The cutest frogs live in Texas. Seriously. I know Texas has HUGE toads and such but the regular little o’l frogs that hang out on the porch at the ranch early in the morning and on the country club sidewalk at night are simply better looking than frogs I have seen in other parts of the world. The Texas frogs are even cuter than the teeny tiny Coqui frogs that sing like birds in Puerto Rico. Perfectly proportioned with round little bellies and BIG eyes, they are beautiful…well…good looking anyway. 

Anyone who has visited my little cabin at the end of a road near the top of a mountain in Montana knows that I have a thing for frogs (and birds, and bunnies). I collect the little critters. They have also hopped into my paintings and even my favorite bronze piece (cast from a wood carving) features a frog. The frogs in Texas would make perfect models for future art projects.    You’ll see…

Back in the studio making a mess with power tools and chisels has me feeling more like myself than I have felt in a good long while. I can hardly stand to take a day off since “work” entices. My paws are sore (out of shape) but it is SUCH a good feeling!!!

I guess the sawdust will get to settle a bit since early in the morning I have a plane to catch. Texas is my destination.  My "studio" for the next few days will be in the warehouse next to the chicken yard at Chaco Ranch.  I have a commission to complete. 

Seasons in my world are usually punctuated with vivid challenging adventures: peaks, rivers, single track mountain bike trails, cliffs, slopes and frozen waterfalls. The past few seasons have been a bit of a blur without the periodic adventure punctuation points. Orange and red flashes in the foliage hint of autumn while crisp cool nights carry whispers of a new season.  

Fall is my favorite season.    Actually every season is my favorite…which means I that I don’t actually have a favorite - but each season feels like a favorite when it is happening. Nostalgically, each season feels more like a favorite when the season is coming to a close. I am not sure what happened to summer…or spring…or last winter. Outdoor adventures were sparse since I have been healing from major surgery, wrapped up in family life, and blessedly back in the studio. Balance is allusive. Survival has been the mantra.   I can hardly call my father’s illness and death this spring a “punctuation point.” I can’t even wrap it up as a “chapter” or “saga.” Most days I hardly believe that Dad isn’t actually here…alive…with my mother in their house surrounded by a perfectly pruned yard animated with happy wild bunnies playing on the lush lawn or munching snacks on the deck. The lawn is no longer green since Mom and I cannot begin to manage Dad’s diligent sprinkler and lawn care vigil. Rabbits still play on the less-than-green lawn and eat at the flower-shaped bunny feeder. The riding lawn mower with the cigarette lighter Dad custom installed on the dash sits in the garage. Dusty.   Earlier this week I managed to squeeze a sweet little punctuation point with the kids into my summer.  Just two days before school started, we went for a late evening mountain bike ride followed by a full moon picnic at Hyalite Lake. Jolly from our ride, feeling the magic of the moon, satiated by yogurt, fresh fruit, and Grapenuts, we began a game of charades. Our actions danced in the moonlight accented by long shadows cast by the BIG round full moon. The lake sparkled and our laughter bounced off the mountain peaks which poked a sky filled with stars.  

Alas, the bunny surplus has led to tragedy. Maya (my cat) is an excellent mouser. She is a super handy housekeeper for cabin-love’n mice but unfortunately her skills don’t stop there. Lately she has been grounded for the most part which means that she is IN MY FACE a good deal at night. Her protest tactics are highly developed and range from subtle (sitting within whisker tickling range of my nose while staring at me) to less than subtle (jumping on me in the middle of the night, howling, scowling, mewing and flinging herself about). Ugh.   Sadly, Miss Maya has successfully snuck out (I forgot to lock the screen door) or slunk out (I left the bathroom window open a crack while showering) or ran out (she ambushes me and scoots past while entering and exiting my house) which means that more than one bunny has gone to bunny heaven prematurely. Serious bummer…BIG bummer. Actually it is nightmarish to find a baby bunny ear on the bathroom floor. She brings the unfortunate furry little sweet rabbits inside my cabin to play with.   Thus - bunny saving missions punctuate my life when sly Maya slinks past the fact that she is grounded. More than one bunny has ended up tucked into my underwear drawer and even cuddled, protected, and slept with (I just love a bunny under the covers). Alas, only one has successfully been nursed, made it through rehab and been returned to the great outdoors. The cute tiny little bugger grew an inch during the few days of loving captivity. 

Inspired by the movie "Eat, Pray, Love" Julian Martin, a deep-souled, sparkly-eyed prolific artist from Nashville, TN decided to "hit the road."  She contacted her galleries (Nashville, Santa Fe, etc.) to announce a sudden sale -40% off - all her artworks, raised $10,000 in two weeks, had a buddy build a custom painting rack in the back of her Jeep Liberty, packed a tent and art supplies and TOOK OFF!

After a month of adventures, her GPS and gumption brought her here last night to my little cabin at the end of the road near the top of a mountain in Montana.  We drank wine while sitting next to a campfire on my deck under the stars and swapped stories.  We had never met before but my dear friend Wynn introduced me to images of Julia's delicate, bold and beautiful paintings more than a year ago.

I'm tickled and honored to have her up here on the mountain.  She slept "like a baby" in Granny's cabin last night.  While drinking my tea outside this morning, Julia and "Miss Liberty" showed up.  She stomped across my deck wearing short shorts, a flowing white blouse, red cowboy boots, and a grin.

We're both off to make art...

"Communion" (the painting above) can be seen along with other paintings on her website http://julia-martin.com

Took last Friday off…(my first day off in weeks).  I haven’t seen the monkeys enough lately so it was a joy to spend the day with 'em. We visited the very first Dude ranch in Montana (the historic OTO ranch).  Then we took the young’uns and their new friends rock climbing in Yankee Jim Canyon before jumping into the Yellowstone River near Tom Miner Basin for a late afternoon swim in the cool (cold) water. Zaydee out-swam all of us.   The sweltering heat and humidity of Texas was quite a contrast to the cool cozy nights here at my own home-a little cabin at the end of the road near the top of a mountain in Montana. 

Listening to the roosters’ crow, the hens cackle and the ducks quack - all that "carrying on" is my favorite part of working at the “studio” on the Texas ranch (well…that AND the air conditioning!)

Misty morning in Texas on the Charco Ranch - I’ve a bit of a headache (the margaritas last night or simply dehydration from the intense humidity?) Hobo spent the night with me in the cushy air conditioned guest room which is part of the “Devil Woman Saloon.” He has flees, scars, and a limp but is the sweetest German Shepard I’ve ever met. Roosters are crowing and chickens are cackling while the ducks swim in kiddie pools outside the office here. I haven’t much time to write since the special paint I ordered is due to arrive from San Antonio on the bus in a few minutes and I’ve work to do on an old buggy bought from the Amish a few days ago. Texas is HOT. Humid. I’m melting but inspired by the early morning mist, the late night frogs, the heartfelt hospitality and a new project.

I just LOVE animated movies!!! Art, humor, story, humor, art….

The kids said I laughed more often and louder than anyone else in the theater last night. Heck, I was laughing before the movie started just by looking at their little faces with those BIG black 3D glasses on. I watched the “villain” fall in love with those three CUTE children - felt my heart open with wonder and warm fuzzies at the gift of three awesome children in my life.

Blessed. 

click on the image above to see video from "Despicable Me"

Three weeks were scheduled to complete the large chocolate creation for Nestle.  Paul and the kids were going to fly to Wisconsin at the tail end of the project so that we could indulge in the festival then scoot to a cabin on a lake with friends for Memorial weekend.  Alas, life reared up and interfered with those plans when my father was diagnosed with fourth stage pancreatic cancer.  Thank goodness Paul agreed to assist me so that together (without much sleep) we accomplished the project in seven days.  PHEW! 

We used over 5000 miniature CRUNCH bars in the creation.  Unfortunately the bars were individually wrapped since they were out-of-date product.  I could venture to guess how many Nestle-work-force-people-hours were used to unwrap miniature CRUNCH bars but suffice to say simply ...ZILLIONS!

Haunted.  Humbled.  Horrified. 

We found ourselves underground on one of the first hot sunny summer days after being lured by Sami to take a tour of the Orphan Girl Mine.  Our day began in a rainstorm before sunup when we piled ourselves (a bit blurry-eyed) into the truck, struck out across rolling fields and snow-capped peaks toward Homestake Pass with the obligatory scrumptious stop at Wheat Montana Bakery for scones, cinnamon rolls, and turnovers – to go.  They hold the World's Record for the fasted bread from harvest to loaves.  We rolled down the pass into the wonderful rich quirky historical town of Butte in time for Ali’s pre-game warm-up at 7:30 a.m.  Wet from rain, the grass sparkled until the sun powered up.  Blitz (blue) team won their first soccer game.  After the 2nd game, we put on hardhats and headlamps then spent 1.5 hours underground.  Cold.  Clammy.  Creepy.  Disturbing.  Fascinating.  The men (and mules) who worked more than 10,000 miles of horizontal drifts and 4,000 miles of vertical shafts under Butte were tough buggers - to say the least.  Lordy.

Using candlelight, picks, hammers, shovels and dynamite, the fellas worked 12 hour shifts seven days a week underground.  Wet, hot/cold, dusty, toxic and LOUD (no ear protection back then).  I am blown away by the stories, the weight of the worn tools I held, the conditions I witnessed and the many thoughts I have of their plight.

After pulling an all nighter in the BIG tent at the festival grounds, Paul and I finished 1.5 hours before the unveiling - just enough time to grab a shower before meeting the press. We “wowed ‘em.”  Felt good! Blurry-eyed, plumb tuckered, and in desperate need of a nature fix, we left the festival grounds for a short walk to the lake. Passing a nail salon on the way; we stumbled into the air conditioned space. Paul passed out in a chair while a cute little oriental girl worked at getting the chocolate, paint, and silicone from my battered hands. We wandered along the lake in a daze, plopped our weary bodies onto the grass, and looked up at blue sky through shimmering green leaves of a giant tree. White blooms danced and Eddie Brickel sang from the speakers which surrounded the lake in the town park. I admired my silver sparkle fingernails, felt deeply thankful for Paul’s help and support, and thought about the tears which glistened in the plant manager’s eyes at the unveiling as he thanked me for our passionate effort during a difficult time. I felt blessed. Relieved. Thankful. Paul and I returned to our hotel, pulled the shades, turned the air conditioning onto full blast and fell asleep at 6:30. Unaccustomed to sleeping more than a few hours at a time during the last few weeks; I woke three hours later and decided to attend the Chocolate and Wine Indulgence event at the festival. A full moon nudged its way through heavy low clouds determined to outshine the bright garish carnival lights of the festival. My father and mother fill my thoughts. Dad's nauseous body has rejected any attempts at eating for the last four days. Mom sounds a bit lost. I want to go home. 

(photos and video will be posted soon...)

Emerged in Willy Wonka Land...my eyelids and heart are heavy. We are racing the clock to the big unveiling on Friday. Punched with gaping grief, my chest hurts when I step back from the crazy world of chocolate, candy, and creation. Worry is wrapped around a difficult unexpected chapter in my parent’s life. Dad is hanging in there. He gets around with his walker - sleeps more and eats less each day.    Most hours in my Nestle-world are filled with scheming and problem-solving - fueled with nibbles of chocolate, sips of water, and deep breaths. My hands are tired and sore. Phone calls with family and Hospice nurses punctuate long hours of vivid thoughts, creative ideas, and lots of crazy yummy chocolate creating.     Wildberry nerds look like turquoise...a lovely accent for the Wizard of Oz-themed chocolate sculpture.

Phew! First day at Nestle working on the ChocolateFest creation = fourteen hours of head-scratching, sculpture building, chocolate eating, people meeting, and red hairnet wearing - along with a few good laughs. Thank goodness I’ve a GREAT partner to help me with this GIGANTIC chocolate sculpture!

Photo taken of Paul and I with the cell phone while watching the safety video in the security office before entering the chocolate factory.

Dad perked up after I got him home last weekend and my brothers arrived.  Hospice is on board with daily visits and medications. 

Dark wet streets lay before me that starless Saturday morning when I drove to the hospital at 4 a.m. to be with Dad.  Laying next to him in the hospital bed, I listened to the gurgle of fluid beginning to creep into his lungs as one more sign that his body is beginning to shut down.  We shared some thoughts - mostly silence - as night gave way to day and the snow blew sideways.  Father’s physician visited a few hours later to say goodbye to Father.  He asked if Dad would like to pray.  They held hands while the doctor said a beautiful prayer aloud from his heart.  Dad also prayed out loud – a humble poignant moment shared through tears while I sat at the foot of the bed.  Mom was preparing at home since we had been told that Dad would be released “first thing” (they had put the “pick-line” – a permanent IV - in the night before).  Alas, it was late afternoon before father was wheeled (freshly showered) to my truck. The reclusive sun came out to brighten the landscape during Dad’s nauseous ride home.  Within minutes after I helped Dad into the house, grey clouds swallowed the sun.  Howard and his family arrived Saturday night.  Robin drove from Tennessee and arrived Sunday evening.    Dad insisted on having the kitchen and bathroom floors ripped up, new sub floors put down, and new linoleum installed (the flooring had been ordered and the project scheduled to occur this week before the recent medical events transpired).  Robin and Howard are helping with the floor project to speed up progress.  Howard’s girls have been staying with me.   Dad, Mom, the boys and I met with the mortician yesterday afternoon at the house.  The funeral director was Howard’s high school classmate.  We all liked him - though it was a bit surreal to carry on the meeting while two strangers pounded away loudly in the kitchen.  Two of Dad’s brothers will arrive tomorrow (Keith and Carl).  Mary Jane will drive with Carl from Nebraska and Lacy is accompanying Keith by plane (also from Nebraska).   Dad will decide what arrangements he wants to make (he is considering several options).  He had a difficult time last evening with nausea and weakness.  Hospice is available by phone 24 hours a day to assist with questions, concerns, and medications.  The jaundice is more apparent each day.  He slept his best night of rest last night with mother in their bedroom.  Today the construction continues, Dad is a bit tired - but as you know – he is a tough stubborn bugger using his walker to wheel himself about the house and is (of course) overseeing the floor project.   Thanks for keeping us in your thoughts.  

