Walk in the Woods (#51)

Walking along the snowy road, I notice a child's playground with a zipline beckoning. I overcome my shyness and the voices telling me I'll look dumb - it's for kids - what if I fall - what will people think - is it allowed - I don't really want to - what if? - I climb onto the wobbly seat, secure my camera in my pocket, back up to get placed right, and let myself go. I can't stop - I shriek with delight from the fun of it. I stop safely and pull the seat back to the start. Again. Again. I feel the cold air rush into my squinched eyes as my body rushes uncontrolled, uncontrollable through space.

Finally, unsated but full of joy, I get off the seat, adjust my snow pants, and walk on. There's a bright wide, well-trodden road, but of course I choose the narrow path that enters the woods and contains a hint of mystery. The Icelandic woods with their young fir trees and little undergrowth feel so different from the patch of woods by my house with its 100-year-old oaks, towering birches, scraggly holly trees and abundant blueberries, creeping cedar, and ferns underneath. Our woods are a virtual jungle with ticks, opossums, raccoons, mice, chimpmunks, deer, stray cats, hawks, crows, and owls populating the land as the swaying giants menacingly threaten to fall on our home yet again.

I feel safer in the sturdy Iceland woods where trees are no taller than houses and underbrush is soft fallen fir needles. I know they need trees and are re-planting their land, but I most love the vastness their absence provides.

In the woods, I walk on soft muffled paths. I come upon a clearing where someone has built a gazebo and a swing, so inviting, so friendly.


Too chilly to swing, I continue on, meeting no one, until my yearning to see the sky overcomes my need to be cossetted in this dark quiet space. I climb a bright hill to a point where a large wooden creature greets me. I stand nose to nose, examining the grains of wood in its massive eyes. I ask it to share its wisdom which I absorb wordlessly.

Satisfied, I notice a clearing on the next hill and tromp through the ankle-deep snow to reach it.
















Poles of varying heights rise from the ground, apparently with purpose. I walk among them, count, mentally measure, and decide it's an Icelandic Stonehenge - sundial, season-marker, year-tally-er. I photograph it with the sun shining through it and striking it. I calculate the time: 11:30 or thereabouts. There's no daylight savings time in Iceland so no chance it's an hour later or earlier.

I begin to feel hungry so I turn away from the sundial and head elsewhere.















My wanderings lead me to a fallow field and a fence, easily breechable. A greenhouse complex is on the other side, huge hoses, dried decaying plant matter, steamy but empty greenhouses. I worry I'll be chased away, but I see no one as I traipse along the gravel paths over pipes and hoses, around piles and barrels, until I find the forest path again.

I hear before I see toddlers playing in another playground as their parents chat. I walk by, head ducked, wanting to be invisible. Please don't interrupt my solitude, my communion with Nature, my attempts to find the glorious.

The snow plow is hard at work when I return to my car but has thankfully left me space to leave. I pull out of the lot and consider where to turn - down the lane towards the greenhouses or back to the road from whence I came? I am filled with gratitude to have such a choice - no obligations calling me back, just freedom giving me any option I could dream up.

I feel a faint whiff of the grief and loneliness of the night before. It drifts across my consciousness like a cloud on a breezy day. As it disperses, I am surprised to notice that in its wake is joy. Freedom. Solidity. Courage. Contentment. Choice.

Once on the road, I turn away from town, ready to explore, trusting that all I need to know will be revealed.

And Life Flows In (#50)

Continued from the previous blog...

Awakening from the deep sleep that exhausted grief confers, I blew my nose to loosen the snot from tears still stuck. I got up to pee. The studio was lit by the skylights, dim in the mid morning late winter light. Curious, I returned to the scene of my pain. I touched the rough weave of the sofa - had I truly despaired so thoroughly just hours before?

I ran my fingers along the edge of my pastel paintings, wiped the dust on my pajama bottoms.

The kitchen beckoned. I couldn't stand the sound of the blender for a smoothie - I craved stillness where my Self could reverberate in the emptiness left after the feelings finally escaped.

Slowly I cut a slice of bread off the loaf. Waited, still, while it toasted. Took it out gingerly, not wanting the excess heat to burn my fingers. Butter, jam. A hard boiled egg's jiggle against the pan was too much activity so I settled for just bread and water.

