Firefly Rising

Eclectic

I've always liked the word 'eclectic'. There used to be an art gallery in an old farmhouse near where I live called "Arts Eclectia". It was filled to the rafters with an assorment of odds and ends that would make a pirate jealous. All kinds of sparkling baubles, flowing scarves, richly painted canvasses, and a woman behind the counter that wore so many rings on her fingers that you couldn't see the flesh on them.... only the long burgandy nails sticking out from the tips.

I used to love wandering through that shop. It gave me a sense of being a well travelled place where the collections were plucked from every corner of the earth to create a jumbled story told from the floor to the ceiling, and every nook in between. Peek around a corner, and you'd find a new twist to the plot in the form of an old teacup from London, or a scarf from Rome. Open the door to one of the many antique armoirs that were there, and you'd find the heroine of the story in the form of a delicately beaded clutch from the 1800's, or a shock of yellow silk from China. Look up at the ceiling, and there would be the splash of color in an abstract painting. Nothing matched, and yet it all flowed together beautifully; a feast for the eyes, and the imagination.

My life has pretty much always ran that same course. Little bits and pieces of inspiration have come from all areas. A veritable gypsy's skirt woven from fabrics of all kinds. And the older I get, the more varied my taste becomes. I've stopped being defined by specific genres a long time ago. I've realized the wonderful freedom of simply letting my mind, heart, and imagination do the choosing for me. Music, books, artwork, creativity of any kind... all of it is free game to me now. The only steady prerequisite that is woven through everything I collect into my life...is that it needs to somehow inspire, resonate, and move me. There is a great lyric in a song by one of my favorite bands that says "it'll either move me, or move right through me...", and how true that is. There are fantastic resources of inspiration, fun, joy, depth, passion, empathy....all over the world, in every manner of unexpected places. You just have to be an open receptacle to the wonder of it all. If you automatically judge something because it falls outside your preset genres of appreciation... you stand to lose out on the amazing gift of simply enjoying something for what it is.

But make no mistake... not everything has to be anchored by deep meaning. Sometimes, I cherish something because it is just plain fun. Whimsy can be such a precious possession. I love frivolity as much as I treasure the echoing moments of life when something bittersweet taps into the core of my soul, and brings tears to my eyes because of a melody heard, or a poem read. I think it is a huge gift to enjoy the range of all these emotions, and even better still...sharing them in my artwork.

I used to worry that my portfolio was too varied. I worried that since I jumped from subject to subject in such wide degrees of seperation, people might get confused. I would hold back in going too far one way or another, afraid of isolating people who watched me because they liked a certain look... a certain style. And then I woke up and laughed at myself for having completely missed the whole point of being me. I am eclectic! I am that girl who listens to improvisational jazz one moment, and ABBA the next. I am the one who equally loves the plastic Hello Kitty on the shelf, and the antique carved elephant from India that stands next to her. I am that treasure packed farmhouse. How could I possibly be afraid to let it all out? Why not just throw the doors open, and let people decide what they will come in to see. Some might wander to the first thing they see. Others might walk right past the pretty baubles, and head straight for the shadowy closet. Others will see a sparkle of color by the stairs, and see how many other sparkly things they can find on their way there. And some might peek in the window, and decide to come back another day. And that's okay! That's what being eclectic is all about. Something for everyone.... right?

So these days, I create whatever comes pouring out of my carousel mind at that moment. Could be fanciful... could be romantic... could be poignant. It is as much of a journey for me, as being in a foreign country and deciding which road to walk down. One thing for sure... is that I can't hold it back. And I have never loved being creative as much as I love doing it now. It is thrilling to see what new jewel I can pluck from my imagination, or what well-loved treasure I decide to bring out for a polish. Either way... it's bound to attract some curious onlookers, who will either stick around to see what comes next, or who will head on down the road to find their own eclectic collection. All I hope is that I can at least tuck a little inspiration in their pocket before they go.

January

While the allure of winter sports eludes me, I confess to having a real fondness for sledding. Nothing like grabbing a $5.99 saucer sled, and careening down an icy slope...shrieks of laughter freezing in mid air as the inevitable crash-and-burn happens at the bottom of the sled run.