Dear family and friends,

Staring at the blank screen of my computer, I find myself stumbling through the process of typing the first line in this “letter” to you.  I am intimidated by the white space and my keyboard…wish they were pen and ink - no – more than that – at least a phone call and connection more personal than a keyboard since what I have to share is more than difficult.   My father is dying.    The prognosis was delivered to Dad and I about 8:00 Thursday evening an hour after he was checked into the hospital.  Earlier the same day, Dad had driven himself to the doctor for a check-up.   As many of you know, Dad is one TOUGH bugger who has dealt with several ailments and multiple surgeries during the past decade.  He suffered for many years with diverticulitis (a digestive disorder which creates various symptoms and plenty of pain to his abdomen, stomach and chest).  Several years ago he had surgery to remove a section of his colon.  Digestive symptoms and pain are a constant annoyance to him.  Understandably, father thought the symptoms and pain were caused by the diverticulitis.  He had grown quite used to pain in his mid-section and simply dealt with it.  The only reason Dad had a checkup scheduled on Thursday was because of a bizarre incident with his eye less than a week before.   A week ago (Friday), Dad woke up blind in one eye.  He went to an eye doctor who said he’d “never seen anything like it” – Dad was sent to an eye surgeon the same day.  The eye surgeon diagnosed the temporary blindness as a large blood clot (the blood itself was obstructing his vision).  Such a clot is usually caused by trauma to the eye, thus the doctor became concerned about Dad’s general health.  The eye surgeon contacted Dad’s personal physician to recommend a checkup.  Dad was sent home with instructions not to lay down, spent the weekend sleeping upright in his easy chair and his vision improved several days later.    The scheduled checkup was Thursday.  Dad drove himself to the hospital after a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and sausage.  Upon examination, the doctor sent dad to the hospital to be admitted for several tests.  The rest of the day was a frustrating round of hospital “stuff” – none of which was unfamiliar to my father since he is no stranger to tests, surgeries and procedures.  The sonogram technician told father that his gall bladder was in bad shape so when I went to see him the third time that day, we talked about the likely possibility of surgery to remove the gall bladder.  Dad was almost chipper…medical validation and a reasonable explanation for the keen suffering he’d experienced the past four weeks.  We waited for the doctor’s prognosis but were rather unprepared for the news shared once the doctor entered the room, closed the door, and sat down.   We were told that Dad’s gall bladder was totally “shot” along with his liver.  Most likely the organs were suffering from cancer and at this point the doctor believed there was a strong chance that dad was in stage four of pancreatic cancer.  We were told the diagnosis at this point was “not good.”  A cat scan the following morning would tell us more but most likely the cancer was pancreatic, had already spread throughout the vital organs, and there would not likely be any treatment for father at this stage.  The doctor was compassionate but clear.  I called my brothers, then drove to the house to tell mother.   The next 48 hours transpired in a vivid yet blurry chapter.  The final diagnosis came late Friday night after a long day of waiting, disbelief, bits of hope woven with grim fear.  The cat scan was delayed due to an high amount of trauma in ER caused by late spring winter-like road conditions.  The nature of the beast of pancreatic cancer is that it is aggressive and rapid.  The pancreas “floats” in the body - thus the organ remains symptom-less when attacked by cancer.  Only when cancer has spread to the other organs do symptoms appear.  By the time Dad was admitted to the hospital, his liver had already begun to shut down, his urine had been the color of dark beer for at least 3 weeks, he was weak, had jaundice, and had shortness of breath…ailments which father thought were caused by the diverticulitis.  Twenty four hours after dad was admitted into the hospital a “pick-line” was inserted into Dad’s arm as a permanent IV so we could have Hospice care provide pain medication when he returned home.  Less than twenty four hours after that (Saturday) I drove Dad home from the hospital.  The house had been taken over by equipment which Dad said appeared like “aliens” in their home: oxygen generator, home care supplies, etc.  Howard (my younger brother) arrived with his family.  Robin (my older brother) is on his way.   Dad’s symptoms since Thursday have progressed rapidly.  His body is shutting down.  He may have a few days or a few weeks (?)   If this were paper and ink, there would be many crumpled pages at my feet.  My apologies if this seems too long, too brief, or too impersonal.  Howard’s arrival at 8:00 pm allowed me to catch a few hours of sleep last night but I woke in the dark with the task of telling you.  Morning snuck upon me totally unnoticed while this e-mail transpired from a blank page to an attempt to share the beginning of an intense, awkward and deeply sad chapter of my father’s life.  We ask for your prayers, compassion, and good energy during this difficult time.  I will try to keep you updated by e-mail.  I must leave in a few minutes to take some walkie-talkies and anti-bacterial soap to the house.    Wish I could send a hug with this note.

Phew!  I feel better.  I wish I had photos of rock climbing or mountain biking to share but I spent the glorious sunny spring weekend at home with the flu.  I’ve a “nap crack” in the corner of my mouth from sleeping (and drooling?)  egads!

Vivid dreams:  Beautiful glass art sculptures, a scary tippy moving toilet, a late night dinner date without any of my own clothes to wear.  I love seeing art in my dreams!  Art dreams are like a day at the spa for my mind -invigorating, relaxing, empowering, pampering, and revealing. 

I wake refreshed and eager.  The artworks have not been mine but they have been a beautiful inspiring blend of various materials – always 3-dimensional.

The sky is blue, the sun is shining - the morning beckons with a list of tasks: must finalize my contract with Nestle, package and ship art (sold 10 Works on Paper last week!), purchase airline tickets for the chocolate sculpture project, talk to my web guys, touch bases with the contractor for a commission project in Texas, drop a bronze off at the Museum of the Rockies...but first…another cup of tea.

Smells like rain on this spring morning. The birds are chirping outside eagerly – as if they want to “get their chirps in” before the storm.  Maya is purring right next to my laptop. I’m sipping tea and fighting the urge to crawl back under my cozy comforter for a nap.  I’ve zillions to do.  New artworks are being inventoried and uploaded to my website.  Patron Members just got their pre-view peek via e-mail of the new Works on Paper before they go live on the web.  I’ve a newsletter to write, drawings of a commission to do, travel plans for the ChocolateFest to make, some donated artwork to drop off, a bronze to ship, some DVDs to burn and send, a poster to design, a vlog to edit -  and that’s just my pre-noon list.  Phew! Things are ramping up in the studio!  The rest of the week will be mostly devoted to the BIG mesquite logs.  Have you seen the latest video?      

Late last Fall, we kept vigil at Evelyn’s bedside.  I don’t remember stars that long dark night when Evelyn breathed her last.  I stroked her grey hair and held her hand while hovered over the hospital bed in her living room at the little house next to the Yellowstone river.  A few days earlier, she asked me to draw  a blue bird for her gravestone.  Evelyn loved birds. All birds.  The only thing in this world she loved more than birds was her family, her children, grandchildren and friends.  She was a sweet little dear who adopted me into her wide-armed fold.  A week or two later I was wheeled into surgery followed by a winter of healing.  I had not gotten into the space/place to draw the bird until a few weeks ago when the sun shown and the birds chirped spring greetings.  I brewed a cup of tea, lit a candle, and sat at a table in front of a window which overlooks the valley where Evelyn was born, raised a family, and where she is now buried.  The afternoon passed quickly while I drew in honor of a precious being who touched my life.  Evelyn was a gentle soul.  The bird will be colored and the stone placed by Memorial Day.

Dozens of eggs + color + fuzz + markers + friends & children =   

FUN!!!

Ya gotta love a client who shares her beautiful Texas home with a batch of exotic affectionate colorful and furry little characters.  My life-long affection for bunnies is proof of my inclination for big fuzzy ears.  Alas…big ears are abundant in the batch of  wee rug-rats who scamper about the walnut, granite and tile floors.

Ali is the least exotic but what a sweetheart.  A Yorkshire Terrier, she is quiet and well  behaved.  She trots like a wind up toy gone rusty in her hind quarters…a bit stocky like a miniature female German wrestler she’s well fed, sweet and unassuming.

 

 

 

Jack and Sassy are Cornish Rex Cats - long and sleek regal siblings.  Their prominent foreheads and giant ears look Egyptian.   Softer than my grandmother’s old fur coat, their short curly fur resembles grandma’s soft o’l coat  with tight little waves.  Jack has a Groucho Marx mustache and his sister is a patchwork of white, black and tan.  All eyes and ears, they look even more aloof than most cats but are surprisingly affectionate.  Sassy parked herself on my lap the whole time I sat at my computer.

Cami is the newest addition.  No bigger than a guinea pig, she makes up for her diminutive size with spunk.  A tri-colored long-haired Chi Wawa who instantly squirmed her cute little bug-eyed soul right into my arms (er…hand) and wrapped around my heart.   I am infatuated with her.  I could zip her up in my hoodie with her big ears and little tongue hanging out  and take her home with me.

My client also has a beautiful big German Sheppard named Hobo whom she rescued.  Scars and a limp are testament of his pre-adoption vagabond days.  He watches over the ranch but hangs out with the wee little gang at the home now and then.  Hobo is smart, mellow and loyal (he also has big ears) and is a handsome bugger.

We rescued a pale oriental looking mix-breed dog while I was visiting.  The lost or abandoned dog was bright and friendly.  I just can’t imagine the kind of person who could dump a dog but am glad to be working with a big-hearted client who shares my love for furry critters and big ears.  Stay tuned for updates on the art part of the Devil Woman Saloon project.

Just over a week since my last post.  I certainly could have written LONG exploring bits from my life and adventures during the last 9 days…an emotional rollercoaster but time was allusive.  The short version is:  I went back to Texas – flew down there with my dear o’l retired logging pal Cliff to be with him and oversee his heart procedure.  Last Thursday I was at the hospital in Austin from 5 a.m until 10 p.m. while he had an ablation procedure which proved very successful.   Once released from the hospital, we hung out with my aunt in the “hill country” near Blanco Texas while Cliff recouped for a few days before he was strong enough for the flight home Tuesday.  The night before flying out I “called in the troops” to be there to help care for Cliff so that I could go straight from the airport to oversee a custom patina on a beautiful bronze (cast from a carving of a filly).  From the foundry I went home to my little cabin and CRASHED for a few hours.  Alas I was up before the sun to unpack and repack.  Paul, the kids and I drove 10 hours to Moab where we have been camping, mountain biking, and climbing as a much-needed outing for them, regrouping for me, and adventure. Snow pelted the tent this morning and rolled down the red desert rock….good reason to put a little Bailey’s in the tea before breakfast.  Currently I’m at an internet cafe in Moab catching up with the world, business, and posting a quick little note on my whereabouts.  I’ve photos to share, projects in the works, emotions all over the place, creative juices gurgling, fingers itching, muscles to stretch, and s’mores to make. 

Restless.  A blue funk had hold of me so I took a few days ago to visit my dear pal Yogi up at Swan Lake (near Big Fork).  His house is tucked into the forest in a narrow tree-filled valley between the majestic Mission Mountains and frozen lakes.   No cell service.

Sweet.

The last stretch of road to Yogi’s bends and winds for an hour through thick forest.  Deer must be watched for.  Glimpses of lakes were a respite from trees.  Ice fishermen sat like salt and pepper   shakers on white linen – the remnants of a grand white-table clothed feast stained here and there with abandoned fishing holes.

We had a few shots at Yogi’s before attending the “Fireman’s Ball.”  Slipping in cowboy boots, I navigated across the obstacle course of slush and ice toward the community center where pink and red paper Valentine decorations hung from the paneled ceiling and cornmeal dusted the dance floor.  Yogi scored some Rose Tequila, Jack Daniels and a giant propane torch in the silent auction.  Other items included a delivery of propane, a load of gravel, a basket brimming with hand knit washcloths and a crocheted quilt. 

I met a  bubbly animated writer – a pretty little gal married to a big handsome clam grower.  They wintered in the Swan Valley while their clams hibernated in Vermont.  The cheerful big-boned ladies in the kitchen joked with me as we unwrapped tinfoil and plastic wrap from potluck food items.  The tiny community has less than 200 residents and it seemed like most of them were at the ball.

I’m guessing many of the Fireman’s Ball attendees were nursing hangovers the next day but we were out skiing with the dogs.  Yogi adopted two abandoned puppies…fluffy little bouncing fur balls. 

“Do you know why they put us together?”  Becky asked me.  “Why?” I asked her.  “Because we’re BOTH crazy!”  she said.  I laughed.  “We’re CRAZY!!  We’re both from the funny farm!” She said gleefully.  “"You make me laugh because you’re crazy!  You’re really crazy!!  Laughing is good.  Do you know why?  Because laughing makes me feel good!  Laughing is good for you!!  You’re funny!!”  Becky said with exuberance.  We cackle.  We giggle.  We shout.  We throw snowballs.  We sing.  We make up songs.  We HOOT and shout encouragement from the chairlift to other disabled skiers and their volunteers below. I listen.  She teases.  I tease her back.  We hug…lots. We talk about boys, food, chocolate, movies, mountains, countries, people, places, chocolate and boys (yes…I said chocolate and boys twice - we say many things multiple times).  She apologizes when she is scared.  She brags when she accomplishes something beyond her fear.  I coax.  I encourage. We ski.  But mostly we laugh.  Eagle Mount is a volunteer program for the disabled.  

Technorati Tags: Eagle Mount,mentally disabled,skiing,montana artist,creativity,volunteer programs

Insecurity is itchy like a pair of cold clammy wool socks; it  poked my mind and stuck like a wadded lump in my throat.  The doubts stemmed from my new venture writing, blogging, vlogging and networking via the internet.  I love writing and sharing bits from my life.  People have responded by being inspired in their lives which makes me feel thankful for the many ways the world from my mountaintop can be shared.  I believe it is the right thing to do.  Writing and vlogging push my comfort zone.   Stretching my boundaries is important to my creative soul and simply the way I live my life.  Sharing is what artists do.  The internet encourages community.  But it takes time to write, to film, to edit, and to keep in touch. When the purse strings are tight I feel pressured to shove my passions into a drawer and focus on money-making.  Thus I found myself one morning last month doubting my efforts to explore art in various venues and connect with more people via the internet.  Then a little miracle happened: The itchy wool sock insecure doubts turned into silky warm stockings and left me with the goofy desire to Snoopy dance after I opened my e-mail.  One of my Patron Place Members sent a monetary gift via PayPal with this note attached: “This is a small token of my appreciation for the inspiration that you provide every time you share snippets of your beautiful soul-filled, unguarded life, your art, and your optimism.” Squashed.  The doubt and insecurity poking at me from the inside out were vindicated.  The Cosmos smiled a crooked little half grin AND nodded it’s head. 

I am deeply humbled and beaming from a bright dose of warm fuzzies!  One of my Patron Members just teamed with his woodworking father and launched an auction benefit…for me!

I’ll let him explain…

http://www.vernswoodgoods.com/amber-auction

Here we go!!!  A new year!  A new moon!  A new video!!

Synchronicity is like a wink and a grin from the Universe.  I love it!  When coincidence calls I am reminded of the BIG picture.  Feelings of being connected wrap my heart with hope and lift my soul with wonder.  While checking in at my computer this morning, “shadow” crossed my screen 3 times.  First there was the “Body Shadows” post and video on the Creative Everyday Blog.  Then I glanced at an article in “Livingston Our Town” while heating up a cup of tea and learned about Montana Shadow Maker’s ranch and charity work with miniature horses so I decided to visit their channel on YouTube.  The final shadow word was connected to an indigenous singer’s name as she chanted about winter - pretty fitting for a winter wonderland morning with a foot of fresh snow and temps below zero.

