a study of light and dark

let the wind blow

“Pain is a pesky part of being human, I've learned it feels like a stab wound to the heart, something I wish we could all do without, in our lives here. Pain is a sudden hurt that can't be escaped. But then I have also learned that because of pain, I can feel the beauty, tenderness, and freedom of healing. Pain feels like a fast stab wound to the heart. But then healing feels like the wind against your face when you are spreading your wings and flying through the air! We may not have wings growing out of our backs, but healing is the closest thing that will give us that wind against our faces.” 

 

straight smoke

After several days of wind, rain, and wave there was a November night so still that the smoke rose straight and the wonder of flame held strong in the cheeks of my children...

be witched

"I can hear it but I cannot see it.
Waves appear as evidence that movement surrounds me.
The bird floats. Water bubbles.
It is effortless but not easy. Survival is heavy and buoyant here. 
Each piling holds the weight of air graciously. The cormorant waits patiently for sustenance.
Fog obscures the urgency for action.
One meaning orchestrated by all.
Now. Become."
JH

home

Pausing at the sun's crest
Inhale potential
Dawn happens
Be.

calling card

Allured by your downy plume, I muse who...

is leaving this calling card from a nocturnal escapade between my house and yard....

scent of a supermoon

letting go of charlotte

My sleep abruptly halted at the bellow of a container ship's mighty fog horn.  Wet walls of cloud held to the rocky beach and like a nightmare's beast, the vessel cloaked itself in the gray sheets of dankness only to haunt my morning with an echoing cry.  
I threw on my long coat and grabbed my cup of black coffee to march up the hill into this ghostly mist.  Immediately my eye caught a spider's web twinkling with what looked like fluid filled diamonds.  As one experiences the Queen's jewels, I stood in awe of the delicate beauty and intricate patterning of this woven preciousness.
September's webs are no less a spectacle than the glorious Orcas passing by the nose of the point.  Quickly, I realized that in every bramble and fern infinite magic could be witnessed. 
I jumped back into a reality evoked by the classic childhood story of Charlotte's Web and as I walked up the hill, my thoughts wound nostalgically into themes of letting go, impermanence, and acceptance of change. 
Charlotte's Web scared me profoundly as a child.  In growing up under Vashon's shield of innocence and safety, I had an immortal's understanding of life and love that named change as a formidable enemy.  Loss wasn't an option if you played fairly and gallantly overcame evil. 
But as years passed and black and white chivalry proved a fallacy, I began sewing my own tapestry of understanding about love and letting go.  I no longer built castles.  I started crafting a sense of stability out of the intangibles of my heart.  Out of presence and acceptance.  Out of forgiveness and love.  My sense of safety has grown abstractly and vastly as a result.  My ability to withstand storms and villains is far more grounded than it was.  And I no longer need an island to keep me from the harsh reality of humanity. 
Before returning home from my morning's walk, I spotted one last web on the fence facing our porch.  The spider clung beneath the railing, sheltered from the wet drops.  She looked content and calm.  I exhaled and she drew her delicate legs close.  In her strength and tenacity, I inhaled a sense of my own. 

work is for the birds

Labor day.  My morning feet were slow to take step.  It was work to get my body to the gate.  With deep inhalation, I opened my ears to welcome the depth of birdsong echoing from the surrounding woods.  The cacophony of winged creatures enveloped my senses.  This chaos was the sound of business getting done.  The work of nature was happening all around me.
The industry in place between alder limbs and sword fern furls was a complex system requiring layers of communication and movement.  My being stood alone but not autonomous from this sophisticated infrastructure.  My work was a cog in this beautiful spinning wheel.
And then my eye caught a wonderful surprise.  After months of walking by it, a glorious bee's nest was suddenly hanging square above my head.  Like an international airport, bumble bees entered and exited on schedule.  My mouth hung agape in awe.  I stood and witnessed their world in deep gratitude.
Love is work.  Work is love.  Loud and repetitive.  Chaotic and concise.  Work never stops.  It merely ebbs and flows in a day and through the night.  Work is being and we work to be.  One.