Not that I've done this recently. I think the last time I actually went sledding was about six years ago. Fun stuff, though I felt a little bit like I was cheating, because they had a snowmobile ready to go, to come fetch those of us who ventured down the hillside.

Part of the great adventure of sledding when I was a kid, was having to haul your sorry, sore patoot back up the hill step by slogging step. Moon boots, puffy ski jacket, snow pants, gloves, itchy knit hat.. it's amazing I could even walk a step in all that confining gear. And boy, was it sweaty in there. No chance of getting too cold. While I might've looked like a Yeti, what with all the snow clinging to every nook and cranny... it was all Bahamas up in my snow suit. I'd yank that itchy hat off and toss it on the nearest snowbank, and let my stringy brown hair fly free.

Endless energy to burn. I wonder what that would feel like now?? I could slide/climb/slide/climb/slide/climb for hours on end, until the light started to fade, and the glow of the lights in our house started to beckon me. Then it was the slow trek back across the empty field, past the neighbor's house and across the road, letting my dog lead the way. It was such a snail's trudge... I never really wanted to go back inside, but snow pants can only hold back the wet snow so long.

Then there was the whole routine of climbing out of all that gear out on the porch. Moon boot liners always pulled out, making the boots look like exhausted dogs with tongues hanging out. And one by one, everything went into the dryer, leaving me standing there in my turtleneck and jeans - feeling about fifty pounds lighter. The warmth of the house drew me in, and the smell of mom's cooking reminded me that I was actually famished. She was a great cook, but of course...being a kid, what's the fun of homemade dinners? I danced in delight if I found out I could have a TV Dinner, with the peel-back foil. Salisbury steak, with corn, and chocolate cake. The thought of it makes me cringe now, but back then... that was a fun feast.

Makes me laugh to think about it all now. I wonder, when was the last time I went sledding on that hill? The last time my German Shepherd went running ahead of me across the snowy field? The last time I shrieked with my best friend down the icy slope? I'm sure it was a fun, exhausting day... enjoyed in a way only complete obliviousness to the finality of it could provide.

Who says you can't go home again?

Well, I've dusted off the furniture and aired out the rooms. Yes, the prodigal blogger has returned home.

My time over at Wordpress was brief, fun, and uninspired. It calls to mind a story Stephen King once told, of his wife purchasing him a fantastic new writing desk. He had been crammed into the corner of a little room in their house for years, and they both thought it would be wonderful to give him a desk that really fit his lifestyle as an author. He got everything in order, arranging it to his exact specifications out in the middle of a spacious room with lots of light to work by. And.... nothing. No inspiration. No magic. Nothing. He ended up shoving his desk back in that little dark corner of the house, and only then did the stories come flooding back.

I guess that is a little of what I experienced over at Wordpress. So, consider my return to Blogger a little like shoving the desk into the corner, where it is all cozy comfy, and the stories are waiting to be told.

Snow and Owls

(a video a slapped together, with some photos and video I shot of our recent snow...)

The snow has begun.

Just as it started to get dark, little snow flurries came swirling out of the sky. I had hoped it would start snowing earlier in the day, but at least it gave me time to get my errands done.

Just a moment ago I opened the door to let the dogs go out for a bit, and heard a familiar ‘whoooooOOOhoOO - whooOOooOOOOhoooo’. A Great Horned owl has been residing around here for the last few months. I had seen him several weeks ago, perched atop a telephone pole down the road… no doubt scoping the surrounding orchards for his next meal. I stepped out on the porch and peered up at the top of the three story double pine tree that grows here in front of the house. Sure enough, I could just see the outline of him perched at the very tiptop of the tree.

The wind kicked up, and some freshly fallen snow dusted around my bare feet. Just like me to walk outside in the freezing cold with bare feet, because I’m excited to hear an owl. But I wasn’t ready to go in. I just stood there with my neck craned, listening as the visitor hooted into the night sky every few seconds. Then with a stretch of huge wings, he flapped once, silently circled the top of the tree, and landed on the other side. It was just enough to put him out of view. And it had been long enough for my feet to start losing feeling.

I called the dogs in, and shut the door. I hope the owl stays around a little while longer. Our bedroom is on the top floor, that much closer to the top of the tree, and I wouldn’t mind listening to that meloncholy, muffled call as I fall asleep tonight.