Years ago when I spent my summer alone in the backcountry of Montana as a Wilderness Ranger, my shadow was a constant companion.  Weeks went by without so much as a glance in a mirror but I do remember being shocked by my shadow once when I dropped my pack and climbed a ridge to a glacier mountain lake.  My shadow stretched before me – long , lean and exceptionally feminine.  Shocked me.  I guess shouldering a 70 pound pack and handling trail tools while traipsing around grizzly bear country had me feeling BIGGER, tougher,  and more manly than that shadow suggested.  Stopped me in my tracks.  I’m sure Momma Nature was playing a few tricks with the length and proportions but there was a girlie shadow right there on the ridge stuck to my shoes.  The lake was pristine.  Deep clear…inviting…and super cold.  I dropped my clothes and jumped in for for the refreshing jolt of a melted mountain snow cleanse.  Afterwards as I lay on a rock soaking the heat into my goose-bumpy flesh like a lizard in the sun, I remember looking at the mosquito bitten tan parts (and the not-at-all-tan parts) of myself wondering if they actually matched the strange girlie shadow. 

I wasn’t convinced. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m feeling a sparkly blue-moon-dust kind of  excitement for 1010.   Not only was it a big full BLUE Moon last night but there was a partial lunar eclipse as well.  We had a rather blustery night and a blurry sky which kept my dinner guests and I inside the cozy cabin for the evening’s festivities.  No one expected to stay awake ‘til the New Year after stuffing ourselves with elk spaghetti.  Felicia blew out the bright pink candles on her chocolate birthday cake, we drank more wine, and the sky brightened.  Sometime after 11 pm, the wind quieted enough to entice us out…and UP…to Leroy’s Lookout.  Toting plastic sleds, we plodded up the mountain to the humble little cabin I used to call home.  Perched on top (and cabled to the rocks) the plywood shack is where I lived my first winter on the Wineglass Mountain.  Memorable. 

We heard thunder, twice before reaching the cabin.  I have never heard winter storm thunder before.  I didn’t even know it was possible but the thunder added another rather auspicious punctuation point to the old year/new year night.  Three of us toasted at midnight with Jack Daniels Snow Slushies.  We hung out on top of the world and swapped stories while the fire crackled and the Coleman lantern hummed.  The valley stretched bright below.  Livingston lights twinkled.  The moon stayed mostly obscure in a winter white sky but grew potent enough to cast shadows. 

Magical. 

We bundled up and headed out into the moon shadows.  We’d stashed the sleds under a tree near an edge of the mountain top saddle.  I lined up in my sled and led the way down the steep slope.  Many years ago when I lived up there, I would sled down each morning in a cheek reddening rush while Shiva practiced her border collie herding skills and tried to nip my snow boots.  The slope is long and steep with curves and a sharp switchback.  We all screamed with glee (and fear) while the dogs barked in the moonlight. 

Laughing, sliding, and bumbling along, we made it back to my cabin at 2 am without any serious injuries.  I packed up birthday cake for my guests, took a handful of Ibuprofen, and crawled under the covers with a cold butt and a heart which glowed warm with blue moon dust. 

Took me twenty minutes to find the biggest tree I’ve ever attempted to stuff into my little 18’ x 28’ cabin. I always pick a tree from a crowded bunch.  That way the remaining trees gain elbow room and sunlight while the harvested tree has a gimped up side (or two) that I can shove into the corner.  Once lit, the tree stays lit day and night until take-down-time. The magical traditional Christmas markets in Germany inspired me to collect my first few tree ornaments when I was seventeen.  I earned my exchange student tuition and airfare by painting bronzes for Harvey Ratty and Pamala Harr. A few graphic design jobs picked up on the side supplemented my savings.  Regardless to say, shopping funds were limited but I couldn’t resist picking out a few handmade beauties.  Memories of my first Christmas away from home flash vivid with sound, smell, and a mix of nostalgic emotion when I hang the miniature wooden Nutcracker ornament (complete with a mini moving nutcracker jaw).  Lordy was that really more than two decades ago?!   Hot spiced wine, roasted nuts, cold cheeks, festive little lights and a skyline framed by old European town square architecture are a vivid postcard memory of the romantic holiday spirit I experienced in a country 1/3 the size of my state back home.  Beyond the magic markets, Christmas was elusive and  homesickness leered.  My host family’s tradition meant that no trace of Christmas entered the house until Christmas Eve when the tree and presents were placed while we attended the Christmas program at the Bremer Cathedral.  A featureless sky was caught between between buildings in a snowless city.  I felt small, cold and a bit overwhelmed in the large cathedral where a priest spoke from his elevated box.  My host family engaged in a raucous frenzy of simultaneous gift unwrapping back at the flat where the tree had been put up complete with real candles.  A second celebration with the Münck family later that night gave me another whole flavor and depth of Christmas.  I was their guest in a small country church where I sang “Silent Nacht” with a reverence inspired by midnight mass and the knowledge that I was singing the song in it’s native tongue.  Afterwards I gulped greedily from the starry night, thankful for a relatively expansive patch of sky pierced by the humble church steeple.  The Münck’s gave me a string of freshwater pearls.  I blushed when I unwrapped the underwear set.  Big white navel-swallowing undies with a matching undershirt had been gifted “to keep me warm” since I rode my bike everywhere.  I never wore the undies out of fear of embarrassment in the off-chance I got run over in the city and discovered dead or wounded in “granny panties.”

I danced naked with girlfriends around a big campfire to celebrate the winter solstice.  Each gal wore a pair of colorful fingerless gloves knit by me during the post surgery convalescence.  We left our boots on (and our hats, coats, clothes) but we were naked in spirit.  The solstice meadow is a special place on my mountain made more special by the ritual we shared on this winter’s eve.  Fueled by a bit of wind, the fire got wild and crazy.  We tossed our meaningfully crafted wood sculpture offerings into the flames, held hands and opened our hearts to the spirit of the longest night.  Giggling gleefully, we kicked up our heels and the snow while we spun about under the stars.  Goofy gutsy glorious girl stuff.

 

My thoughts have been preoccupied with the untimely loss of an exceptional human being.  Guy was a cross between Buddha and a leprechaun; he radiated a delightful spark and spirit emulated from his connection to Mother Nature, his depth of character and his passion.  Somehow just meeting him felt like a blessing.  I walked away from a simple encounter with Guy wearing a grin and feeling awestruck – not so much by Guy’s accomplishments (which are legendary) but rather by his uncluttered simplicity which stemmed from his enlightened embrace of life.  He was wise, humble and content.  Guy inspired us.

Last week his special spirit was snuffed when an avalanche swept him off a cliff while participating in the annual Hyalite “Icebreakers” climbing competition.  I felt like puking when a friend told me Guy Lacelle died that morning in our local ice climbing haven.  Full of shock and disbelief, my heart wept for JoJo (a long time friend and climbing partner of Guy’s) and for Guy’s wife Marge whom I don’t know but feel a connection to simply because Guy shared pictures and stories of her.  Later as the full tragic story came together in bits and pieces, my sorrow and shock was deepened by compassion for the other climbers; Adam – Guy’s partner that day, Sam and Josh who were climbing above.  

I want to admit also, that I am uncomfortable with the fact that the tragedy occurred here, in our own ice climbing “backyard.”  Guy was from Canada.  He climbed all over the world.  Somehow the tragic loss would be more palpable if it happened somewhere else - anywhere else; another country, another state.  My thought is purely selfish.  Anywhere is still a “backyard” for others.  But the fact is, Guy was a special guest…here.  On a purely selfish note; I feel disheartened and a bit let down by Hyalite even though I know how ridicules that sounds.  However I am heartened by the love, respect and care in which the local community handled the tragedy.  I talked with the sergeant in charge of Gallatin County SAR (search and rescue).  He told me it was an honor to be involved – an unforgettable day that felt like he and others had recovered a Viking.

I am too choked up to write more.  Let me share a letter written for The Bozeman Daily Chronicle by my dear friend JoJo:

“As an organizer and emcee of the recent Bozeman Ice Climbing Festival, I want to extend my deepest appreciation to Bozeman, all the great folks that traveled from across the country and Canada to be here, and the entire outdoor community for all your love and support in the face of the tragic loss of our dear friend and mentor Guy Lacelle. Guy (rhymes with see) was lost in an avalanche on Silken Falls in Hyalite Canyon on Thursday, December 10th.

Guy, originally from Ontario and living in Prince George, British Columbia, was the greatest and most accomplished waterfall ice climber to ever live, experiencing routes around the world that may never be surpassed. But more importantly I, and scores of others, knew Guy as the most wonderful and inspiring human being we've ever known. In 18 years of loving and being loved by this man, I've never known anyone to be as ethically pure, morally strong, competitive yet compassionate, such a committed conservationist, and so caring of others and animals.

Last Thursday Guy and 23 others were engaged what we call the Hyalite Ice Breaker. Simply, I designed this as a like-minded event where old and new friends simply go out and try to climb as many routes in Hyalite as they can. Whoever does the most gets only their name inscribed on a special ice axe on display at Northern Lights Trading Company. It is a celebration of the partnerships, bonds and experiences found while ice climbing in the Hyalite Canyon. Guy truly embraced the Ice Breaker more than anyone. He was here for weeks in advance to re-connect with friends and climb and strategize. He was competitive but not in a "I'm out to beat you" sort of way. He just loved the gamesmanship of it. And like the true gentleman and hero he was, he only enjoyed it if you where having fun right along with him.

When Guy's wife Marge told me on Friday morning that Guy and his family would want the Festival to continue, it gave me the emotional strength required to go forward. After all, if there was one thing I knew about Guy, it was that he would be heartbroken if he knew anyone did not have a good time nor didn't get to experience the joys of ice climbing because of his expense, even in dying.

Yet I need to acknowledge the local community again for embracing that spirit and helping us make the most of the weekend. Personally I wouldn't have made it through three more days without you. Thank you to all the participants for your enthusiasm in the clinics, many of you trying ice climbing for the first time. It would have been easy to cancel the whole thing, but seeing so many of you energized by the sport over the next three days made it all worthwhile. Thank you for attending the wonderful public tribute at the Emerson Friday night. Thank you for the respect and care during the private reception we held for Marge and her family at the Emerson Grill on Saturday. They too are humbled and grateful for the love and support shown by the Bozeman community and look forward to returning soon. Many people have asked on how they can donate to the memory of Guy Lacelle and his family. Without hesitation they requested any donations be made to the local animal shelter, Heart of the Valley. Please follow the "Donate Now" links at www.heartofthevalleyshelter.org. Please be sure to check the "In Memory of" option.

Thank you all. May you all have a happy and safe holidays with your loved ones.”

Joe Josephson – Livingston, MT

Fourteen degrees below zero this morning.  I have climbed frozen waterfalls in double digits below zero and actually had fun doing it but today I can hardly muster the gumption to open the door and let my dog out (let alone accompany her for a walk in the woods).  I’m alternating cups of tea with little bowls of oatmeal, fighting flu symptoms and feeling sluggish after a restless night.  I need motivation.  Wish I could pull motivation like a bright eyed bouncy bunny out of a magicians hat.  Instead I feel like the novice blundering magician with a stuffed up nose digging around the deep darkness only to come up with a mismatched sock, a fuzzed out old toothbrush, and a stale marshmallow.

Blah! 

I have a serious case of Monday morning tail-tucking inertia.  Wait!!  I found something!!!  A sweet little spark to share on this cold toe slow mojo day:  One of my newest Patrons sent a “thank-you-for-inspiring-me” note.  What a wonderful warm fuzzy feeling.  Love, love, LOVE it when a spark flies from my world into someone else’s and ignites a fire.  He said I could share bits from his note with you:

“Hello Amber, You inspired me to pick up my oil paints and paint my first oil painting since High School. My first cat Moxie died a few years back at 19. I'd been looking for a picture of her I took that I thought would make a nice painting. I had grabbed my old portfolio so I could decorate my digs in Billings. What do you know, the photo I'd been looking for all these years fell out. So then I brought out my old paints and easel and bought a canvas. There it sat blank all summer while I worked on other painting (the "compound"). Anyway, when I received your lovely print of the cat that looks just like my 2nd cat, I framed it, put it up on the shelf in the kitchen and decided "now was the time" to give it a shot. Well except for struggling with some ancient very stuck lids on my oil tubes I managed to sketch it out and paint the whole thing (18x24) in one night.  So here I am THANKING YOU Amber for a little inspiration.”

Gee.  Golly.  Gosh.  Always tickles me to hear about someone brushing the dust off their hiking boots and hitting the trail after bumping into a story from my life…or getting out the chisels which lay ignored in the closet…or wrestling the old stuck lids off oil tubes and gathering the gumption to paint. 

Thank-you for sharing your painting with me Howard.  Your kind note goosed my gumption.  Ta Da!!  Stay tuned for the rabbit ‘cuz I’m feeling the magic now…

Temps have warmed into the double digits for the first time in days.  Yesterday after tackling a batch of work at my desk, I bundled up and ventured out for a mini-hike in the woods with Zaydee. 

Crisp Crunch Crisp Crunch

I love the sound snow makes at zero degrees.

Jack Frost has been busy decking the woods like Martha Stewart  might deck the halls.  Sparkles galore.  The forest feels super clean.  Tantalizing little critter tracks are carefully placed accents in a fluffed up room cleared of clutter.  The cold air bit my cheeks while I strolled through the picture perfect landscape.  Something ahead looked slightly out of place.  Green gray, it lay like a pillow in the trail.  A rock?  Too smooth.  Too exposed.  Unless?  No…the bears are hibernating and not rolling rocks right now.  ‘Tis the season for gut piles but this wasn’t a pile.  There wasn’t a mess.  Just the misplaced pillow and not a couch around. 

I approached. 

The pillow was full of grass.  A deer’s stomach. So it was a gut pile…minus the guts, fur and gore.  Sounds gross but there was something oddly beautiful about the cleanliness, the color, the shape, the placement.   The only clue was a dot of blood here and there in the snow like carefully placed red candy Christmas cookie decorations.  Cliff has five deer hanging outside his cabin.  None of them have stomachs.  So here amidst the perfect Jack Frost winter white landscape, a beautiful wild creature with long eye lashes breathed it’s last.  Birds feasted.  So will I.  (Cliff keeps me in meat). 

Frozen hard as a rock, the stomach lay in the trail where I  walked carefully with trekking poles; careful not to stumble or fall thus risk ripping my own stitched up innards. 

Life is beautifully odd. 