mother nature screams

A week ago, the point was hit with an unseasonable August wind storm.  The fierce gale whipped up white caps and crashed the neighbors wedding in true mother nature style.  Giant staked yard tents were tossed like frisbees across the field and small fishing boats were stranded ashore on the rocky beach with no mercy.
Instinctively, I frantically started cooking while our power still pulsed to prepare meals for whatever wild was yet to come and just as I flipped the scrambled eggs off it went.  There is a primitive joy that comes from that moment of disconnect, when all gizmos and hums cease.
"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it's about learning how to dance in the rain."
This guy came down during the strongest wind to kiteboard.  I think he does a brilliant job of living the quote to its fullest.  Cheers!

requiem for summertime

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”   Lao Tzu

“I’ve never once thought about how I was going to die,” she said. “I can’t think about it. I don’t even know how I’m going to live.”    Haruki Murakami
 

date walking

With a coffee stained hand, I stopped to lick the brim and caught the ears of a young deer rising from thick bramble and fern lusciousness.  We locked eyes and I can't say who moved first but like a rock hitting still water, both our bodies rippled violently back.  Coffee exploded over my sweatshirt and the deer dove into the darkness of green.
Nearly every morning since February, I walk up the driveway to open the gate of the park and then continue up the hill or down Luana Beach Road with a cup of coffee in hand.  With months of engaging in this ritual, I find myself in intimate contact with the landscapes and creatures here.
The feeling evoked through this relationship is oddly similar to that of dating someone.  Over time, the intricacies of that person's face, body, voice, and personality define themselves through physical and emotional sharings.
My walks are no different.  After hundreds of visitations, I could spot a plant that was freshly blooming or withering, a new deer in the local herd, a shift in the scent of the alder trees, and even how the mood of each season played with the colors and attitudes of flora and fauna.
Every morning, I awaken and no matter my state follow a strong desire to walk into this seduction. Point Robinson holds me like a partner.  I am known and valued by the inhabitants here.  Raven bird greets me every morning, the wind plays with my jacket, neighbors wave and exchange sleepy smiles.  It is simple and holistic.  We move autonomously and as one.
The love I am feeling for place is placing me deeper in an experience with love.  I am walking into a relationship that is vast and intricate like the furls of the sword fern.  I am rising to meet a mysterious lover who hides behind the next cedar.  He waits for me and I will find him tomorrow.

old fashioned blackberry jam

Years back, my dad taught me the alchemy of canning.  There is an endless amount of satisfaction and pleasure in capturing a season's flavor and bounty to be enjoyed at a later date.  Not to mention you become a family favorite by bringing preserves to holiday gatherings or as a surprise to a dinner party.  Being that Point Robinson had a particularly incredible crop of berries this year - salmonberries, thimbleberries, and now blackberries, I wanted to share my favorite recipe for a non-pectin, old fashioned blackberry jam that is a sure fire win on February's toast. 
 

Steps for Happy Summer Jammin' (this recipe works for all berry friends)

1.  Go pick about 10 cups of blackberries - some very ripe, some pretty zingy.
2.  Start boiling six clean pint jars in a canner - also boil 6 lids in separate pot.  Be sure to use new lids every time - easily acquired at any grocery store.
3.  Bring blackberries to a boil over medium high heat with a constant stir.  Once at a rolling boil, add a squeeze of lemon juice and 6 cups of sugar (add sugar to taste preference).
4.  Stir at a rolling boil for between 5-10 minutes.  Use a clean spoon to test texture and consistency - It will take more or less time depending on the sugars in the berries and how much sugar you add.

The desired thickness is a lot like thick syrup - it will continue to thicken so it's better to quit a little early rather than boil it into a thick tar.
5.  Once your jars have boiled for 20 minutes they are ready - ladle jam in using a funnel to keep the mess semi-contained.  Be sure to leave a good inch or so at the top or the jam will boil out during the water bath that seals the jars.  Also the rim of the jar must be clean or the lids will not seal. 
6.  Put the lids on each jar with a gentle twist and set upright in the canner.  Bring water in canner to a boil with the lid on canner and let the jars boil for 20 minutes.
7.  Remove jars and set on counter - marvel at these amazing delights and whisper them kind words.  Notice that the joyful pop will echo from each jar letting you know that you've had a canning success! 

peckerpole

A new visitor with a rather randy disposition set up camp near the top of the park.  His fiery headdress caught my eye and I recognized this audacious fellow to be a pileated woodpecker.  As soon he spotted me approaching the gate, he cackled with fervor and beat his mighty beak against the power pole like a sideways jackhammer.  His bulky frame jumped up, down, and to left.  He disappeared only to reappear in a heckling game with my eye.  As I sauntered back home, he catcalled loudly and swooped into the greens of a nearby maple. 

