My funny Valentine

Allow me to introduce you to the magical mystical Mr Mephistophelies, my demon kitty... Stalker of sewing supplies, slayer of pincushions, eater of houseplants, master of crazy hijinks, magician of curious mischief, a certified expert in purr therapy and burry your face in fur therapy. He and his siblings are the cutest little loves of my life.

I feel so surrounded by love here, so blessed.

It's hard to believe that in two days I'll be flying away.... away from my family, my kitties, my woods, towards the unknown. Three months of work and sunshine in Palm Beach await me. I'm really excited. I'll do my best to blog throughout but oh how I'm going to miss my darling little kitties.

sunlight in february

It's a balmy fifty-five degrees outside my family's home in Maryland. The thick blanket of snow, that has covered the ground since Christmas, is lifting into the air and sinking into the soil. I woke up to mist so thick the whole world became a white haze. I decided to take a walk with the old beagle dog. Putting on rubber boots, coat and shawl, we tramped off through the woods together.

Our feet splashed through frozen slush, and from time to time, patches of earth at the base of a tree, would reveal a hint of green moss or ivy which outlasted the snow's icy shroud. When we reached the bay the sun was shining bright. The mist cleared. I took a seat on top of an old wooden pick nick table, warmed in the afternoon sun. I was so flushed from the briskness of our walk that I felt compelled to take off my coat and wool sweater. Then through some strange impulse, I took off my boots and socks too.

No one was in sight except for the good old dog. I could see for miles down the shoreline. So, with the Chesapeake bay before me and the snowy white world behind, I did a series of sun salutations, right on the pick nick table. There is nothing more delightful than to move and breathe in the open air. I kept my eyes wide open through the postures breathing in the sights of the world. The steel gray water and wispy clouds, snowy earth and gray tree trunks turned upside down as I stretched in the sunshine. And before I knew it I was turning pirouettes on the wooden table top. At last, it was time to come back down to earth. I put on my coat and shoes, whistled for the beagle and trudged my way back to realty, but with a light heart and a fully nourished spirit.

frolic architecture of the snow

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight: the whited airHides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet

Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit

Around the radiant fireplace, enclosedIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermoreFurnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work

So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he for number or proportion.

Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;

A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,

Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gateA tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished ArtTo mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,The frolic architecture of the snow.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Snowstorm

1835 [1841]

On Christmas night snow came, a ticklish, caressing kind of snow. The kind that brushes your cheek for a moment, before settling down to melt into your skin, crystalline flakes catching the light, catching the wind, swirling and sparkling like tiny shards of glass glitter through the trees. Overnight the snow built it's crystal castles and offered it's wild creation up to the day, but as quickly as the sky built this frolic architecture, with equal speed it starts to melt away.

(Amy's depiction of our Merry Merrick Christmas is so sweet, give it a read!)

The Old Mill

It's been two years now since my grandfather passed away. At the time, I was in the midst of a film shoot and couldn't make it back to the east cost. I will always regret that I didn't come home. But in a way, it was like an alarm calling me closer to my family.

Earlier this fall my sister Amy and I spent a weekend at his house, an old 1840's gristmill which he and my grandmother crafted into a masterpiece of a home. We relaxed, soaked in the beauty, and got to work on some serious creative fun. It's hard not to feel inspired in a place like this. Mama always says the house represents the best of both her parents... grandma's artistry, grandpa's engineering and a unique combined vision. So, I can't think of a better way to honor him than by turning our creative energies toward some family collaborations of our own.

plans out the window

Today is the day I was to return to the Bahamas. I had every thing I need to survive remote island life neatly packed. I rushed to assemble six months worth of frocks, shampoo, shoes, toothpaste, sunscreen, and all the other little necessities of life. San Salvidor Island has no stores, no not a one, so everything must be carefully prepared.

Imagine my surprise when two days before my return flight I discover that I am not cleared to return to work, due to a mixup between my doctors, and workman's comp. I was in shock, there was no doubt in my mind that I was going back today... but here I am, now with two more months to go.

It was just as much of a shock when I had to leave the Bahamas unexpectedly last May. Since January of last year, I have worked as a designer and dancer for the entertainment department of Club Med. During a dance performance gone very wrong, I broke my wrist and I had to come back to the states for surgery. At first I was heartbroken. I couldn't believe the injustice of it all. I didn't want to leave.