Twenty days have passed since my last entry. Life has been a bit of a jumbled journey with a focus on healing. Since the surgery I’ve often felt inspired to share stories, emotions, and revelations along with odd, humorous, and touching moments. Much is vivid. Alas…I have been more tuckered than I bargained for. Phew!! Time has sloshed my world with some rather sticky heavy days these past few weeks along with some super slippery days (and days). My immune system has been working overtime to heal from the trauma of evasive surgery. Two weeks after surgery I attended the funeral of a dear friend. I believe the emotional toll of her heartfelt service and celebration took a whack at my already low post-surgery energy level.  A few days after the funeral some flu-ish symptoms presented themselves; my system struggled to fight a “bug.” Reluctant to allow a full-blown flu to hit my “busy” body,  I relegated myself to bed once again (just when my leg bones were starting to itch from the restless urge to move about). I am used to activity and hardly know who I am without energy. Last week I felt quite an improvement in my energy level…just in time for the Thanksgiving holiday. A warm-fuzzy friendly fun gathering of friends and children made for a perfect holiday topped with a post feast tiki torch lit sledding course. I am in no condition to sled (yet) but happily lent a hand holding drinks while I cheered and laughed at the top of the hill. Fun! I overdid it. Apparently a few days in a row of bustling about is what did me in (and not simply my duty as a drink holder at the sledding hill). Unfortunately it seems I haven’t a clue I’m overdoing it until it is too late. So while I can report that I am healing more each week; the process has been a bit like sledding in the dark with torches for guidance. I’ve had a few relatively smooth runs, some rather bumpy crazy courses, and found myself at times spun about facing uphill while the sled careened out of control downhill. I have even knocked over a torch or two. Between each run I rest, catch my breath, lay on my back and look up at stars,  laugh at myself (or whimper) and trudge back up the hill ‘cuz I am totally on board for the healing ride and imagine the course will smooth out eventually.

I haven’t been too specific about the recent surgery and realize many of you are both concerned and curious. Actually it wasn’t fair for me to mention a “football-sized” tumor in my last blog post without being more specific so here’s the deal: My girlie parts were involved along with a few medical terms which are difficult to simply blurt out. We should re-think many of the words science uses to describe procedures don’t you think? Seriously…hysterectomy is just an icky word. Any word ending with “ectomy” never sounds good and the whole “hysteria” part is plain unfair. Then there is “morcellation” and “tumor.” The word tumor is not actually offensive in itself but it does plant fearful creepy thoughts (no pun intended) and morcelation means just what it sounds like – to cut into small pieces (think “morsels”). Double ick. The tumor was benign; common actually… just a big o’l fibroid. Except the fibroid kept growing inside my uterus for seven years while I tried to eliminate the bugger with a combination of alternative medicine, an “anti-inflammatory-tumor-reducing” diet, and pure stubbornness. I have always been very attached to my womb and believed I would have children; held onto luck and my uterus despite the pain. I lugged “Fibee” to plenty of mountain tops.  I climbed rock and ice, biked mountain trails and rafted rivers.  I made art.  Initially and for many years the tumor was grapefruit size – my uterus the size of a 3-month pregnancy - hardly enough to slow me down but definitely noticeable in spandex biking shorts. Notch by notch my belt-size increased. Sometimes the tumor did shrink – spiking my faith and deepening my determination to rid myself of the pesky painful bugger holistically.  During the past few years when the tumor grew to the size of a football and my uterus equivalent to a five month pregnancy I increased my efforts. However, the depth and frequency of the pain increased exponentially. Since early spring the pain became constant with varying intensity. Often it struck in cramp waves which could knock the wind out of me while I stopped in my tracks or doubled over. According to girlfriends who have given birth, the pain I described sounded just like labor pains and they were wearing me out.  The hard mass affected my balance and decreased my flexibility. I sought several opinions and researched thoroughly. Once I acknowledged and accepted my inability to conceive or carry a baby everything else fell into place. I love my surgeon. Dr. Haugen is a small spry spunky gal who looks like she just graduated from high school but talks with passion, experience and intelligence. Her hands expressed their own intelligence when she talked…something I have seen captured in photos and film footage of my own hands (am honestly always rather struck with astonishment when I view my hands on film). I  trusted Dr. Haugen and set a date for surgery.  The surgery involved removing my uterus along with the tumor and cervix. My ovaries were healthy and left intact thus we avoided an unnatural instant early menopause. The image of Susan Taylor Glasgow’s sewn glass sculpture titled “It’s Always with Me” just happened to cross my path via cyberspace the day after I set a surgery date. I can’t begin to describe how much the image of this piece touched my soul.  The sculpture is a perfect visual rendition of how I felt.  Delicate, tippy, weepy, broken, flawed, and attached.  My soul and heart were drawn to the sewn together parts and the oozing femininity.  The sculpture speaks to me on so many levels…deep and personal.  I have even equated pink roses with both my mother and grandmother; they have occurred in my sculptural works (i.e. “Grandma Smells Like Roses”).  The china, the glass, the visceral rope-y parts, the slump, the spill…even the teapot is womb-like…a connection to my health and psyche. Through a cyber-connection, the visual poetry of this sculpture perfectly placed archival pieces and parts in front of me which entered my soul, touched my inner girlie parts, and struck a chord beyond the artist, me, my mother, and my grandmother.  The journey goes on. I continue to be inspired and plan to explore with art my emotions and revelations. I lost some important girlie parts.  A seriously large hard fibrous blockage has been cleared from the center of my body.  A new chapter has opened, and even this quiet healing time feels ripe with potential.

The morning dawned pale and pretty.

Soft. Slow. Gentle.

I took a few deep breaths from beneath the comfy covers and placed those words on my tongue like three healing lozenges. Soft. Slow. Gentle. One week has passed since my surgery. I am on the road to recovery. Lucky. Healthy. Healing. But once again yesterday I overdid it. Oops! 

Seriously…I AM taking it easy!!!!

Considering the level of activity I’m used to and the level of activity I kept up despite the challenging medical condition, I have been a good patient. Pain would be a helpful indicator for most people but I have an exceptionally high pain tolerance which disqualifies my ability to judge (especially since the pain since surgery hasn’t at any point been any more severe than the pain I’d grown accustomed to before surgery). I have attempted a good impression of a total slug but somehow this “slug” manages to slurp some of that typical Amber “go juice” now and then and light up with a spritely spurt that gets me into a bit of trouble.  Just what does “take it easy” mean anyway? How easy?! I’m learning. Soft. Slow. Gentle. I roll the words around in my mouth- hopefully they will seep and coat my innards with a “molasses movement mantra.” I will keep the image of a slowly unfolding sunrise as reminder of the pace to honor for another week or two or three or…?

Forgive me if this is the first you’ve heard of the surgery. The decision and journey have been very personal. The past months were frightening and emotional yet transformative. Insights land in my lap like autumn leaves picked up gently - the intricate beauty examined appreciatively for detail and inspiration. Insights also get flung in my face like slick sticky mud balls which make me laugh even while I spit and sputter with grit and grime left in between my teeth. Life offers SO much!! Dark places along with bright beaming light. One week ago two skilled surgeons removed a few body parts along with a football-sized tumor.  I am on the road to recovery and discovery.

Image above titled, “Amber Darkness 7” by artist Rocky Hawkins.  The painting was a pre-surgery gift from Rocky and has been near the bed under the vase of sunflowers he and Kat brought by after surgery.  (The painting is part of a series by Rocky – the “amber” part is a coincidence).  I have been so well cared for…and will share more soon!

Not a single star blinked back at me while I bounced sleepless about my cabin last night - unless one rolled out from under a thick warm cloud blanket sometime after 4 a.m.  Sleep has been more than evasive this week.  Sleep scuttled into a small dark hole out of the cat’s reach under the kitchen cabinets where it scratched and scratched and scratched.  Incessantly.  Irritatingly.  Persistently.  Maddeningly.  All night sleep poked and pointed, nipped and bit, sniffed and slunk.  Finally just before sunup I grabbed it by the arm, rousted sleep from its ruse, and shook the dust bunnies off.  I glared at the mocking little bugger until the gleeful defiant glint softened in surrender, shuddered and sighed.  Limp.  I turned my back to the starless sky, curled up and slept.

Mother Nature got up from a languid autumn nap.  Stretched.  Then browsed a catalog of weather while drinking a double-shot of espresso.  The result?  A caffeine infused shopping spree of snow, sun, cold, more snow, single digit temps, creative cloud skies, warm weather, lightning, rain, thunder, hot afternoons and mud. 

 

Loop hike on my mountain (last week)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today?  Rain and more rain after a starry night.  Life itself feels super-charged like the weather.  Moments during the past week were as dark and thick as sludge left in the bottom of a delicate white coffee cup.  Soft and hard.  Tender and harsh.  Poignant and painful.  Sweet and bitter.  Precious and precarious.  The result?

Inspiration.

Just in case the written word doesn’t cover enough from my life, art, and adventures…I’ve added my very own YouTube Channel to upload short videos from…well…my life…art…and adventures!  Wahoo!  (and Yikes!)

Actually it is fun to shoot video footage and share.  I’ve a zillion ideas and am open to your suggestions.  I hadn’t realized that I could automatically link YouTube to my blog until the darling dog lover Roxanne Hawn  gave me the hint/suggestion today.  She’s a freelance writer with a fun informative blog  www.championofmyheart.com which she describes as “a dog blog about hope and hard work.”

Thanks to Roxanne’s suggestion, I have set things up so that future videos will automatically post right on my blog.  But you may have missed the first few videos so visit: www.youtube.com/montanamber

If you have a moment – grab a cup of tea or a shot of whiskey and check out the channel.  The videos are short.  While you are there feel free to rate the videos, subscribe, write feedback and sign up as my friend in the “friends box.”  Did you catch that?  (a not-so-subtle hint)  :)  I want your feedback!  If you visit and leave a mark somewhere  on the montanamber channel you can help get rid of that “no scratch polished” look that comes from being brand new.  Right now the site looks too new…too shiny…too “friendless.”

Stay tuned!

A little over a week ago I posted a note about a BIG pile of bear poop I found 100 yards from my cabin (see “Holy Bear Poop Batman”).  Of course I took a photo when I discovered the poop but didn’t have the guts to post it because this is suppose to be an inspiring art blog and I wasn’t sure just how poop photos fair on the internet.  BUT you asked for it!!  Ok…maybe you didn’t…but plenty of people did…so…here you go:  Um.  Yuck?!  Actually it was both impressive and a bit fascinating.  Either it was left by one BIG bear or a regular-sized bear with an irregular digestive problem.  Regardless…right after I shot the photo, I returned to my cabin to grab the bear spray before getting back to my hike.  Finding “Amber parts” in a pile of bear poop might be interesting but I’d rather they stick to the berries.

Morning dawned white with snowfall. Treetops fade toward blank frozen sky. Maya finally settled down after a serious case of cabin fever, she hates cold weather. Zaydee is covered in wet dirt from futile hours spent digging after little bunnies hunkered in hiding places under my cabin. I feel like losing the day to a good book, warm food, and Baileys. Sounds uninspired but actually I am brewing like a slow batch of cider on the stove top. Feelings and images rollover each other inside my head like cozy kittens. I’m torn between the desire to reach in and pluck one protesting little mewing kitten from the bunch to see just where the feisty critter takes me…or…letting the little nuzzled together squirmy buggers nurse awhile longer. The ideas are tangled together in a warm slurping mass of possibility. Maybe they need to fill their tummies and nap a good while before I break up the bunch and get to work. I can hardly wait.

Zaydee and I went for a hike earlier this evening.  About 100 yards from my cabin I saw the biggest pile of bear sh*t I've ever seen.  Now I have seen LOTS of bear poop during the years up here and plenty of bear poop elsewhere.  I am no stranger to bear poop.  My stint as a wilderness ranger was in the Taylor Hilgard Wilderness… considered the “highest concentration of grizzly bears in the lower 48”…so not only did I see plenty of bears (and even woke up with one standing on my foot)…BUT…I saw lots of poop.  Never have I seen a pile like this.  Impressive. 

Earlier this morning I walked outside to my truck in the driveway. The crisp cold, the low light, the long shadows, the tall yellow grass and the instant cold nose created a flash-back; shiny new lunchbox, brand new backpack waiting for the bus with some excitement and a bit of purpose.  I love this time of year.

(First Grade…can you guess which one is me?)

I’ve zillions to do but snow is in the future  forecast so I get up before sunrise and work, then play, then work. Sunset is early. Climbed in the hot afternoon sun last Wednesday then stripped to my undies and jumped into the cold Yellowstone River with a girlfriend. I hiked to the Fountain of Youth late Thursday afternoon, sat in the thick soft moss, drank from the spring, and returned to civilization for a giant fishbowl-sized margarita at a local haunt (didn’t get any work done after that). After a meeting in Bozeman Friday, I mountain biked in the Bridger Mountain Range with a girlfriend and two happy stray dogs, grabbed a quick shower in town, joined girlfriends and be-bopped about Livingston in a miniskirt and flip flops for the last art walk of the season.  My town looks like a movie set.  Afterwards we made dinner and played cards (um…ok…I didn’t get any more work done that night either). After a sleepless night I climbed Alex Lowe Peak Saturday (14 miles and over a mile in elevation gain…spectacular!)

Yesterday two batches of visitors bounced up the mountain to visit. Each group included an interesting new person…one from LA and the other from Hungary. I worked in the early hours and even sold five original Works on Paper, not bad for a  lazy sunny Sunday. I received photos of the mesquite logs via e-mail yesterday…the first I’ve seen the buggers…just a day or two before they arrive. Keep your fingers crossed…the logs were supposed to be here four weeks ago but the Universe had other plans. The “big” picture proved the delay a gift (or perhaps it is simply my attitude which makes it appear that way). I feel like I did decades ago waiting for the school bus; a bit of purpose… crisp cold air outside…warm excited glow inside.

I can’t begin to describe how much the image of this piece touched my soul this morning. The sculpture is a perfect visual rendition of how I feel. Delicate, tippy, weepy, broken, flawed, and attached . My soul and heart are touched by the sewn together parts and the oozing femininity. Wish I owned the piece and nearly feel like I could have created it. Honestly…I haven’t a clue about creating in glass and don’t mean to sound disrespectful of you or your work. I guess what I mean to say is that the sculpture speaks to me on so many levels…deep and personal. I have even equated pink roses with both my mother and grandmother (they have occurred in my sculptural works…i.e. “Grandma Smells Like Roses”). The china, the glass, the visceral rope-y parts, the slump, the spill…a connection to current events in my health and psyche.

The timing is poignant. Yesterday I scheduled a hysterectomy after a life-long struggle with endometriosis and more recently a VERY large fibroid tumor. I always thought I would have children….have held onto hope and my uterus. Realizing just how detached from the pain I became over the years, I feel almost like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me as I acknowledge the depth and frequency. Maybe I need to fully feel the pain to justify my decision. I’m startled and a bit scared by how much I denied for sooooo long. Unfortunately the earliest possible surgery date is more than a month away. Emotional rollercoaster. The morning brought several rounds of tears and weeping…then the image of your lovely sculpture. Even the teapot is womb-like…

I have never written an e-mail like this Susan. I don’t expect a response. Just know that through a cyber-connection your visual poetry has perfectly placed archival pieces and parts in front of me today which entered my soul, touched my inner girlie parts, and struck a chord beyond you, me, my mother, and my grandmother.