The sounds of studded tires on icy cobblestone road accompanied by the Cathedral's quarter hourly chimes stirred me up too much.

I dressed warmly and drove to the forest outside of town. I parked in a small lot that had been plowed and took my camera for companionship. It was a bright blue sky day with fresh snow glaring all around. The crunch of icy snow underfoot made me watch my step when I wasn't awakening to the beauty all around me. As I awoke to the trees, the sky, the snow, the freshness, my emptiness was filling with life.

To be continued...

The Terrifying Force of Loneliness (#49)

(Continued from the previous post)

I found myself on the sofa in the residency, keening from the force of a lifetime of fear of loneliness hitting me full force.

I can still hear my voice, deep profundo roars from the bottom of my belly exploding up my windpipe, pouring out of my mouth.

I can feel the astonishment at its force and strength.

I can feel my concern that others might hear, but I couldn't care - who can stop a tidal wave with concern for the impoliteness of the wave?

I crashed against the sofa.

I rose and, like a drunk, tried to find solid support.

I fell, inconsolable, back onto the sofa.

Gulps and gasps for breath as sobs rose from my gut.

Squeezed shut eyes pouring tears. I wiped them off with my sleeve.

The ache, the utter destitution of knowing I am alone. ALONE.  There is no one to save me. No one to rescue me. No one to take care of me. I am alone on this Earth. Just me. I am responsible for me. It is no one else's job.

The agony crescendoed as my hopes and dreams crashed with life-threatening force on the rocks of reality.

No one to count on. Alone. All alone.

Friends, yes. Children, yes. Mother, yes. Husband, yes. But truly, fundamentally, existentially and forever alone.



Spent, my tears abated. I hiccupped as the awareness sank in - no one will ever meet my needs. That job is mine alone. No one will ever hold me to their breast and comfort me entirely. There is no magic bullet. No spouse will ever make me feel the love I've craved my entire life. It is mine and mine alone to do. I am alone.

And Being Pushed by my Distress (#48)

(Continued from the previous post)

Several years ago, coincident with my love affair with Iceland, I went through a very challenging time personally.  I became anxious and depressed when I wasn't able to affect changes in my environment which I desperately wanted to. I am such a "can-do" type person, when I feel thwarted, I rail against it. I crash my head into brick walls trying to knock them down. I attempt in every way possible to get rid of the barriers I perceive are standing in my way.  

This particular barrier was intractable, unmoveable, unchangeable by any force I could muster. My depression and sense of impotence was total. I railed against it. I lashed out. I cried and wailed and keened. Nothing.

Finally I stopped.

I surrendered.

I accepted that I was powerless and was trying to solve issues that weren't mine to solve. I went to Iceland to escape the pain and to live into my joy. The second part worked. The first part didn't.  I confronted the devastation of my belief I could do anything I set my mind to if I just worked hard enough. I went into my deepest fears.  I felt feelings I'd avoided my entire life. I entered the ocean of my agony without a life vest and let myself drown in the feelings I could no longer hold at bay.

The sounds of my agony must still be reverberating off the walls of the studio I was in. 

(to be continued...)

Akureyri 2017
Searching for Something

#31 of 100 Creations in 100 Days, Half Moon Rising

In Akureyri in 2017, the days could be achingly beautiful as on this day when the moon was rising gently over the stark white mountain across the fjord from the city.

During most days at some point, I left my cozy apartment/studio and walked past the art museum, the hotel, across the main street, past the photography store and tourist center.  I waited patiently for the red-heart-shaped traffic light to turn green then crossed the busy thoroughfare to the walkway by the fjord where the whale-watching ships waited for the tourists. I watched, astonished, as joggers dodged the ice, and wondered if I would ever attend an event at Hof, the cultural center standing sentinel over the shoreline.

I went to the water to drink in the beauty.  In my apartment, there were no windows framing the beautiful sites, only the grey snow-covered parking lot.  The sounds I could hear were studded tires racing down and grinding up the cobblestoned hill accompanied by the quarter-hour bells from the cathedral above me.  I went to the water to watch the ducks dive for sustenance, to hear the waves lap and the gulls caw, to have my ears and eyes filled with nature instead of assaulted by the sounds of man counting time or hurrying from place to place.

Half Moon Rising
pastel painting
18"x24"
$550 until 2/6, then $750