I Left You A Feather...

"Hope" is a thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

-Emily Dickinson

...a feather on the breath of God.

-Hildegard von Bingen

I left you a

Feather !

love, Alexis

While out briefly one afternoon, two of our little-uns dropped by with their mother, in order to leave the grand-dog with us for a sleepover. We were sorry to miss them, (the humans that is... we got to see the dog), but the upside was finding this,

the perfect note. 

(See above.)

We love feathers around here, (it has become a bit of a game), and of course the creatures to which they were once attached... our regular birdfeeder visitors:

blue jays, sparrows, doves, blackbirds. 

And the not quite as regular:

cardinals, grosbeaks, warblers, robins,

and sometimes even Canada geese...

The bully blue jays, or as we call them, blockheads (a 'Gumby' reference), are like a gang in the Spring and early Summer, swooping down on others and causing minor disturbances in the bird world in order to pig out on the seed all for themselves, often shedding a feather or two in the process. 

These beautiful (detached) feathers are great for art-making, such as

 dream-catchers, mobiles, wall hangings, and any mixed media art.

Farther afield, (in our quieter, lonelier, more spacious top field), it is not uncommon to come across a wild turkey feather, a feather especially coveted for its 'Harry Potter' uses.

(See below.)

                                    

But more than being useful, there is just something about finding a feather.

I remember singing about feathers as a small child - feathers and angels -

a song from my earliest childhood. 

In my first year of school, (begun on my fifth birthday), I was taught by one of the Brigidine sisters at St. Joseph's, Orakei in Auckland NZ. 

I faintly remember songs and prayers, and 'swapsies', (my collection of religious stickers),

 and something to do with

feathers and angels.

I can almost hear it, in my far away not-quite-forgotten past:

When feathers appear, angels are near.

Hildegard von Bingen, 12th century German abbess, writer, composer, philosopher and visionary knew a bit about feathers too.

The feather flew, not because of anything in itself but because the air bore it along. 

Thus am I "A feather on the breath of God.."

 I have no trouble buying into it, the spiritual aspect of feathers.

 I so want a feather to be a sign. 

Maybe a sign of strength or wisdom, or that someone in the heavens is thinking of us.

Perhaps it is true that a feather connects us with our ancestors.

As it flutters gently to the ground, perhaps it is carrying a message.

A message of hope, (a thing with feathers), as Emily Dickinson muses...

perching in my soul.

Or perhaps it carries a message of love,

a message which may be a special delivery from a great, great grandmother.

 A gift of love, 

(just like the gift of love written on a scrap of paper by an eight-year-old in July 2020

with feather attached), 

 Perhaps the message is saying,

I left you a feather.

Love.

Tiny Gallery

Tiny Gallery (1)

Tiny Gallery (2)

Tiny Gallery (3)

Tiny Gallery (4)

Tiny Gallery (5)

Tiny Gallery (6)

Tiny Gallery (7)

Tiny Gallery (8)

Tiny Gallery (9)

Tiny Gallery (10)

Lovely, dark and deep - Isolation led us into the woods

Here we are in the time of Covid.
And here we stay.

On this plot of land, in these woods and wetlands of rural Ontario, where for three months all of our time has been spent. 
(Nearly.) 
Up until March 13 2020, we had been fairly Peterborough-centric, being twenty minutes away.
And car dependant.

All that has changed.
And so, instead of heading out, for a newspaper, for a bottle of wine, for the odd stint of semi-retired-person's work, instead of that we've been heading in. 
Into the woods. 

At first, a few walks along the well beaten paths and defined trails. 
This, we are used to. 
The woods in early Spring - bare treetops, soft light, pale blue skies.
March birds twitter cheerfully, the grey branches sway. 
We walk a loop through the woods each morning. 
Follow our usual markers. 
All is well.

But soon, we begin to heed Robert Frost, and diverge onto the road less travelled. 
March turns to April. 
We follow trails less defined, thick and tangled. 
Not as easy underfoot, we're forced to stop in order to look around,
in order to see more clearly. 
We find wild leek patches and majestic trees we somehow hadn't noticed before.
We see more, hear more.
The woods have come to life.

At the top of a poplar a massive owl.
Two unhurried porcupines nosh on tree bark.
Chickadees, cheeky red squirrels, lead us onward. 

April to May, May to June.
The woods turn from grey to moss, to lime, to dark leafy green. 
Bird song changes, now white-throated sparrows and warblers.
Our rambles turn wet - marsh, creek, pond, oozing muddy trails. 
Carrying a big stick, we feel our way through the undergrowth, stepping into the unfamiliar. 
Strange, broken, uneven.
We follow small animal trails through the dogwood and willow and into the pond's fringes, the wetland, where we inevitably end up immersed in the murky clay-bottomed weediness. We stand still in eight inches of water, still enough for the reflections to become as clear as the wafting weedy grasses themselves, reaching for the light.

The road less travelled,
masked by tangled branches.
A bird sings "I am alive".

It is not a time, this time of Covid, for tranquil walks with easy outcomes.
We are off the straight and narrow now.
There is an element of strangeness. 
Here, all is not direct, (like the traffic on Highway 7 or our once predictable routines), but bent, stunted, rough and uprooted.
The underbelly.

Here is evidence of the upward struggle.
Where a heartbeat can be heard, and courage found in buzzing insects, 
and pond scum, in broken tree limbs.

Each stick and rock and root on these crooked paths reminds us.

Poked by wayward branches, we are prodded into remembering, (as the bird says), that we are alive. 
Vulnerable, but alive.

The struggle toward the light in this lovely, dark and deep place.
The road less travelled, in the time of Covid.

                               

                                                                       

House/Home Revisited

Right now, the idea of 'Home' is on my mind. 

A few years ago, I worked at the AGP facilitating a series of art classes with new Canadians who had come to Canada as refugees. We explored the concept of 'Home' by creating tiny houses out of paper, clay, and found objects. 

The house template below was used as a starting point.

It's not really meant to be realistic, but rather, a sculpture suggesting the idea of

'House/Home'.

Due to limited supplies, (as I am here at home, and most of my art/craft papers are at the AGP), I used wrapping paper and glued it (using a gluestick)  onto 110 lb. drawing paper, to give it more weight. Cardstock is ideal, as is 12" x 12" decorative scrapbooking paper.

I am as interested in the two-dimensional flat pattern as I am in the assembled houses. 

But the basic house, when folded, can be made again and again, and used to create a little village. 

Cut out doors and windows, if desired.
Try watercolour paper as your base if you'd like to use w/c paints, acrylics, markers, etc., to enhance your tiny house decor. 

I used tape (clear or masking) to stick the flat plan into a three-dimensional house. Score the folds well to create sharp wall and roof lines. I taped it together on the inside. It is a bit fiddly, but remember that the idea is not to have perfection, only character - the essence of 'House/Home'.

The tiny houses were also a big hit with students from Alternatives at the AGP,

pictured above.

We built our own little community!

Paddling Angel

Paddling Angel, lead us to the river

Away from the danger, away from the night

And on to the shelter and warmth of the summer

We'll float through the darkness out into the light.

Paddling Angel, the wind moves the water

The waves growing bigger, the journey so long

I sing out a prayer that you'll guide us to safety

The wind and the water will carry my song.

Paddling Angel, the sound and the rhythm

The stroke of your paddle a sweet lullaby

We hear songs of hope build in steady progression

And strain to find joy in the air by and by.

Paddling Angel, the river will hold us

The wind now grows lighter, the water serene

We listen for bird song as treetops sway gently

To mark where we're going, and where we have been.

*

July Blues

AGP Plus

This Ability!

❤