I look forward to following your work.

Wrapped in a soft blanket, wearing fingerless gloves, hat and scarf…my laptop looks rather uppity here on the old grey weathered picnic table which sits on a matching grey weathered deck. Birds chirp while a train mutters in the FAR distance (amazing how sound travels). The crisp air skips about my nose, numbs my toes, and cools the hot tea too quickly. Surrounded by tall golden feathery topped mountain grass, I wait for a languid sun which teases from beyond the long shadow in which I sit. White snow-capped peaks nearly blend with the pale blue sky across the valley. (I just knew that was snow I smelled in the air after sunset last night!) Wish I had a bit of Bailey’s for my tea, but considering that this is a chain-cup tea morning, perhaps it’s just as well I don’t. I’ve quite a bit of the business part of art life to tend too, a cabin to spiff up for the dinner party tonight, a desert to make and a trail to run. Have you guessed or have I mentioned how much I LOVE being outside this time of year?! Perhaps the outdoor crispy-cold-air-laptop-typing could be considered training for ice climbing season…certainly have sluggish reddened fingers.     The computer/internet parts of business have been integral for maintaining my lifestyle here at the end of a road near the top of a mountain in Montana. What a blessing. The first computer at my cabin was a gift from my uncle. He visited Montana once and insisted on seeing the rustic place where he heard I lived. Cliff (my mountain man logger neighbor and dear friend) chained up his orange flatbed truck (duct tape on the taillights). My uncle held on to the dashboard and hit his head on the cab ceiling more than once while we four-wheeled up the narrow rocky switchbacks to the really rustic cabin on top of the mountain where I lived at the time. I had spent the winter hiking up the steep road to the cabin (and sledding down it). I would never have guessed a truck could make it up there and believe it is the only time we tried. The cabin is literally cabled to the rocky top to keep it from blowing down the mountain. My current humble cabin home looks like a Persian palace in comparison to that plywood shack. No exaggeration.     “Call me when you get power,” my uncle said before he returned to his home in Chicago. A few years later I called him; eventually I got through his personal assistant and told my uncle I had managed to get power. He asked pointed questions about my business as an artist. Then a few days later some huge boxes arrived at the post office, were loaded in my truck, bounced up the mountain, unloaded and unpacked; a computer, a scanner, and a printer complete with numbered stickers to show me which cords and where to plug them in. Many thanks to a generous uncle with foresight, I was connected.     The “office” was a corner of my living room space. I didn’t have running water but I finally had a phone complete with an internet phone connection. Alas my business as an artist felt official…the world was more accessible…and my learning curve broadened. A “how to” book helped me create a website in a weekend.  Within a month I had my first internet customer; a bride commissioned me to carve a humidor as a wedding present for her groom. I would have photographed the piece if I had a camera.     Social media has opened the door to a whole new learning curve and level of connection for this mountain top “hermit” artist. One morning a little over a week ago I edited my first video, shot with my little digital camera on Black Mountain and posted it on my own channel on YouTube. I’ve a zillion video ideas and plenty to share. Visit the channel, subscribe (it’s free), rate my videos, write comments. Facebook and Twitter are enhancing my ability to connect with you. Right now I’ve got to take my cold sniffling nose and frozen fingers inside. Did I say “brrrrrrr?!”  

I stood outside just past dark this morning and watched as the sun (with much effort) slowly lifted thick heavy dark eyelids and began to consider waking.

Later I returned outside to find a pretty pink perky sunrise, complete with glow-in-the-light lace.

My girlfriend Liz gave me a slender colorless black tattered copy of “Letters to a Young Poet” by Rainer Maria Rilke sometime during my early 20’s. The book did not look interesting, yet her hand written inscription was like a bright colored ribbon on the faded opening page. I was compelled to give the uninviting beaten up dark little book a chance. I was smitten. The book became a bible…a guiding light…a comforting lap to crawl into when the struggle to put myself through school left me disheartened and weary. I was living a rather bohemian lifestyle in a low-rent building right on main street in Bozeman. My apartment had a tall ceiling but no bathroom. One window opened into the upper story space between buildings…just bricks and windows. The other window overlooked the alley, more rooftops, and the stained glass steeple of a church. A carpet of tree tops stretched toward the jagged ridge of the Hyalite mountains past the edge of town. Passion to create meaningful art drove me. Juggling three jobs and a student load left little time to read but “Letters to a Young Poet” was read and reread along with other books by Rilke. Just yesterday a Rilke poem landed on my desk, soft and bright like the first yellow leaf of autumn…impossible to miss… full of meaning…a gift to share:

 

"Sunset" by Rainer Maria Rilke  

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors which it passes to a row of ancient trees. You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either, not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent, not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing that turns to a star each night and climbs-

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads) your own life, timid and standing high and growing, so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out, one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

How many places on this planet can one enjoy music, good food and wine outdoors at the very same creek I had followed up to a summit earlier in the day? Pine Creek Café is a magical place! So…after hiking 7 miles and gaining over a mile in elevation to the summit of Black Mountain, one must glissade down the snow slope, jump into the freezing cold topaz blue lake (or at least consider jumping into it), climb the cliffs around the edge of the lake knowing one little slip will plunge you into the frigid water (backpack and all), run, trip, and gimp another 5 miles back to the trailhead, put on sandals, drive a few miles downstream to Pine Creek Café and wash the trail dust from your toes in the very creek fed by the 10,000’ snow field ya slid down that afternoon. Pine Creek runs right behind the outdoor stage with party lights and next to the big BBQ. So after a quick rinse in the creek (while chatting with two cute 8 year old boys who have better sense than to play in the cold water look at you in admiration and disbelief), ya pull on a clean pair of blue jeans while the buffalo look at you from across the road, then ya snarf down a burger, drink wine, enjoy GOOD music and kick up the dust with café owner Ned. Thanks for sharing the dance Ned!

 

Last Saturday morning came early. I’d been out late the night before at the Livingston Art Walk…which would have been ok in itself except my obnoxious old unwelcome prickly bedmate Insomnia has been a rather constant companion this summer. I lay there in the wee morning hours thinking I should simply give up on sleep and get out for a super early alpine start…wouldn’t it be spectacular to be on the summit for sunrise?!! Each time I got out of bed, I felt sick-to-my-stomach-tired, turned around and crawled back into bed. But sleep eluded me. Insomnia scooted the minute my alarm clock went off. Here’s how it goes: toss, turn, toss, turn, ALARM…sleep. I swear the alarm clock is to Insomnia what garlic is to vampires…the instant the alarm sounds, insomnia flees and I’m free to sleep…except I CAN’T because I HAVE to get up. Do you think I should set my alarm for an hour or so after I go to bed and TRICK Insomnia into vanishing? I had to drag myself from beneath comfy covers and bumble about the process of packing and eating while groggy from only 2 hours of sleep. Thankfully the peak I planned to climb was not technical or extreme (although I have climbed technical AND extreme peaks on far less sleep). Black Mountain is a 10,941 foot peak above Pine Creek Lake. Thomas Turiano, writes in his book, Select Peaks of the Greater Yellowstone, that Black Mountain is the “most spectacular mountain in the Western Beartooths north of Mount Cowen. He goes on to say, “Most first-time visitors to Pine Creek Lake are stunned by its sheer size, which is completely unexpected in such steep mountains.” The trailhead to Pine Creek Lake is only about 20 minutes from my house and is a popular winter destination for me since there are some fun frozen falls to climb just a mile up the trail. I’ve been to the lake several times but I have never climbed "spectacular" Black Mountain. While the hike is not extreme, one does gain a mile of elevation during the 7 miles it takes to get to the summit. The final two miles are a trail-less scramble up talus slopes to a rocky ridge leading to the summit. Fun Fun. The scenery between the topaz blue lake and the summit of Black Mountain is beyond amazing since it includes giant blue quartz-like crystal rocks. Very blue…gemstone blue…baby blue. Other giant rocks are a pastel variety of pinks and whites along with charcoal black rocks with hints of purple. Feels like you’ve wandered onto a beautiful Chinese ink-brush painting complete with waterfalls, springs, and bright green grassy slopes perfectly placed between stone and sky. Many mountain ranges and peaks can be seen from the summit of Black Mountain. I shot some video on the summit and have begun to learn the ins and outs of editing (phew!) Soon I will share a whole new series of short candid videos from my life exploring inside and outside the studio. Stay tuned!   top photo - Zaydee and I below the summit of Black Mountain bottom photo - View of Mt Cowen (on left) and Fire Spire (pointy thing on right) from the summit of Black Mountain...and YES!! I have been on both!!

Positive feedback is like a scrumptious snack…but without the calories! As the number of Patrons increases and the more posts I blog, the more yummy compliments I receive. Sweet! I thought I would share one from the newest Patron: “We got the "Handsome Fella" and the whole family loves him! It was the highlight of my week after spending a grueling week working in Las Vegas.” – Paul Mayer – Minnesota Inspiring others is one of my goals in life. Paul went on to write this “I am so glad to have rediscovered your work after all these years, since you showed up 10 years ago in my copy of "Wood Magazine". I am pretty fired up about your work, and it is having some influence on my own woodworking. I pulled out my beautiful set of carving tools that I bought 10 years ago and never used, and I carved a great big spoon that I have named "the van gough spoon" because you need to use your imagination to see the spoon in there. I am not much of an artist myself (although I believe there is one buried in there somewhere), but more of a conventional woodworker. I have also been spending countless hours introducing my father to some basic art concepts, teaching him about woodworking, and helping him launch a business selling his products. It has been an incredible journey so far, and I am excited to see what the next year or so holds because he is really getting fired up about this stuff. I have built a web site for him (http://www.vernswoodgoods.com/) and have started selling his stuff on Etsy as well.” Check out Paul’s father’s work when you have a moment…and…don’t hesitate to send links, photos, and (of course) compliments my way!

Ah…a good night’s sleep is a treasure and a treat! Scrumptious. After a round of sleepless nights, when slumber visits and deep sleep embraces me, it is as if a pair of dingy scratched lenses have been taken off….the world is softer, my mood lighter, and possibilities more infinite. Insomnia has tested and tormented me since childhood. Many sleepless nights were spent reading…unless I was caught. The bedside lamp was too easy for my parents to detect but my closet was large with a light so I could crawl in there and read. Alas, my “hideout” was discovered when my mom was putting away clean clothes. The nest of pillows and books gave me away, the light bulb was removed. I borrowed the flashlight which stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet and crawled night after night under the bedcovers with a book, careful to return the flashlight each night. The loud “click” of magnet sucked to metal resounded loud in the darkened house and caused my heart to skip a beat. I don’t remember how they figured out I was using that flashlight…maybe they noticed the lighted tent that was my bed, maybe I failed to replace the flashlight in exactly the same spot on the fridge (although I remember being quite careful to do so) but eventually the flashlight was moved out of reach. My father had a flashlight in the trunk of his car, so I “borrowed” that one. I couldn’t imagine why he would have one there..? My eight-year-old mind couldn’t conceive of the need for a flashlight in a car, but he was a traveling salesman. I kept the flashlight carefully hidden but eventually it was discovered missing and I was forced to confess. The physical punishment I received for taking the flashlight paled in light of the torment I felt after hearing the examples of how my father would have suffered if his car had broken down at night, or he couldn’t save the life of some unfortunate soul in a roadside accident if he didn’t have that light. He suggested a few scenarios, my imagination dreamt up the rest. I resorted to the window in my bedroom. My room was in the basement, the window well was incased with cold looking steel or aluminum. Not much light, but on a full moon or near a full moon, light found its way to the window and cast shadows in my room. I would crawl up onto the wide window sill, scrunch into the corner and read by moonlight. Books kept me company during long sleepless nights. The moonless nights I tossed and turned, crept about the house like a mouse, helped myself to milk from the fridge, or tried without success to read on the cold creepy bathroom floor. Insomnia continues to haunt me, stretch my nights and challenge my days. Sleeplessness has forced me into dark places, added depth to my art, and given me insights hard-won but appreciated. Still…yummy drool-on-your-pillow sleep is a gift. A treasure. A treat.

My current client has company. Since my commission is taking place just outside his front door, and since I make plenty of sawdust and lots of noise, I have been given a “recess” of a few days. Sweet. Honestly, I’ve grown weary of the task. The creativity part was accomplished during the first few hours while designing more than a month ago. Once I resolved the carving issues, figured my way toward color choices, and put the final glaze coat on the first two posts…the mystery was solved. Two embellished entry porch posts…perfect for the place and space…finished. I hadn’t messed up. My client was pleased. What finally became obvious to him (and what I knew all along) is that the other two posts would also have to be carved. So I am working on them. “Lesser” versions of the central posts (so as not to compete…I want the “climax” and action to build near the doorway while the outside posts quietly hold court like the wedding party to the bride and groom). The commission at this point is mostly pure physical labor. The challenges are boredom, physical fatigue (my poor hands), and Momma Nature. Wind is the most menacing element followed closely by sweltering heat. Rain is not a problem since I get to quit when it rains and certainly won’t argue with lightning. Wind can make me weary; especially since it blows every which way, dusting my eyes and filling my nose with sawdust. A few blood vessels broke in one eye two weeks ago and gave me a possessed look; devil-ish or prize-fighter-ish. I still have a big red spot in that eye. So I am suppose to return to carve on Wednesday but I see that the weather forecast for Wednesday is thunderstorms which actually makes me happy because I would rather be home writing than up Tom Miner carving. Each day I find many things to share. Thoughts flutter and flit with wings so appealing and magical that I want to stop whatever I am doing and explore with words the spark, iridescence, depth, and endless color intricately woven on their surface. I don’t want to just squeak out little accounts of big adventures. Actually, my weekend was rather tame since it lacked adventure of the outdoor kind. No huffing and puffing, no summits or rock or rivers. Yet…the weekend was rich and full. If each idea which popped up in my mind over the weekend to write about was a little lightning bug…then my head would be glowing like the moon…bright enough to cast shadows. I find myself looking back at the last few days as though I just opened a box of decadent chocolates. I want to take a bite from each treat…reveal the mysterious sweet center…and share them with you. I need to write more. Create more. Adventure more. Alas, I must make money. I need to make money now because I haven’t any excess. I haven’t even enough to pay the bills on my desk. The box of yummy chocolates must wait to be opened and shared. The beautiful butterfly thoughts tease, tempt, and tantalize. Worse…they urge me with earnestness born from an awareness of how delicate and fleeting their lives are. The lightening bugs flash, glitter and glow. I must quickly capture them but when do I find the time? The outdoor commission work makes me tired…the kind of wrung out tired that comes when work is uninspiring. Therein lay a key difference between survival work and inspired work. Inspired work is akin to climbing a mountain for an adventurer like me… while the activity may be physically exhausting, the passion infuses. A post-summit-high stirs the soul to Snoopy Dance even if the feet themselves are blistered and worn out. Creativity and passion put a skip in my step and a twist on the path that is living. I cherish the dream to create full time…to sculpt, paint, write, perform and adventure. Wednesday is a coin-flip decided by Momma Nature. Make money or paint with words?

