The Pine Reel

One Sierra mountain night,

just a few hours before dawn,

(after I had bid the dance hall adieu and

started the slow walk up the trail toward sleep)

there was this moment...

(how do you 
say, “silhouette” in your language?)

when the sky glowed as silver as smooth abalone, and

a solstice moon, through pale gauze clouds,

became back-light to four ancient pine trees.

I was stopped by the beauty of it all:

the perfect relief of form from darkness, and

the Milky Way’s delicate swath high overhead,

stretching across indigo velvet.

I was stopped and so awed that I held my breath

for fear that even the smallest
 disturbance
might wrinkle the night air around me.

And in that moment of reverence,

that one breathless point in time,

I heard an audible sigh from the evergreen quartet.

Mountain air pushed aside the wine,

poured across my face and stung my eyes

as, I stared willfully

into the shadows, and gained clarity just in time

to watch long lacy lower boughs of

those four ancient folk, lift and tremble

in the pearly light.

Back down the hill, music continued filling pockets of night.

Dreams wrapped themselves on blissful pipes,

strokes of bow against strings and laughing drums,

carried more songs of weary but willing revelers.

While out inside the silhouette,

out in the fierce breathe of dawn and miracle,

the trees had joined the reel!

Each strong branch began to bend and bow in rhythm.

What once was rigid, became supple.

What once lived rooted, was set free,
and with silent grace, 
their needled-skirt hems rose over the ground
and four solid trunks were revealed -

shaking off earth and swaying into a motion

that none upon the dance floor would witness,

yet was happening before my eyes with the surety of the sun’s arrival.

Life’s sharp joy pressed against my heart like a prayer,

like a song, and like one trembling, breathless dance
at the glowing edge of moonlight and dawn -

where all things are possible.

2010 © martha lee phelps

That's No Ordinary Vacation...

Recently, my amazing daughters and I attended Alasdair Fraser’s Sierra Fiddle Camp. Wait. Hold on. Before you go too far down the road with images of gnarled old farmers sitting on dusty front porches playing twanging tunes, let me explain:
This was eight days of creative immersion into a community of people (many in whole family units) of all ages, drawn together to learn a variety of Celtic and Galician-influenced music though fiddle, cello, mandolin, piano, bag pipes, dance, guitar and singing classes. We went to classes all day, participated in family-style meals, danced late into the night - every single night - and were essentially bathed in round the clock music making.

But fiddle camp is much more than all that.

When you get 175 like-minded folks together for over a week who genuinely want to learn, grow and feel, and then toss in twenty-one world class musicians who have donned their teaching hats as well as extracted their hearts from their pockets and placed them out for FULL sharing -- what emerges among the community is nothing sort of miraculous.

For Sarah and Ginny and I, the event was a rite of passage that we experienced both individually and separately, and because we were there together we had the honor of witnessing one another’s blossoming. Thank goodness I was present to be a part of what occurred for Sarah and Ginny, and I am equally grateful that they got to watch their mom change. To all you parents who drop their kids at camp and return a week later to pick them up...and you wonder why the kid you’re taking back home isn’t the same one you left off in the packing lot on Monday....I would suggest that it’s true: You may be picking up a very different person than the one who waved good bye. Instant community in a very safe and tremendously creative container can radically create shift in folks of all ages. If you’re not there to participate, then odds are - you’re not going to fully fathom what happened to those who did.

Since cancer has come and gone came from our lives many things have changed about the way our family lives life, including a far greater commitment to pay attention and participate - especially where my children are concerned. Yes, many among you would argue that taking time off from a brand new job was impractical; yes, for some of you the notion of trailing along behind one’s kids to summer camp sounds completely ludicrous; yes, it was both of those things. As a matter of fact, two weeks ago this morning as we drove South to Nevada City, California, I could have listed about fourteen reasons why it was down right stupid for me to be going to camp with my kids.

But I‘ve learned too much this year - and at too great a price - not to pay attention. So when Sarah said in earnest, “Mom, this is one of the best things that I do, and I really want you and Ginny to be there too.” She had me - no matter what.

