, until my guardians were once again in place. Then I moved on.
With every intention to see if my treasure was still there, or altered from the invasion of the curious, I started off to my place of solace. I was just a bit further down the beach when new matter caught my eye. Overnight, from the storm, I was given another gift. Cast up near the edge of the dune I spotted new supplies to create with. A lobster trap, large pieces of driftwood, a tangle of colored ropes, and many beautifully shaped rocks with which to sculpt. A fairy fort, a spirit house, a treasure trove of found beauty. And so, now a beginning of another, an offspring of the larger shrine. I hope it will survive.

Discovered, precious and shared

As they say, things are not the way they seem. I could not find my way to write yesterday, as things were so ordinary in a new light. There was no mist to cover and protect, no spirit today. The light of a warm sunny day brought more people along the shores. Out to wander and come upon what I treasure already. I reached my special place, and found it had been discovered. By many. It wasn't the same.
It was a bad omen when I saw that a few of my stone guardians were torn from their roost. To hold beach blankets from the wind. Casually hugging the corners, un-caressed, just tossed down.
Today I will restore, as the fog has returned with Monday vengeance.
Yet, a good omen today, for I have made a friend so far away. My trinket spirit is watching.

Ambivalence

After such a lovely morning, I returned to the world. To the inevitable, the truth. I knew it was not to be, yet I still hurt to think that this is all I will keep with me. So high on the scent, the electricity... then gone. Now empty like the dead balloons I pick off of the shore... the pretty ribbons still entwined, yet dragged along the sand. Held down and knotted with weed.
As the never ending flow of the tides, the highs are always followed by lows. Yet I knew when I longed, I knew. And I still fell. But only so far. No regrets.

Torn Between Treasures

Another day, another pilgrimage down the beach. The mist was thick and I loved the solitude along the way. The sun broke out in my path as I walked along, yet I couldn't see much behind or ahead.
It is such a creative time for me...how did I get along with out this force before? My mind is bombarded with glorious thought, one right after another, such plans! Then real life as always intrudes when I return home, plans in mind. Thoughts evaporate just as that morning fog burns off or drifts away.
I walked both sides today. The edge and shore, and close to the dune. Torn between. Drawn to both. A metaphor for my current place in time. The face has gone, now just words upon the screen.
The face that I know so well is comfortable, safe. A different kind of love. Not the butterflies in your stomach love, but the constant, low drone of consistent love. Complacent, yes...not exciting, yet still solid and comforting.
And so, my Treasures. Along the way I created a few new cairns up out of the way of the tides, at least until the next full moon and high tide. I gave a nod to those that stand guardian. There it was, like an apparition through the mist, yet the sun shone on it's spot most magical. In my youth I'd busy myself out in the woods for hours on end fixing places of welcome. Gathering moss to soften, flowers to brighten or incarnate a magical experience for unseen forces. I can still see the Fairy forts, Tolkien inspired, or invoked by mystical Castenada.
I entered through the path, a proper gateway. I tidied the entrance, straighted up stray pieces that toppled in the night, primped here and there, and then created my gift. Simple treasures and yet profound when presented to this assembly of spirit. Special.

Treasures

Treasures. More was revealed today. As I left the lure of the dunes and echoes, I found myself wandering between bits and pieces of color amongst the gray. A string here, bottles, a net and sandal. A jar, florescent tube, and rusting cans. Faded rope, a rubber sole and many sad balloons now deflated yet still attached to perky ribbons. Flotsam maybe, but a compilation like no other. Through the mists I made out a treasure trove, a sculptural offering by others of similar spirit as I. I made my contribution, the best from my stash ...and sat among it's many components to hear their stories.