Whoa! How did it get to be Friday?! Zillions to share from another stuffed week…but I guess I should start with Air Force One since Obama is landing in a few minutes at the Bozeman airport near the Bridger Mountains. I hear there is plenty of beautiful B-roll footage on CNN highlighting this gorgeous part of the world I have the privilege to call home. Speaking of which…here’s a few photos taken on the ridge traverse of the Bridger Range Amy and I did last weekend (yes…the very same mountains Obama will see today if they aren’t covered in clouds). Amy and I enjoyed a perfect summer Sunday together chatting non-stop for five and a half hours while hiking an easy 12-14 miles of ridge with three peaks and well over 5000 feet of elevation gain. We shared sandwiches with homemade bread, homemade peanut butter, and homemade service berry jam (compliments of Amy’s impressive domestic skill). The rocky exposed ridge would usually be painfully hot on an August day but this summer Mother Nature has been acting as unpredictable as a teenage drama queen…thus…I actually wore a hat and gloves during some of the chillier sections. Really was a pleasant temp - the clouds were just teasing us. We threw our packs in the truck after the steep descent from Mt Baldy, then scooted to Sweet Pea for some shopping and a performance of “The Tempest” by Shakespeare in the Parks while Zaydee crashed in the truck, tuckered from the traverse. My ankles showed trail dirt but it looked like a tan-line, so without fuss, I joined another girlfriend at Ale Works for dinner and wine . The perfect summer Sunday was topped by a rendezvous with Paul when he arrived home after a week long road trip with the kids.

Angelique is visiting from Oregon (my friend Margaret’s 14 year old daughter). We attended an engaging performance by Montana Shakespeare in the Parks. Then the Sweet Pea Scene – fun art, crafts, clothes, food…good people watching…great band. We enjoyed being sprinkled with tiny raindrops while dancing under the dramatic Montana sky before coming home to a happy wet dog and fresh snow on my deck. Gotta love it when Mother Nature gets playful, dramatic and festive.

Hail stones bigger than golf balls came crashing out of a black sky this afternoon. I got caught driving in the valley at the edge of the storm where the hail stones were merely moose-poop-size. I pulled under some trees to wait it out. Cliff witnessed the full fury here on the mountain and called to warn me. When I arrived home the stones had already begun to melt. Looked like 1000 egg-laying chickens paraded through my yard. The ice balls were impressive ...odd ...curious ... amazing...beautiful! I was running late for a commitment and had little time to explore and wonder. Wish I'd gathered up a batch to save for summer drinks!

So many possibilities!! I hadn’t known ‘til yesterday afternoon that I wouldn’t be working on the commission up Tom Miner Basin…an unexpected day off since my client has guests today. The morning has been crisp and cool. The hip-high thistles no longer have Dr Seuss-size blooms. Tall tiny white wildflowers along with some pink and purple blooms dot the yard but we are long past the Monet look of spring, tipping instead toward the dry arid colors of cliché western paintings. The tall grass scratches rather than caresses when hiking in shorts this time of year. The wild raspberries are ripe and scrumptious on the mountain. Usually I see more bear sign while picking and gorging on the juicy red berries. Breakfast was a home-made banana split with non-dairy ice cream, a banana, raisons, peanuts, almonds, wild rasberries and chocolate syrup. I’m on my 3rd cup of tea wearing sweats and a hoody and still I have Goosebumps ‘tho it is well past mid-morning and it is AUGUST. I live a thousand feet above the valley, which means the temps are usually double digits cooler than the folks below (it also means the snow is deeper and the stars are closer). A humming bird just came by for a late breakfast (or an early lunch). The chimes ring and ting-a-ling in the breeze, the grasshoppers chirp, the birds tweet…all is well on the mountain. I suppose I should go for a trail run, the weather is perfect for a mountain bike ride; a friend has phoned to climb. But I’ve some catching up to do in the desk part of business life, an appointment with an acupuncturist and a headache behind my right eye where two blood vessels recently burst. Then too, there is an application to fill out which involves writing about myself and my art...an exercise which feels like just that…an exercise. None too compelling and about as enticing as pull-ups or crunches but something which usually makes me feel good once I’ve finished. My goal is to finish soon enough to take Zaydee for a quick hike up the mountain before going to town.

Life threw a curve-ball which postponed our summit plans…but the weekend has been sweet and savory on many levels. Today was the perfect morning to sleep in, put Bailey’s in our breakfast drinks and share apple pie.

LizAnn's first rafting float trip since her accident last summer.

 

The "Ding-a-lings" - Leslie, Zaydee and I

Eight gals, two boats, and Yogi who is the kind of friend his name implies. Made banana split cake early this a.m. for Yogi’s 50th celebration on a sandy-beached river island. Missed the storms, soaked in the sun, watched the dramatic sky...baby ducks, marmot musings, bald eagle sightings and gulped Brandi Slush. Shared LizAnn’s first river float and swim since her accident on Cowen nearly a year ago. Healing, feeling, and fun.

 

Beautiful 300 foot climb on an arête up Emigrant gulch. The climb is named after Britney Spears...?! Emigrant creek roared 1000 feet below and big black birds circled overhead. Leslie and I swapped leads then celebrated on the summit with chocolate, salami, and tiny swigs from my girlie flask. Later...homemade sushi, tempura shrimp and wine with friends on my deck at sunset. We rallied after dark and bounced down my mountain to town for a night out in a bar full of cowboys...”Livingston Saturday Night.” Now I gotta grab a few hours of sleep before floating the river…  

   

             

We’ve had a hot week. Thank goodness for delicious cool mountain breeze nights. Perhaps a snow photo would almost feel good. Taken the 4th of July on a ridge below the summit of Ramshorn Peak, my nieces enjoyed the huge snow bank. Just in case you are wondering…yes! Of course we had a giggly fun ridge top snowball fight!  

 

 

A red-tailed hawk has been scrutinizing my work on an outdoor commission up Tom Miner Basin. Early mornings are cool enough to wear a fleece coat. Noon arrives and I’m usually in shorts and a tank, swatting flies and creating wood chips and sawdust.

Zaydee jumped in the Yellowstone for a swim after a post-sunrise climb on cliffs above the river. Three pelicans flew in formation downriver as I traveled up the valley at 9 a.m. to begin the staining stage of the carving commission up Tom Miner Basin. Love working with wood after touching rock. Mmmm...the fresh rainbow trout dinner was pretty good too!

Heavy stifling gooey wet grayness attached itself and slunk into bed with me last night. Strange dreams involved awkward mechanics such as a faucet installed by Shawn too high over the sink which left a puddle on the floor since he conveniently located an existing pipe rather than routing to where I needed the pipe to go. Dreams felt like a “to do” list without end or joy or satisfaction. I woke feeling splashed on and drippy; soaked by disappointment and wrung out. Plumb tuckered and uninspired, the sky matched my mood; heavy, overcast, cold and wet. Forty degree temps in July?! I’ve much to be thankful for. The last few weeks were a whirlwind of activity and joy: my brother and his family vacationed here, various fun visits and events with friends, a road trip to the incredible music festival in Butte, Paul’s dedication, imagination, and hard work on my cabin, cash flow much improved, commission prospects encouraging, art sales good, my health just fine. So why the blues? Sometimes the Blues Monster simply rears his ugly head and wrecks havoc with peace, slobbers on my happiness, burps discontent, farts impatience, and shits a pile of the grumps on the floor near my bed for me to step into…barefoot…first thing in the morning. Creativity is a window for me to crack open on days when the Blues Monster disturbs my tranquility. Occasionally I can leap toward the window and throw it wide open, laugh, and dive into the adventure which waits outside. Other days I muster a little lump of gumption, crawl painfully, and with slow excruciating effort I force open a window that screeches and groans as though the pesky monster painted it shut. Eventually I get out of bed no matter how tempting it is to curl up in darkness under the covers. We all have dark places. Some of us choose to remain in the comforting dark places which require little effort (i.e. under the covers). Some of us blame others for the presence of the Blues Monster. The blamers lie in bed and voice accusations or jump and rant and rave in violent trantrums. Some of us quietly rely on others to open the window, air out the room, and clean up the monster poop for us. I have at different times done variations of all of those things and more to survive the monster visits. Ultimately it seems that my efforts…however klutzy…to fuddle my way through the muck always bring me to a creative place. I am thankful for purpose, people, and passion. And yes…in a strange way I am even thankful for the monster visits.

 

Livingston Art Walk with a gaggle of gals followed by wine and s’mores…half a dozen ladies and three happy dogs on my deck by a fire under a big Montana summer sky punctuated with a bright big sliver of moon.

 

-[photo} Dierdre and me on the four wheeler hauling firewood for the campfire.

Meg and I found a tiny little nest with itty bitty eggs while gathering marshmellow sticks. She was wandering the woods in a pair of my slippers and a flashlight, while I wielded the Leatherman and glass of wine.

Sunday June 21

A cold-bone, sore-throat and headache-y bug has me and the sun just came out…! I’ve zillions to do before beginning a few commissioned carvings up Tom Miner Basin but just want to curl up and nap. Who gets a cold in the summer time? Chastised myself for overdoing it…am I getting too old for early mornings at my desk, followed by long physical days working, plus climbing and biking while averaging about five hours sleep?! Mmmmm…. But no! I just found out that everyone at the camp on the Grizzly Creek Ranch is sick. The camp was established to offer underprivileged youth a chance for an outdoor wilderness and leadership experience. http://myeconnect.org/ Pretty neat. The days spent up Tom Miner Basin have felt good...just simple outdoor physical labor for 10 hours a day rain or shine scours rusty spots from the soul. Hauling hay, catching horses, welding steel patches on cattle guards, and pruning trees in a Scotch Bright world complete with big-kneed animal babies and dramatic Montana skies. Good stuff. A new collector visited over the weekend to discuss a commission for her Texas saloon. Loved her idea inspired by the Reliquaries. She walked away with 10 original works on paper and a belly full of fried food. No…I didn’t actually fry food myself but took her to this yummy little fried food stand in town where they served us seafood, sweet potato fries, and okra. We licked powdered sugar from our fingers while we ate the yummy fried Oreos… sugar lips and grins.

What?! Friday already? A week ago today I attended the first Art Walk of the summer season in Bozeman. I had a skirt on but luckily switched to jeans since the evening was crisp, cool and goose-bumpy with the spring smell of distant thunderstorms in the air. People were out in droves…a wonderful festive and good-energy feeling and much needed salve for the wound of the explosion that happened in March (see blog post about the explosion). I believe the best way to honor Tara’s untimely death was to celebrate art and artists. Early Saturday morning I caught up a bit with the desk part of life before pulling on padded shorts and driving to the Natural Bridge up the infamous Boulder Valley. Two girlfriends and I panted and puffed our way up Green Mountain on our mountain bikes. Wow…I’m out of shape. But we actually made good time, sat “on top of the world” in a wild flower filled meadow. I shared the elk salami and dark chocolate packed for lunch, we took in the views, giggled a bit and laughed a lot while Zaydee rolled gleefully in the thick grass. The descent was a fast and furious spin downhill over rocks and roots without any accidents. I changed in the trailhead parking lot and “gussied up” a bit for an evening at a Women’s Spirit camp. I had been invited to speak so I drove the primitive road another 12 miles up the Boulder Valley in a downpour. The ladies were inviting and fun…the evening entertaining and sweet. The barely made it home by midnight without falling asleep at the wheel.Five hours later I was putting away the mountain bike backpack and loading up my climbing backpack for a day of climbing with two other gal pals. I’ll post a few photos rather than ramble.

Saturday morning I grabbed leather gloves, threw a shovel into my truck and sloshed a mug of hot tea down with yummy wheat-free cookies from the Nova (yes…breakfast!) Heavy dark clouds loomed large and ominous but actually cooled things off nicely for the work ahead. Five local fellas and I created a brand new trail to the local climbing craig. Zaydee hung around and kept us company. We made quick work of it and loaded the tools back into our trucks just before the rainstorm (which turned into a SNOW storm). Late afternoon I soaked in my sweet claw foot tub while a blanket of white snow hid the bright green forest floor outside.

The following post was written by Jim Earl for the Montana Climbers Coalition website

"At the early-bird hour of 9:30 AM, six of us met at the parking lot for Allenspur. Our goal-to build a new climber access trail on a recently obtained trail access route- which mgiht become permanent after one year. On the crew were Amber 'dig it' Jean, Dustin 'chainsaw massacre' Gaines, Ted 'trail pro' Wood, Hermes 'pick ax' Lynn, Mark 'spud bar' Wolfenden, and myself, Jim 'lazy ass' Earl."

 

I found myself exploring this big cave while wearing a little skirt and no underwear. The explanation is actually quite reasonable and boring (night out, tent in, plans to mountain bike and lord knows undies are uncomfortable under padded biking shorts). Understand? Anyway the cave was an unplanned detour on our way to a mountain biking trail. So here I was in a cool dank dark and scary place feeling especially exposed. Funny how a little bit of cotton fabric can add extra bravado and a sense of security taken for granted unless it is missing.   I would love to create an experiential sculpture exhibit that would illicit the combination of curiosity, compulsion, fear, vulnerability and magic that a cave holds.                      

Friday May 22

Woke to 6 a.m. sunshine and the promising feeling of a summer day when summer days are still fresh and new on the tail of winter and mixed up spring weather. So many possibilities! Cliffs to climb, trails to ride, peaks to summit, grass to roll in, wild flowers to witness, baby animals to “ooh” over, ice cream to eat, and margaritas to drink. But I had to work….a real job…not studio time or desk/business/marketing time…just plain labor and “pay per hour” kind of work. Lucky for me the work involved my handsome boyfriend and a shipping container full of reclaimed wood in a beautiful part of Montana just a valley or two away….could be interesting anyway. We picked up a skid steer on our way out of town, sipped hot drinks and drove. The reclaimed wood came from Florida…mushy, moldy, and rotten…most of it anyway. A few painted boards and a rare slightly carved piece caught my eye but none of it belonged to me. We labored while the dogs played in a nearby pond. Late afternoon we cleaned up a bit and had dinner at the sweet old Willowcreek Café. Super sweet. A rusty red old tandem bicycle leaned against the porch post out front. Haunting and compelling, the old bike invited plenty of conjecture. No doubt plenty have sat astride the broad worn out seats…young couples oozing sexuality and hyper-awareness…sweet slow loving old couples…giggling children… drunk cowboys yip’ing and hollering on a good natured dare… maybe even a bright-eyed shining pair of newlyweds? Stanley G West mentioned the bike in his book “Blind Your Ponies” (highly recommended read). We enjoyed a few drinks and home style ribs before driving off into the sunset, up the Jefferson River to pitch a tent and camp in the moonlight and cactus with the dogs.

