Found

This cold morning

I glance out the door

and see the body of a blue jay

scattered on the stones. 

At first - not wanting to look. 

Then carrying the pieces into the studio

and silently attending with my eyes - 

connected to my hand - 

touching brush and paint and paper . . .

   

Late Autumn

After the maple leaves drop

I find glowing colors 

in overlooked places . . . 

Waking up early . . .

In Istanbul

I spent ten days this month exploring and sketching in this alive city. 

(We were there because my husband Steve Gorn was playing

in the Ismet Siral/Creative Music Studio festival.)

Here is what found its way into my sketchbook  - 

First, a tulip tile image (originally a Turkish word and flower

and also the root of the word "turban") with the cobblestone pattern 

that was everywhere under our feet. 

The first day out I decide to visit the Rustem Pasha mosque.

It's 1:00 pm on Friday and I am unaware that any Turkish man

with an ounce of devotion shows up to pray at that time. 

Hordes of men are streaming in, but the policeman stops me at the door. 

I am indignant ! 

I pull back, drop into the sketchbook, 

and find my way through . . .

The city is hot and swarming with tourists from Europe and the Middle East - 

women in miniskirts and tank tops - women in full length black burkas, 

only their eyes showing.

 

We head underground to escape the heat and find another woman

in a puzzling position . . . 

(more confusion for me around the feminine ! ) 

I head off by myself one afternoon, exploring the side lanes leading 

down the hill.  I get lost - and tired - and finally find a place to settle

and drink a tiny cup of strong Turkish coffee . . .

An excursion with musicians, students and friends . . .

Walking down the slope of a quiet street

the dark opening in an old fountain catches my eye . . .

Waiting in the mosque courtyard for a shower to pass 

I have the time to notice . . .

On the last day I find myself drawing faster - 

catching the moments, the cityscapes, the relationships . . .

At the end of the afternoon I walk slowly down the hill from the Grand Bazaar

and have an encounter with one of Istanbul's totem creatures. 

Tired / complete / my line / my brush / loose and easy . 

At the Monastery

Teaching Haiku/Brush/Sketch

at Zen Mountain Monastery this past weekend,

I encourage my students to step through

the doubt and hesitation and get something

down in the sketchbook.

At the end of the workshop

I walk up the wooded path to the cemetery

to visit my friend Richard Barsky.

It's been twelve years since he died.

I stand in front of the vertical grave marker,

looking down at the capstone that covers his ashes.

I hear Richard's voice inside me,

"Go ahead. Do it." 

I open my sketchbook - and get something down . . .

Writing of the World

On a Nantucket beach . . . 

Writing by Hand

This ancient human experience

is washing away

in the rushing electronic river.

I touch back in -

with its power and beauty

and truth . . .

Seeds Sprouting

As the seasons shift

I struggle with sadness

while surrounded by beauty.

Then, in the midst of my Brush Book workshop,

the truth comes through again . . .