A step away from the Edge

Clouds and mists for the morning walk. I went the solitary route towards Marconi, as the mists hung onto the dunes so seductively. The mung has washed in and feeds the hungry Plovers, running so frantically to catch their fill. Then something called me from the edge of the shore. I was drawn inward, towards the dunes. The whispers, I felt them calling. On approach I heard the soft reflections of the waves and roll of the rocks being cast about, up the height of those dunes, but there was another voice. I stopped. Completely stopped, before I heard them. Lives past, ghosts or what was between the layers of sand and time. Knowing they don't have long before they are pulled down into the sea. There is another song being sung there, if you listen. Quiet, but powerful and luring. A higher octave that joined the softly falling sands for a brief moment of awareness. The swaying of the grass that clings so desperately onto those dunes seemed determined to give more. I felt at peace there is morning, as it seemingly was speaking only to me. How many people enjoy this stretch without taking that step back away from the edge? The shore has it's own allure, but that other side beckons to be heard.

Another day, Another Life Plan

So today, I picked up the pace and was not distracted. I didn't glance back once. They were there, but no longer have the lure.
It was the reflections of the waves draining back into the sand that made it so pleasurable today. The light was beautiful and cast many different shades of purple into the sand. Wettest being deeper, with reflections of the blue,above and white foam bubbles being chased back to sea only to be run over by more on their way inland. There were perfect little balls of water seemingly floating on top of the sand, ready to melt or give way to any whim, breeze or touch. It was the constant swirl of color that I appreciated today. Of course I've seen it daily, but today it stood out so clear. It was the color of skin in my new painting. Purples, blues, oranges and pink.
Cowgirl in the sand...Purple words on a gray background, to be a Woman an to be turned down.
So, I have come to a new life plan. I feel that if I have only 20 good years left, I'm not going down easily. I will not wait for the opportunity, but will create it. My life has been a safe life, always safe.
Marriage, motherhood, my job, my art. Why did I list it in that order? Always on the brink of taking a risk, yet stepping back just in time ...to be safe. Is that how I want to live to the end? It's not who I used to be, so what has happened to me? Responsibility can only take so much blame. It's time to expand my universe while I still can. I need more. Can I leave my family behind? Yes, I have new reason, but I need the push.
First step, learn Spanish and Italian. Next, I think a villa in Tuscany for a month with my sabadical money next year. I need to travel, paint , to see new light. To live.

critique

As I look back over the Emotional Storm, I am longing for the first rendition. It was raw, yet it had heat and was bolder. But alas, it is buried deep. The scrapings and overpaintings of the final were more textural playthings, no longer so personal. Gone, but a memory. In more than one way.

Shadows on the Sand

The shore today was different, and my usual quest for the perfect rock, uninviting. What I did notice was scent and sound. The mung was back. Thick, and weighting the lazy wash upon the shore, seemingly slower than usual. Inviting for the plovers. It was one of those busy days, as many were enjoying the beach. They played, surfed or frolicked without noticing the actual beauty of what entices most to the edge of Wellfleet. From Lecounts to Cahoons and back to Marconi I strolled past a few gems just calling to be inspected, but today I was more interested in their sounds. I could tell where they were hiding. Below the waves, the roll, tumble and scraping. It was the music that played with the shadows cast by the clouds.
Billowing with gleams of bright behind, they came fast. Their shadows were the star of the day, as they gracefully swept down the beach, like a blanket lifted off to reveal. Whether highlighting the sand cliffs by pulling off the darkness, or sweeping over me and kissing me with it's warmth, the contrast painted the landscape with numerous passes. I like days with a surprise ending, and sure enough, at my little spot by the crest before Marconi...clarity. No mung, clear aqua and calm. A gentle swim before resting on the sand listening to those rocks rolls back into the fingers that pull.
A new painting started to take shape today, from the sand shadows and KB's remark about Cowgirl in the Sand. Was it mentioned in order to have a closer look at the lyric's...is it The Woman in me that makes me want to play this game?

just here

So, here I am, and the painting goes well. I think I need to stop, as I have altered it beyond all stages. Life goes on and I will endure. maybe better than I could imagine. Was it real? Did I really connect with such insight? I miss you, but you are fading all too quickly.
Next painting, a cleansing, less emotion.