May 18th

 

What a wonderful family…ALL of you! Your kindness causes my heart to bloom with warmth, enriched with the vigor of a sunbeam. What a gift and a treat to be here in this comfortable ocean abode. The history of this place can be felt: the hard work…the love…the focus on fun, family, Mother Nature and community. I feel blessed that you shared the place with LizAnn and I. My life is enriched by your kindness…and the ocean…and the deep sleep nights. I am held by the sound of the waves. The ocean rubs the shore during the calm nights like an expecting mother rubs her growing belly. Infinite love and life-giving fill the sound…a consistent lullaby wrapped in life. Ocean energy whooshes through my soul with a crisp clear embracing mother love. Good stuff. Hearty healthy pure and easy feel-good lightness…like the immediate “done my body good” feeling one gets after drinking a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. Pure vitamin-rich jolt of from-the-source energy. The air is full of it. Gulp and grin. Jack and Ginnie, the love you share for each other and your children along with your vigor for life is inspiring. You “DONE GOOD.” Nick, Chris, and Steve are boys to brag about and I’ve no doubt Nancy follows suite. Your friendship, support, and love have given LizAnn a real boost on her journey. I am full of gratitude (and steak, and ribs, and twice-baked potatoes, and avocados, birthday cake, and wine…!) Fat seals with whiskers, sea otters with old man faces, whales spouting…and I hear there were dolphins and turtles too! I love the sea creatures. Please know that anyone of the Rarigs is welcome in my humble Montana cabin home where you may see a bear, moose, deer, elk, mountain lions, or other small mountain critters. I will blow one last kiss to the ocean before boarding a plane. Hugs and a heartfelt thanks to each of you!

May 15th

Five days without being “connected” to the internet world. Oceanside. Sweet sunshine…crisp cool sea breeze…seals with whiskers…whales spouting…waves lapping…blue sky…exotic plants…fresh fish…new friends.

May 9th

BIG bright sky, beautiful morning, buds blooming...and a job putting up 4'x 12' sheetrock with a handsome partner.

Juggling a job and my own art/business/writing world has thrown me into overdrive. Ten hour days working in the world of construction sandwiched between my own creative and business life has given me a butt-kicking. I am not complaining. Honestly I believe my butt needed a bit of the “boot.” One thing I realize is how much I miss physical labor and how much I simply must work with my hands. I have been studio-less for too many years. No matter my financial circumstances, I must clear a path and find a place for sculpture making.
The first few days on the job made me down right grumpy. I have not worked for someone in that capacity for a decade and a half. The project is a remodel of a poorly built house. I have a thing about how things are constructed; very little patience and no respect for cheap materials and bad construction. The bad mood was replaced with cheery gratitude for a job and the simple satisfaction of working with my hands.
I scrambled to put in 15 hours on a grant application last week. The online application was uploaded 14 minutes before the midnight deadline on May 1st.
phew!
I am thankful for a chance to earn some much needed cash. Still, I long to be playfully painting the small works on paper again….
Soon.

Trees loom large, heavy laden with heavy wet white spring snow cloaks. Snow ghosts in the mist this morning. Burdon. Beauty. Mystery.

Six inches of fresh snow yesterday, actually was a blessing that kept me productive indoors. So much to do since I’ve a “normal” job for two weeks as a carpenter’s assistant. Eight hour days, one-hour commute each way…so that the art part/business part is early morning, late night, and…Sunday (punctuated with a much needed cozy nap with my cat in the late afternoon).

People packed into Elle’s Belles for “Birds, Bunnies, and Chainsaws.” Chairs were borrowed last minute from the bar next door and still the people kept coming. I was blown away…and thrilled to have a room-full and receptive audience. Still feel both plumb tuckered and energized at the same time from the performance, much like the mix I feel after a productive studio day or a climbing day. Different kind of tired…and maybe a subtle different kind of energized, but all good. Really good.

Sleep goblins snatched much needed rest; left my insides coated with sticky muck and darkened my mood last week. Even my best intentions and less-than-lofty ideas got mired in the goo. Any attempts to clean up seemed futile. The more I rubbed and scrubbed, the messier and darker I felt. Many of the yummy things in life have messy moments (i.e. making art…making love) so why fight it? But I was frustrated to tears, frightened, and grumpy. I took Sunday off. Indulged in an order of biscuits ‘n gravy AND a cinnamon scone served by the sweet ladies at Wheat Montana while on the way to Indian Creek Canyon for an afternoon of hot rock and good climbing. Despite the treats and the sunshine, the muck lingered. Fear flared as I took the “sharp end of the rope” and led a few climbs up the rock. I shook. I took deep breaths. I rolled my eyeballs when my partner tried to make jokes. Sometimes men are…well…MEN!! My lips tightened in a grimace more than once despite his best efforts. I could not sincerely grin. The rock was inviting and challenging. I climbed klutzy with hesitation but I did not quit. I accomplished one climb and then another, and another…and another. Here’s where I’d like to write that I climbed myself out of the bad mood. “The sunshine, the happy dogs, the good food, and the kind company polished that black gook into bright dazzling clean happy innards.” NOPE! My mood did not noticeably change. I didn’t kick, hit, spit or scream but felt like the goblins had taken those liberties with me. Pummeled and panting, I continued to climb. I wanted to be happy. I get mad at myself when grasped by the goblins. I told my climbing partner that I felt like a big zit that needed to be squeezed to release the foul fluid suffocating my soul. Perhaps if I could figure out the source of the infection, I could cure it. Many possibilities…but here’s where I’ll edit my journal writing so this remains a blog post and not a whole chapter. Simply said, life can be complicated. You’ll never guess what finally blew my mood later that day from dark and dreary to light and fluffy! But I’ve run out of time and will have to leave you hanging until I can tell that part of the story. Stay tuned!

Spring camping last night! Big fat round moon reflected in puddles of melted snow. Happy dogs trying to share sleeping bags and bedding. Sleep with a smile. Pink sky and sun-drunk moon linger bold and bright on the horizon. Hot tea and warm thoughts. Good company.

 

April 6, 2009

Two whole scrumptious sunny days without turning on the computer! Enjoyed the springtime fresh snow (12 inches!), sunshine (almost burnt), creative thoughts (lordy!), art making (lots of sparkles), toddy-drinking (hee hee), NOVA café treats (yum!)…AND…friendship deepening soul-licking connections with deeply kind, fun, and funny friends. A spring blizzard dumped over a foot of fresh snow. Sunday morning I got stuck…then Cliff got stuck. I honestly did not mind one bit since I hadn’t really felt like leaving the mountain. Crawling around on my knees with a shovel to dig out my truck wasn’t a big deal since I was dressed to ski (had plans to use free ski passes at Big Sky Ski Resort). The sky was deep blue, the trees were laden with thick white snow, and Zaydee was leaping around and rolling in the fluff while trying to “herd” the stuck trucks. Luckily my ski partner was game to explore the deep snow here so he drove over the pass and up the mountain to my place. Paul arrived with yummy baked (wheat-free) treats, diesel fuel for the skid steer, his big dog Blaze, and a few good steaks for the grill later. He got stuck too. (Recurring theme…? Or….a scheme?) After the truck/snow rodeo, Paul and I put skins on our skis and climbed up the mountain behind my cabin. The sun beamed with fresh spring strength. I pulled off my coat, then my shirt…and climbed up the mountain in my bra. A few feet of snow beneath me, a foot of snow in the branches of trees above me, and bare skin between…truly springtime in the Rockies! The top of the mountain was beyond any scene in a Hollywood movie. Magical. The richly textured landscape was patterned from small pocks of snow; a wonderfully woven blanket of white. Tall stark trees stood still and stoic; soldier-like. Everything from one direction was white. The dark trees were smocked in white snow…not soft powder but rather little snow globs stuck to every exposed surface from one direction. Awestruck, we skied through the magical lunar landscape with snow-plastered to trees; huge grins beaming in the bright sunlight. The dogs plowed through deep snow, working hard but loving it.

 

 

 

View from on top, Yellowstone River, Paradise Valley, Absaroka/Beartooth Mountains

March 30, 2009  

Stuffed today with kooky creativity, burly business, house-keeping (even scrubbed the bathroom), family care (took my father home from the hospital, visited with Flynn's parents at ICU, and climbed 3 pitches of ice in the evening until 8pm…should I mention the scrumptious dinner out…the big margarita…the soothing soak…the fine companionship? Awesome start to the week!  

    Rapelling off of the falls in the late evening...fresh snow falling...

 

 

March 29, 2009

I left my father’s side Friday evening to stay with my mom in Bozeman. Two young climber friends got out of the hospital elevator and I realized instantly that the family in the ICU waiting room is there for Flynn; young-adventuress-big-smile-super-kind Flynn who rolled her car a week and a half ago. She was returning with her brother through Gallatin Canyon after a day of teaching ski classes at Big Sky. She broke her neck and crushed her pelvis. They both had seatbelts on, her brother was uninjured. Our small climbing community is still not over the shock and concern for LizAnn after the accident on Mt Cowen left her paralyzed months ago. Once again the climbing community has rallied with love and support for one of our “own” cherished super sweet and adventurous gal. The plan was to transport Flynn to Craig on Wednesday (the same rehabilitation center where LizAnn went after her spine injury)…so I hadn’t connected the dots…and had no idea the family in the ICU waiting room belonged to little Flynn. Lung complications have kept them from transporting Flynn, in fact…the complications took a turn for the worse yesterday which necessitated sedating her, putting a feeding tube in and scheduling a tracheotomy this morning. She won’t be able to talk when she wakes up…terrifying to someone who cannot move or feel below her neck. Just a few months ago, Flynn inquired often about LizAnn’s progress after LizAnn’s accident and remarked that she did not think she could deal the way LizAnn did. Dealing she is, struggling for breath and life, showing grace and bravery. My heart aches for her parents and their pain. The journey by LizAnn’s side has been poignant and gut-wrenchingly painful…but is no comparison to a parent’s pain. Parents were not part of the intensity of that first month in ICU with LizAnn. The sedation, the breathing tube, and respirator allowed her parents their first break in the bedside vigil last night. They got a hotel room and showers for the first time in 10 days since the accident. Much needed rest, hopefully they feel strengthened for the scary moments today when Flynn wakes from surgery and realizes she cannot speak. I am home after a relatively simple vigil with my parents. Dad is recuperating from his surgery, feeling good enough to be grumpy about his breakfast. Dinner last night was shared with a big batch of girlfriends by candlelight during the 60 minute Earth Hour where many people from around the world turned off their lights and power for one hour. Felt good for me to reconnect with some of the women in my own little town. I read updates about Flynn and her family before bed last night, (http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/flynnmurray/journal) and became too pumped with concern and emotion to sleep. The morning brought thick winter whiteness, trees veiled and snow falling. My first cup of tea had Bailey’s, two more cups (without Bailey’s) and a number of phone conversations later and it is time to write for the April 1st performance at Pine Creek

March 27, 2009

A family is camped out in the waiting room outside ICU. Red suitcases line one wall. Small coffee tables have open bags of candy with bows and empty coffee cups stacked three-deep. I offer a smile each time I pass them; a smile bright and bold as the red suitcases - packed with comfort, sincere compassion, strength, and warmth. I wonder how long the family has been here and wish I could offer more. My father is recovering from hip surgery…his second. Shortly after sunrise, I watched Dr Gammon write his initials in black ink on Dad’s white thigh next to the “yes!” written earlier and circled in ink by the prep nurse before the anesthesiologist came in to wheel Dad down the hall. The sunny blue sky morphed into a dreary gray while I kept vigil with Mom. The long over-due surgery went well…a relief considering the complications possible when replacing a hip on Dad’s “polio side.” Father survived three separate polio attacks as a child. He’s always had a “polio side” with one leg noticeably smaller than the other. Throughout life he continued to defy medical expectations for his level of physical achievement despite the floppy foot, lack of muscle, and mild deformity. The same doctor replaced his “good” hip five years ago in an attempt to offer some relief. The science to attempt surgery on the “polio side” did not exist back then. Half a decade of incredible pain was endured before science offered the confidence and knowledge to operate in the region wrecked by the mysterious virus. He’s a tough bugger, and that is putting it mildly. Evening approaches. Pale blue patches of sky offer ribbons of cheer; breaking up the grayness. I write while sitting next to the hospital bed with my sleeping father. Our day was long but blessedly simple. My thoughts and healing energy go out to the family in the ICU waiting room, wishing them a future of sunshine and blue skies.

March 24, 2009  

Little bits of snowfloat and fall like drunk and lost fluff white fairies. Patches of old snow are strewn across the bare valley in unkempt random piles of clothing left by the Crazy Mountains, a clue to the pre-pass-out revelries. The mountains, hung-over, sleep it off beneath heavy white down blanket covers. Spring time in the Rockies is a bar-hopping extravaganza of mixed drinks and changing scenery. Two days ago warm rock was climbed by t-shirt wearing enthusiasts. Yesterday six inches of fresh snow shrunk in the afternoon sun to two inches of textured wooly white. I post-holed thigh-deep up the mountain behind my cabin last evening. Dawn showcased trees dusted like donuts in a confectioner’s window. I love the mix…the flurries…the guessing….of spring time in the Rockies.

March 18, 2009

Slept about two hours last night before the emotional goblins got rowdy…sometimes I just can’t quiet them down. I tended to them like a cranky barmaid. Tried not to listen to their bar brawl loud-mouth shenanigans. I was stuck relentlessly behind the bar putting in a shift that ended only as the sun came up. My weary body feels sick-to-the-stomach with sleeplessness. I missed Tara’s funeral. A spring snow storm dumped six inches of snow just the perfect consistency to get stuck in. Stuck I was, wearing a short black skirt, digging and swearing in my own driveway. My neighbor Cliff got stuck trying to get me unstuck and swore much louder. We had to borrow a skid steer to get our vehicles out. I haven’t been stuck for years…wonder why I had to get stuck then…fought a few tears and then let it go. Who can argue with such things? Being stuck in snow is a blessing compared to being in an accident. Somehow I was not meant to go. One just has to trust the big picture. I wanted to be emotionally together for my lecture at the Danforth Gallery last night so maybe there was a little blessing in being stuck.But I missed the memorial. I missed the connection with her family and our friends…missed being around others who feel the loss and the void…missed her brothers’ heart wrenching words, the photos, the stories, the catharsis. I hear it was beautiful and sad; emotionally exhausting. I wanted to be there. The night was long. I was stuck in a frustrating shift of sleeplessness, caught in the glare of hustling thoughts and emotions. The goblins clamored for attention. Crowding me, they leaned over the well worn bar…shouted above the din and the smoke and the scum of dark places.