This sight of this winged derelict reminded me of one of my favorite reads, "Still Life with Woodpecker," by Tom Robbins.  In the spirit of tomfoolery, I share it with you here:

Conversation Between a Princess and an Outlaw:

"If I stand for fairy-tale balls and dragon bait--dragon bait--what do you stand for?"
"Me? I stand for uncertainty, insecurity, bad taste, fun, and things that go boom in the night."
"Franky, it seems to me that you've turned yourself into a stereotype."
"You may be right. I don't care. As any car freak will tell you, the old models are the most beautiful, even if they aren't the most efficient. People who sacrifice beauty for efficiency get what they deserve."
"Well, you may get off on being a beautiful stereotype, regardless of the social consequences, but my conscience won't allow it."
"And I goddamn refuse to be dragon bait. I'm as capable of rescuing you as you are of rescuing me."
"I'm an outlaw, not a hero. I never intended to rescue you. We're our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.”
― Tom Robbins

 

wisdom

While re-hydrating the vegetation of Quarters A and B, a man approached me eagerly and asked if I had heard of the 90 year old woman who just made it to the top of the lighthouse.  I smiled and replied that I hadn't but was very impressed as those twisted stairs had discouraged many from reaching the gallery of the tower.  He told me his mother was the incredible woman who had just accomplished this feat and that I should go say hello as she was sitting at a nearby picnic table.  I put down the hose and walked over to shake her hand.  She looked me dead in the eye and said, "The only reason I made it up and down those hellish steps was because I wanted to. You can do anything you think you can do. I did it because I wanted my son to shit his pants a little. And I think he did. Mission accomplished."
I chuckled and told her it was an honor to meet a woman with such tenacity and wisdom.  She smiled and looked across the Sound toward the mountain.
"Have a great life," she said.  And I told her I would.

summer storms

thunder raven

Vibrant strikes of lightning penetrated my eyelids at 5:30am.  Haphazardly, I threw open the curtain to the lighthouse.  Hello friend, you beacon of stability and hope.  Glad to see your consistent glow isn't being manipulated by this drunken symphony of electrical impulse.
I slipped quietly from the warmth of bed to fall into the madness of mother nature.  Pouring coffee to cup, I threw a much forgotten winter's coat over my shoulders and marched to the beat of thunder's drum to open the park's gate.  Wet alder leaves and tannic blackberry notes swept across the freshly wet concrete drive.  My humanness was reduced to an ant-like existence against the awe of rage surrounding me.
I inhaled my coffee like a sailor drinking rum from the bottle.
Raven called out to me from the east.  I intuited his position near the young buck who had recently been struck on the big hill that rises out of Point Robinson.  Raven was coveting this death; celebrating in the essential oils of decomposition.  I had been avoiding my favorite morning walk for the past 3 days as the foul scent from the stiffened beast caused me raw discomfort, simply and profoundly.
It was undeniable that it was mine to face Raven so I fought a strong resistance in the bend of my knees and I trudged upward until I reached the spot of carnage.  Raven was there alone.  In the subtle remnants of mortality he cackled loudly and rose into a giant maple.  I was left staring at the space the deer's carcass had filled.  Like a crime scene cleared, I was reminded how quickly death comes and goes.  How uncomfortable death had made me in its presence and how easy it was to move again in its absence.
The thunder ceased.  I walked back in to our home to discover my two children wrapped in colorful layers of imaginative play with my husband happily enveloped in the comfort of our bed.  The water at the point was calm and the sky reflected a cascade of grays.  My arms reached to hold the lives I love and I shut the door tightly.  Raven was quiet as was I.