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I can’t quite explain why this wilting flower touches me. Maybe it is simply that I am mourning the end of autumn, my favorite season, so full of vibrance and color; and mourning the swift approach of winter, the season during which I struggle to cling to hope. Maybe it is the lingering beauty of the bright colors, the drooping petals that have begun to look tattered, but still speak of elegance. Maybe because I am only 25, but so many days I feel like this, feel my illness leaching away my vibrance. Maybe all of them, and other things I cannot even begin to understand. In any case, I will return to that farm on Green Bluff next autumn, perhaps a little earlier in the season, and I will find this same flower blooming once again. And this is my hope.
All the words I do not have
for all these things inside me
all the blessings and beauty You have given me
Jai-ese em kefna.
All this week, I have struggled to find balance. In between a record number of medical appointments and oh-so-ordinary errands, I tried to accomplish something–anything–creative. But even with the creativity welling up so powerfully it felt uncontainable, every time I approached one of my stories or art, my attempts fell flat and lifeless. By Wednesday afternoon, I was so exhausted and frustrated that I felt half-crazed. But then I called Elizabeth, who has been one of my best friends since second grade, in a moment of near-panic. Elizabeth is my we-are-utterly-weird-and-isn’t-it-wonderful friend, my giggle-insanely-over-nothing friend, my high-energy-wacky-fun-pure-sunshine friend. Her creative life often mirrors my own in uncanny ways, and more than anyone else, she gets me, all the silly and dorky and bizarrely creative parts of me that defy description. And so it was a wild and wonderful 45 minutes of saying mostly nothing, but the kind 
of nothing that means so much. When I hung up to rush off to another appointment, everything was okay again, and everything stayed okay. And then there was Joan, reminding me how important, and even beautiful, the ordinary can be. And there was Nina, whose words and photography were so simple, but so elegant and profound that I am still carrying the serenity and awe they inspired in me. And then I went for a walk in Finch Arboretum, not really expecting much since the sun was already going down and darkness comes so quickly these days. And 
I encountered so much more than I ever could have imagined…The forest path leading straight into my heart. The heartstoppingly vibrant reds and oranges of the fallen leaves. The single scarlet leaf holding out against the current, surrounded by leafy emerald. But most of all, the tree with its golden autumn splendor glowing from within in the dying sunlight. There is a Japanese proverb: ’Behind every flower stands God.’ Not just every flower… He shows himself in every tree and leaf, every breeze, every sunset.
Tones of earth, shades of life,
that take root in sienna soil,
rich chocolate, almost-black coffee
beans that present their brown aroma
to the secret places where tree bark meets dirt meets
clay. Even rusted steel girders
are kin to autumn: in the idea of age
without elderliness, auburn infrastructures of cities
that interrupt
and transform the world.
The color of both Halloween
and Thanksgiving, golden-brown pie crust
and end-of-summer grass slowly dying into brittle brown,
all to usher in the depths of the earth
the hidden and dark beauties at the foundation
of our lives, richer tints of brown
layered in the heart of the world.
Driving across Texas in my mother’s Camry, I was struck by how dreamy the clouds looked reflected against the side of the car. I zoomed my camera in to the side mirror and captured not only the mirrored sky, but a glimpse of my hand as well. It occurred to me much later that this is a truer self-portrait than I had intended. My whole life, even as a child, I have loved long drives. My family took so many trips to the Panhandle and to Colorado when I was little, and I would always pack a hundred things to keep myself entertained–books, puzzles, stuffed animals and toys–and then I’d spend the entire time staring out the window quietly at the scenery going by, content in my own little world. It didn’t matter how dull the view was: even on the plains of North Texas with mile after mile of ugly, scrubby brush and endless rows of farmland, I could find something to fascinate me. As an adult, the only thing that has changed is that now I am glued to the window with my camera in hand, able to bring my internal world outside myself.