The surgery was tough, but the time that has followed will go down in memory as one of my most magical summers... so many beautiful experiences, I otherwise would have missed. I devoured the bliss of summer in all it's glory.... honey suckle, wild berries, emerald leaves, fireflies, Elmwood, wild flowers, and the love of baby kittens. I found myself surrounded by the love of my family... curling up with my mom like two peas in a pod, dancing in the rain, driving with my dad to New Hampshire swapping stories the whole way, and travels with Amy dreaming, scheming, laughing, creating and growing closer than ever.

So things are not going as I planed... makes me wonder what other unexpected magic fall has in store.

Change and change and change

Things happen for a reason, so they say and I find myself saying the same. More likely things just happen without rime, reason or divine intention...

Maybe it's a mechanism of cause and effect bringing, as if my magic, the circumstances we need to overcome. Or maybe it's just that every unexpected change shakes us awake from a drowsy auto pilot sleep. No one likes to be rudely awakened from a dream...

But perhaps it is the belief in a "reason" which sparks our awareness, enabling us to discover other paths, open to our embrace. If we are awake to the multitude of possibilities, we find our own good reasons.

crystal clear

While unpacking, I discovered a box, forgotten,unopened since my last move. It contained quarts crystals, dug from the earth with my own bare hands, near Mount Ida, Arkansas. (the most fruitful afternoon of climbing bulldozed mounds of earth I've ever spent)

Admittedly, hippy-dippy crystal lore, espoused by tye-dye clad gurus makes me cringe. But all the crystal energy healing mumbo-jumbo misses the point.... Crystals don't need to be mythologised to be magical. Through the varied, inexplicable dynamics of the universe, far beyond man's sphere of influence, erupted something of clarity and order. That's mind blowing enough.

Crystals are a natural manifestation of near-perfect geometry. A prism is created when the molecular structure of a liquid solidifies into ordered patterns that repeat in three spatial dimensions, under a precise balance of heat, pressure, and elemental chemistry. (You can still see the red Arkansas dirt on these little glimpses of essential truth.)

When formed under imperfect conditions, (i.e. changing conditions) the most interesting variations occur in the rock's shape, and color. It's the same with us, with all life... there is an underlying order, a repetition, but conditions rarely stay consistent long enough for something "perfect" to form. Luckily it's the variations, the constant adaption to change, which gives people and crystals unique character.

As the analogy stands... I would still rather be a clear, luminous, yet slightly quirky crystal, than a dull jumbled hunk of rock. We need some consistency if we expect to be clear, but accept what evolves in the changing conditions of the moment, it makes us who we are.

I wish I didn't know...

Edvard Munch: The Day After (1894)

Ok, ok, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic, but every once in a while it's ok to let yourself indulge in the full range of human emotion. I don't fall in love easily. It's hard for me to find a match to my esthetics, creativity, love of nature, beauty, philosophy, and a general excitement for life, not to mention physical attraction, call me picky. It's been a while since I've opened myself up to love, not willing to lay bare my sensitivity. I slipped a took a sip from that cup, like the seduction of wine which slowly tempts you to drink more and more, each sip rendering you a little less capable of comprehending the consequence of your action, I became drunk. I surrendered my fears to what felt natural and right, intoxicated with passion, delirious with the comfort and pleasure of a soul with witch I could connect, even respect. But the demon spirits which lift you up, to a state of unnatural happiness for one night, leave you reeling and hungover in the morning. So it was with my intoxication. Sunday, like our lady pictured above, I moped around, my mind processing the cocktail of tenderness and torture, hope, rejection, confusion, and passion I had consumed, in the same painful way the liver processes poison from ones system. Now I'm back on my feet, a bit of my ego died in the process and I'm better for it. I've dropped my feelings of rejection and my childish attachments (at least that's what I'm telling myself) Maybe this is all a bit too revealing for a public forum, but life is more than pretty pictures and pleasantries. It is our choice to delight in the experience of our own humanity, to grow, renew and release. I do not regret a single experience that has led me to deeply feel. I do not discount a single moment of love in this life time. Love, like energy can never be destroyed.

in the beginning...

Beginning is always hard. The imagined endeavor has endless possibilities, unbound by the constraints of time and space. It's vision tends to grow, shape shift, becomes anything and everything you wish, effortlessly, without commitment. To actualize is a different matter. I find, the moment before taking a plunge into, the possibly cold and rough, waters of actuality can be the most challenging part of a whole project, but if inspiration strikes with enough energy, it's time to make that leap. Ephemeral dream substance evaporates like mist in the sun so I'm learning to jump in head first. So with no further ado, my blog...