Climbing in sub-zero temps. yes...that is ice on my helmet, coat, and eye lashes. Look carefully and you can see the road below (near my shoulder) where we started the climb

 

Meg and I

              Another fun day > Look at the top right corner and you can see the top of another big frozen waterfall...one waterfall after another...up and up and up

March 8, 2009  

I got up in the dark after a night of tossing and turning and tossing and turning. When morning arrived, it illuminated a case of cabin fever smothered by snow white sky. I cannot see the cozy town nestled between the river and the railroad in the valley below. My chest is tight with sadness for the loss of a beautiful soul who passionately advocated for artists and the arts as the manager of Montana Trails Gallery. A freakish apocalyptic gas explosion instantly leveled three historic buildings in downtown Bozeman Thursday morning. Tara was talking to her friend while at her desk in the gallery. Her cell phone went dead. Debris shot in the air, cars flipped, and windows shattered for four city blocks before the fire broke out. The plume of dark smoke billowed with a greedy savageness from the heart of town. The buildings were gone. Simply gone. The fire burned for 24 hours and took a few more businesses with it. Tara is the only casualty; a stick by brick search in the rubble has not yet uncovered her remains. I feel disheartened. After spending the eerie day in Bozeman below the shadow of a darkened sky, I drove the mountain pass home late Thursday feeling whipped. Flinching like an abused dog I tucked my tail and kept my head low. I marvel at how precious life is and how much a few seconds can change the landscape and the soul’s place. I have half-heartedly chipped away at the business part of art, helped a few friends, craved warm food (and lots of it), kept a candle lit for Tara, and tossed my way through long nights where doubt and fear and financial woes lurk. Uninspired to create and like the snowstorm sky which chokes my mountaintop view, my own optimism feels sluggish and short-sighted. I cannot see my way out of the current economic challenge. How best to weather this storm?I am going to pack my bags, pile cat food into Maya’s dish, load up my dog, blow out Tara’s candle and head to the hills of Wyoming for a few days of climbing ice. I must shake the blues, focus my mind and clear my soul of creepy cobwebs. I will blow a kiss to Tara from on top of a frozen waterfall, meet death with life and honor her desire to live passionately.

February 28, 2009

Thus the dilemma of living in a beautiful place when Momma Nature beckons on a glorious Saturday morning dressed in her finest tantalizing outfit to come out and play BUT the same sunshine which highlights the fresh sequined snow also beams in through windows and lights up dust bunnies big enough to make slippers out of.

Bugger

Seems my quaint little cabin in the woods should have a batch of tweetering chubby cheeked birds and scampering chipper little forest critters to take care of the chores for me. If my part of the cleaning scene including singing like Cinderella…well…that thought just burst the bubble on a rather colorful animated fantasy. So here I am, wind chimes with their cathedral-like ambiance, sunshine, and the fur of one cat, one dog, and myself (I shed worse than the two put together) to tend to. But before I drag out my little purple vacuum, let me tell you a bit about a beautiful little detour I took last night after attending an art opening at the Holter Museum in Helena. I’d made the two hour drive to Helena in the late afternoon on dry roads punctuated by the customary stop at the junction of I-90 and 287. The junction is just that, a junction…not a town…nor is it near any town but it has a gas station, a bakery, and a strip joint complete with a sex toy store. The bakery is a “must stop” for two reasons: 1) everything is baked with flour from wheat grown in the surrounding hills 2) the ladies who work there are like a batch of aunts and grandma’s who bake and serve with the kind familiarity of a church picnic. (a third reason would be the cinnamon scones, or the best macaroons in the world, or the homemade biscuits with sausage gravy, or the desert-plate-sized cinnamon rolls of four or five different varieties, or the sack lunches, or…ok…see?!...must…stop). Munching on a warm cinnamon scone, I admired the late afternoon pastel painted sky, saw more antelope than you could count, and marveled at the huge frozen lakes while driving across country to a museum. Cliff called just as I was leaving Helena. He wanted me to look at the moon and the bright spot next to the moon which he said was the space station. The moon appeared as a paper cut out and the space station was brighter than any planet or star; a fact I found both a bit thrilling and totally disturbing. The night drive was uneventful, not even a deer in the headlights. Sometime around 10 pm I got a phone call and an invitation to visit a friend, so while distracted, I had one of my admit ably frequent blond moments and took the wrong exit onto Churchill road thinking it was a shortcut at a junction closer to Bozeman. The slender paved road ambled on past farm buildings, cottonwood trees, and the occasional oversize mailbox before it began to dip, roll, and wind through two sweet little rural communities. Small houses nestled close together with warm lights glowed invitingly. Each small community had an impressively large lit up church. The feeling of “wholesomeness” wafted in the chilly night air as I looked into living room windows with simple furniture and walls full of framed pictures. Barn after barn caught my eye as potential perfect studio spaces. I am drawn to the classic farm outbuilding shapes and have no intention of building a big square box studio. I visualize variations of barns as the ideal exterior for the studio I plan to build here on the mountain. Peering at the buildings in the moonlight, I had the same overwhelming variety of choices as if I were standing back at the bakery trying to make up my mind as to which treat to indulge in. Each offered different potential and nudged me with an odd familiarity. I believe the familiar feeling was linked to an idea I had fourteen years ago. When I set out after graduating from college I hatched a plan; once cold temps and shorter days ended my summer job as a wilderness ranger, I would drive to little communities in Montana and seek out a widowed rancher or farmer’s wife who needed help around the place in exchange for a bed and a barn or shop complete with her late husband’s tools to use and plenty of time to create sculptures. Depending on how deep my well of optimism flowed as I pondered my possibilities, sometimes the widow would be well educated and spry with a deep rooted love of art coupled with an insatiable desire to travel the world. She would actually pay me to be her companion. We’d settle down between trips at the picturesque ranch or farm for long periods each year during which I was free to create art. The memory of that very real fantasy swung along with me as I lightly zipped and rolled over the snow covered hills and hugged curves in creek bottoms. The sky felt friendly and inviting; like an exotic sparkly canopy the heavens shimmered with stars and a space station. Zaydee looked out the window attentively with expectation; I matched her mood and laughed out loud, wondering where the road led but never actually feeling lost.

 

2/23/09

I just logged on to write a journal snippet and saw the “Spark” I put on the Patron Place for members Saturday morning (www.amberjean.com/patron-place ). The quote I chose to share was about bruises; which is funny because I sure collected some “color” this weekend after posting that quote. I hadn’t meant to manifest bruises so quickly after launching the quote into cyberspace BUT there ya go…a bit of synchronicity. While my dog Zaydee collects “beggars’ lice” (burrs) on a regular bases; I on the other hand collect bruises. Purple and green are two of my favorite colors in life and certainly add a bit of zest to winter white skin. I have been sporting quite a batch of purple and green on my thighs and knees from the previous weekend climbing ice with Leslie. Actually, I didn’t get the bruises while climbing…I got them while rappelling off a 180 foot frozen waterfall without my crampons. Leslie didn’t have crampons, so I had climbed the ice, then tied the crampons to the rope and lowered them to her so that she could use them to climb the ice. I belayed her from the top of the falls. Her bright eyes and happy grin were all I needed to thaw the chill that comes from standing on top of a frozen waterfall in winter. Later while soaking with friends in the hot springs, Joe suggested that we could have each worn one crampon to rappel…which makes more sense than I had at the time I guess. I dangled from the rope, spun, and slid down the falls without the grace a few sharp metal points allow when in contact with frozen water.But today, the bruises are concentrated on my index finger. Purple, red, green and swollen like a fat sausage. First I jammed the finger on the tailgate of my climbing partner’s big truck…then I got hit in the hand by a fist-sized chunk of ice which had the velocity of falling 200 feet before cracking into that same jammed finger. SO…typing is a bit of a chore and the finger keeps getting my curious attention as it morphs beyond finger into something which is making me hungry for bratwurst and sauerkraut.I am not complaining. One little fat finger is trivial when playing with axes on ice. Truth is I can hardly wipe the grin from my face after a weekend packed with friendship, happy dogs, beautiful mountains, and compelling sculptural frozen ice.

2/19/09

I woke depressed. Put a bit of Bailey’s in my morning tea…thought about crawling back into bed with a bad case of the blues but pulled on my snow pants and boots instead. Early morning hike uphill in old snow; I followed previous boot tracks, searched for sun, purpose, and answers. Sun up. Soul down. A gamut of emotions wadded like a mess of yarn the cat played with. Thoughts of time…how strangely elusive and yet evasive time can be. Just a few seconds can change everything. A few years can pass in a blink and a couple deep breaths.Two years ago today, I was climbing ice with three of my favorite people down in Cody, Wyoming. We’d really whooped it up with friends the previous night, celebrating ice and life. Our spirited group danced crazy and wild in the spinning dots of a disco ball at Cassie’s, the big cowboy bar. I got carded twice…not bad for the eve of my 40th birthday. The skinny bright-eyed bartender with dyed hair, wicked tight jeans, and a red lipstick grin pointed me out to every lady who came in, “Would you believe she is 40 years old?!!” The women looked me over in good natured disbelief. One woman commented that ice climbing must be “good for the skin.” I laughed and remarked that hanging off frozen waterfalls in a biting cold winter wind is a recipe for chapped lips and ruby-red numb frozen cheeks. Must say, it’s hard to imagine it could be good for the skin. A tall cowboy bought our festive whirlwind gang a round of kamikaze shots. We left the bar at closing time, piled (was it seven?) bodies into Joe’s little car. I had the most room in the driver’s seat. Good tunes blared; Joe drummed on the dashboard as if he were on a stage powered by an admiring crowd of thousands. No one wanted to call it a night, so I took them for a ride. First I aimed for the hills above town. Stars and bluffs with town lights below, then back downtown to spin cookies in the cemetery before a jaunt down the highway into the big well-lit tunnel near the river in the canyon. Someone, (I think it was Brian) was trying to climb out the sunroof to "surf." Everyone yanked him down while I kept my hands on the wheel and the car steady. Plans to poach a hot tub at the fancy hotel were hatched but smashed when a cop pulled us over sometime before 4 a.m. and asked me to “walk the line.” My friends watched intently from inside the car, dark eyes visible through a pile of limbs. Grins lost. Music off. I passed the test but puked the following morning at the trailhead after the curvy drive up the canyon to climb a couple hundred feet of ice. What a perfect birthday. Today, life has the acute weight of transition…grief for endings; fear of new beginnings, and a bit of confusion along with the anticipation and excitement that skip hand-in-hand with the unknown. As dawn light hit the horizon my feet slipped from one old crisp boot track into another. I was keenly aware of my ability to hike. Six months ago, a few seconds and one loose rock changed the life of my dear friend LizAnn forever. She can no longer hike, or climb, or feel anything from mid-chest down. Joe and Leslie, who shared the same rope with me on my birthday ice climb two years ago, had been with LizAnn that fateful afternoon. A few days ago (Sunday), the four of us shared drinks, laughs, and other emotions while soaking at a natural hot springs in the same valley where LizAnn broke her spine. Leslie was visiting from Jackson. I took her up Pine Creek where we climbed a 180 foot frozen waterfall before meeting the others at the hot springs. On our way to the springs, we drove past the intersection where the incident command center had been set up for the rescue. Leslie and I spent countless anxious hours there, the memories so vivid it could have been last week instead of six months ago, yet lifetimes have been lived during the emotional and physical healing journey with LizAnn. Sunday was also the first time LizAnn had seen Mt Cowen since the accident which occurred in a steep gully on their descent after summiting the impressive peak. Chico had been a favorite hot spot for LizAnn, we soaked there often after adventures. The pool is not overly handicapped accessible; we lifted her in and out of the chair into the pool. Once in the water lounging with a drink in her hand, LizAnn appeared like the rest of us; a vivacious lively little thing laughing in the steam. The intricate web woven tight by tragedy was enriched and deepened by love, compassion and our common propensity for passion. Living fully. More thoughts of time, of seconds and years occupied my mind and teased my heart earlier today…but my mood has lifted, and my time to ramble run out. I’ve some celebrating to do!

2/14/09

 

I pulled on some silky long johns, blue jeans, and thick socks as the sun rose. Truck gage said nine degrees above zero. Sipping tea, I drove along the Yellowstone River up Paradise Valley in fresh untainted early morning light to Tom Miner Basin. Zaydee and I saw wild sheep along the dirt road. Domestic sheep with playful little lambs kicked around like jumping beans in the corral on the ranch near the river. Snow sparkled; the river flowed between frozen chunks, the jagged Sawtooth Mountains pierced the blue sky horizon. The ragged ridgeline just this side of Yellowstone Park is just the kind of jagged that makes me itch to climb but today was about cows and dogs. Vern greeted me with his classic grin, the kind of boyish up-to-no-good mischievous glinting grin exceptionally suitable for good natured cowboys. We headed out to round up the cows so we could switch their tags. He’s been training three Border Collies since June. Have you ever seen a good cow dog work? Truly a sight…pure joy, plenty of smarts and subtleness…the impressive connection between dog and owner…dog and cows. Luke, a beautiful trim classic tri-colored Border Collie, rounded the cows up and herded them into a pen. He responded well to commands from Vern. No barking, just keen management through movement. No panic, rather Vern would tell Luke to "lie down" periodically and then "walk up” behind the cows and keep them moving at a slow controlled pace. Duce, broad-shouldered with red, brown and white markings, worked the cows once they were in the pens, moving them from one pen down a chute to another.If you can get past the poopy butts and slinging snot, cows have a quirky calm beauty to their eyes framed by long lashes. Big ears, soft furry foreheads, plump bellies, angular little asses…cows have the ability not to look too far into the distance. The cows we worked today are one year olds, so they are still kind of cute. Our job was to switch out their little calf tags for big cow tags. Just like children on the first day of school sporting new clothes too big, the cows’ tags were over-sized, flopping from fuzzy ears. “They’ll grow into them,” Vern said with a chuckle.We got worked a bit while trying to get them into the trailer. The chute would have made it easier but it was full of snow. We chained the truck up before Vern backed the trailer up the hill to the pen. Vern is gentle but firm…not a proponent of chaos and shouting. I like the way he thinks and appreciate his ability to try different things until finding what works for that particular moment…those particular cows. They are learning, always learning…young cows…bright eager dogs…light-hearted cowhand, in a graceful and klutzy dance full of poop and sunshine. Earlier in the day while riding in the truck, Vern dished some lessons learned when dealing with women. He said the easiest way to deal with a woman is to admit a mistake when something wasn’t working. “Don’t take it personally and simply try something else. Too many men take it personally,” he said.I wonder. But I can say working in the studio is similar to Vern’s approach on the ranch. Studio life is a constant graceful and klutzy dance where humbleness, fortitude, invention and the willingness to try new things allow an environment where one continues to learn and grow…trying not to take things personally yet opening up all of my person to the process. I wonder how things would go if I had a couple of smart working stock dogs to help herd my ideas and a firm gentle wise cowhand to keep things clipping along.