I tend to avoid antique stores because I know that I will fall in love with at least half the things I see, and I really can’t afford any of them. But then I went to Sandpoint. By a happy accident, I walked blindly into Foster’s Crossing on the first visit, where I promptly saw 501 things I wanted badly (of course) and didn’t have the money for. The force of Nature that is Sandpoint sucked me in again 3 days later, when I picked up this wonderful old birdcage–and I thought that was it. I had come back for the sole purpose of buying the cage, and I was ready to go. And then I saw it. It was old and grungy and so very, very beautiful. There were Chinese characters on almost all of the 42 drawers, some on labels brown with age, some painted in fading red. Every inch of it revealed years of history, older layers peeking through. And I couldn’t tear myself away from it. It belonged to me, or perhaps I to it. And then I pulled out one of the drawers and saw the three compartments and just about fainted. I knew it would be the perfect place to store the 1,001 odds and ends that I collect to use in my art–buttons and beads, old coins, stones, odd fragmented, unnameable things found by the wayside. I could have resisted it if it had been completely impractical, no matter how it touched my soul, but the second it became more than something to look at and adore–the second it became something useful, and even more, 
something that would enhance my creativity–I could not leave Sandpoint without it. Except that I had to, because we didn’t have room in our little Nissan to take it with us. So we had the store hold it for us, and I spent the next two days breathless and inexcusably spastic over the whole thing. Late Wednesday afternoon, we rented a cargo van and set out for Sandpoint for the third time in seven days. And it was even better than I had dreamed. The owner of Foster’s Crossing was there, and he was able to tell me more about it. It is an apothecary cabinet that 
was sent to him by friends in Shanghai–I couldn’t believe it was actually from China! I figured it just came from Seattle Chinatown or something. When you open the drawers, you can catch the lingering, exotic scents of the herbs and spices that were once stored there. I have never seriously considered purchasing antique furniture before–oh, I adore vintage things, the beauty of their age and shabbiness, the stories knitted into the very material they are made of, but oh heavens are they expensive. It’s all I can do with my one-day-a-
week job to visit the Vintage Postcard shop on Nevada St. once a year–and only once a year, usually on my birthday–and drop $150 on old maps and letters. So even with the cabinet sitting in my dining room, waiting for the move into our new house (hopefully in December!) it still feels distinctly unreal. Unreal, but so truly, deeply good. This is a part of me that sees the light of day only in my art…and with everything packed in boxes for what seems like forever, there has not been any art in a long time. I walk into the dining room to gaze at my first–and probably last–piece of antique furniture, and it is like an oasis for my sadly neglected creative soul. Aaaahhh, I sigh with contentment, it was worth everything.
Last night…driving home from Sandpoint for the third time in a week in a rented cargo van…the world is blissfully peaceful…the treasures in the back of the van rattle…and me, sitting in the passenger seat taking thousands of photos and frantically scribbling on tiny pieces of paper as the sunlight fades, trying to capture the magic of this perfect evening…
Mountains fading into hazy cobalt
Water still and colorless as glass
Fog seeping over the folds of the mountains, shrouding the spiky evergreens in ghostly, tattered white
The sweetly spicy scent of woodsmoke
Feathery quills, light cloud-strokes against the darkening sky, smoky streamers scattering before the wind
Sunset melting into glorious colors over the river that throws back its reflection a hundredfold
Stars coming out one by one, fire-white needlepricks against the night
The larger, brighter stars of houses shooting up unexpectedly in the dark, whizzing by so fast they trail a comet’s tail of warm light
The moon with its haze of butter-gold clouds, a magical aura gathered around it
Everything fading at last into the final deep, clear blue of midnight
Funny how hard it can be to pick back up where you left off, but here I am–not entirely healed up, but managing well enough, and needing to remind myself that my life is beautiful, even in the midst of pain. It’s been a rough 9 months since my sciatica flared up, but as I looked over the photos I’ve taken since February, I realized that there was alot of beauty that got buried under the weight of my illness. Yes, there were weeks, and even months, when all I could do was lie in bed, but there was also all of this…
Or if slide is not working, you can view same thing here, although the resolution isn’t terrific: WhereIHaveBeen.wmv
And so here I am once again, and I’ll be staying for a while. I’ve come home.
