Sushi By The Sea

Pairing Art With Food No.2

 

I ate some sushi by the sea.

 

And in the morning when I returned to that spot, the tide had washed all my footprints bare.  The sand was a pristine canvas. No marks or dents.  Just a smooth, silky surface of creamy soft sand. A little chilly at this hour in the morning, even for the tropics.

 

I thought of my dream the night before, the one that woke me up before my usual time, leaving me feeling hung over with alternate reality.

 

My dreams have been communicating with me.

 

They tell me what has happened, lessons learned, and where to go from here. They are voices in the vulnerable land of sleep, giving shape to what you cannot face in the broad course of day.

 

Then, the tide comes, and washes them clear off your psyche.  The potent forces of image, feeling, shape that dreams carry are no match for the tide.

 

Water in, water out. Water that has lasted for millenia and knows more than I certainly will in this one meager lifetime.  And yet, this lifetime is all I have.

 

So I bring some grapes to the sea. The sushi is gone. A stray dog ate the last few bites, and happy tail wagging, splashed on through the surf toward who knows where next on his journey of the day.

 

Where is my next, in my journey of the day?  The grapes  are sweet and explode in my mouth.  The sushi was a myriad of strong flavors and lingers on my tongue.  My dreams were just the same. 

 

And now the slate is clear.  The new day is wide open for interpretation.  This day has never been experienced before.  I must paint my experience on it like a dream imprints its reality in that hovering zone of slumber where you have no control.

 

But there is control. I will be like the tide, listen to my dreams, and wash this new day clear.

It’s Time For An Autumn Story

Pairing Art With Food No.1

 

There’s a barn missing its door…the crack of a wet maple twig above me…The slip of my shoes on the yellow leaves slick in the dark mud of November.

The old apple lady who lived in the orchard next door used to take walks down this way.  She always looked down.  Except when she sold me apples in her press yard.  Braeburn, Gala, Fuji… She sliced up samples and told me which variety leaned toward the nutmeg side and which leaned toward the sweet side.  She probably saw me sneak some apples into my jacket which I did not pay for, but she never said a word.  She was different in her press yard. Alive, cheery, eyes up.

She had been at one time in love with the dairy farmer who lived a little further down the mountain.  He was a man who loved his cows, who sang to them and cooed at them and knew their names and body language.

He rented this old barn up here to store his cheese wheels.  He always maintained that cheese aged at a higher altitude was better cheese, and this barn was the place to do that.  There had been a door on it at that time…

Then one year, just before Thanksgiving time, we stopped seeing his frumpy old Chevy scrapping up the gravel path, payload full of cheese wheels wrapped tenderly in cloth.  The fruit of the loins of his lovely Gilda and Rhang and Sweet Sis.

That was the year the old apple lady started walking this path. A lot. She walked it a lot.  The barn was eventually cleared out by the church men’s league and the cheeses made their way into people’s homes, who knows where.  And it dawned on me that the door on the barn had been missing awhile. I thought nothing of it.

Except one day when all my friends were busy and I had no one to play with, the compunction hit me to go and explore that barn.

So I went in. It was a cavern of emptiness and my cough echoed as I choked on the spider webs in the entry.  And there it was…Right in the center of the wide open floor:  A freshly sliced Boeurwich cheese wheel spread out on a wrinkled cheese cloth.  There were two wine glasses there, and a Newbrunswick apple, sliced with the Boeurwich. 

No people, no sign of anyone sitting next to the food, just an empty barn with an autumn picnic glowing with colors in the fog.

I backed out of the barn and made sure my shoes slid out of the doorway without making a sound.

From that day on I always paid for my apples.

 

Heidi

P.S.  To purchase a painting you see here, call (360) 771-3160 or email at traumacoach@gmail.com. 

Taking Care of Myself As An Artist

Salmon In The Sun

 

The purpose of painting is to create intimacy.  And because it is highly personal as a process and a product, it can deplete one’s inner resources. How does an artist take care of herself as an artist, refreshing, renewing, restoring and replenishing those dynamics that a good painting takes out?

 

Heron At Sunset

 

 

Meditating on water, the colors, the sounds, the temperature, the objects in it and on top of it and the way the sky is reflected on its surface.  Drinking water, swimming, hot tub. Eating the nourishment that comes from water.  All forms of re-connecting to that which was our first residence in life.

 

Giant Crawdad Hunting

 

Remembering experiences that were had around water. I grew up near a Hawaiian beach, and it was my first refuge and first chapel. 

 

My son grew up near a natural springs. It was his refuge and great teacher like  in the poem, “Hiawatha’s Childhood” by Longfellow.

 

Fall Leaf Meditation Original $350.00

 

Today the rain came at last, and it’s drops were big, sloppy, splashy.  The drops were heavy enough to cause deep ripples in small puddles where autumn leaves were also collecting.  The colors and cold struck me — when things are wet and chilly they become more apparent. Art is in the observation, and today I meditate to this leaf painting and the ripples in the puddle.

 

Fur on, art hounds!

What’s coming up next? An impressionist series on great food of the season!

 

Heidi

P.S. To purchase, call (360) 771-3160 or email at traumacoach@gmail.com