Perhaps we could’ve had as profound a journey simply by taking a family vacation, but I seriously doubt it. Sarah watched Ginny and I pick up and begin to learn to play violins for the first time ever, while Ginny and I listened to Sarah take her music to a whole new level with joyful determination; Ginny tackled the navigations of getting to know many new teachers and friends, while Sarah and Ginny watched me interacting with other men and women who share the same passions. Surrounded by truly creative peers, Sarah spread her wings to full span and showed her remarkable authenticity, Virginia was wonderfully independent and bright eyed, and I was simply and wildly happy. My girls saw me laughing and engaging more than they’ve seen in years, and while we only ate a couple meals together all week long - we harmonized in singing class every day and danced together every night.


Just as Alasdair, upon introducing the musicians at our final public performance - went to great lengths to explain to the audience that “We are NOT a symphony. No. We are 175 wild, unruly and untamed fiddlers!” So too I say:
This was definitely NOT the typical American family vacation.

And we’re so much the better for it until next year, when you’ll find me driving as fast as it’s legal, kids in tow - to get to the dance floor at fiddle camp and strike up the music of our hearts.

Summertime Checklist

For many of us, having something to look forward to can make the "stuff of life" a little easier to handle when the going gets tough. Here's a short list of what I love about summer in Ashland and what, at this rainy point in the late spring, I turn my hopeful heart toward. Drop a comment and add to the list....

1. Rarely setting alarms and moving to the rhythm of a more natural inner clock.
2. The sound of cicadas singing.
3. Falling asleep to the rhythmic click of the ceiling fan.
4 . Eating every meal on the back porch.
5. Walking barefoot through newly watered grass.
6. The sound of rotating sprinklers on a wide lawn.
7. The smell of Peter Buckley’s barbeque being lit up - night after night.
8. Sitting directly in front of a floor fan.
9. Weeding the garden early in the morning.
10. Long meandering hikes through dusty quiet wood.
11. The familiarity of a Sousa march being played in the band shell in the park.
12. Wading in an icy cold creek, to the point of bright red numbed toes and legs.
13. Bare skin.
14. Looking out from under the brim of a straw hat.
15. Potluck dinners under shady arbors.
16. Raspberries.
17. Crispy, drip down your chin, wet red watermelon.
19. The sound of neighbors laughing through their open screen doors.

20. Candlelight.

21. Ginny reading in the hammock.
22. Going to into an air conditioned movie house and walking back out into a sauna two hours later.
23. Picking and eating - straight from the garden: snap peas, pole beans, warm rip tomatoes.
24. Cotton dresses.
25. Marveling at the 4th of July territorial parade watching shenanigans.
26. Dancing under the moon.
27. Sneaking around the neighborhood after dark, playing hide and seek.
28. The thrill of the lemonade stand.
29. Driving with the windows down.

30. Cold beer - in quantity - combined with an equal share of good friends.

31. Putting away the lawn mower - job well done.
32. The first thunderstorm - it’s electrical charge and that delicious smell of wet, hot pavement.
33. Popsicles consumed in a good people watching place.
34. Outdoor concerts with starlight and half moon rising by the fourth song.

35. Driving to the coast - and the way the air temp drops 30 degrees on the other side of the tunnel!
36. The purple vetch that covers the foothills until mid July.
37. Campfires - story telling, poking sticks into the coals, the way the flames make faces glow.
38. Picking blackberries..eating blackberries...picking - eating - picking - eating.
39. The sheer voluptuousness and bounty of the stalls at the Growers Market.

40. Painting in my bikini.

41. Sprinkler games.
42. Gracie playing fiddle tunes outdoors at dusk.
43. Fresh Basil...armfuls of it...
44. Sinking - more fully - into the warm, full, ripe, inviting moments of each day.

"A case for tone deaf-two left footed-blocked writers."

When we’re children we all see ourselves as artists.

We see ourselves very clearly as artists until well intentioned and generally loving and chronologically older people socialize us in other directions.

So, when we were kids we actually knew without much question that yes, we were painters, dancers, music makers, storytellers, sculptors, actors and poets. The world was our canvas, and our imaginations and usually very few outside objects were our palates, tools, musical scores and scripts.

We didn’t differentiate being an artist from being ourselves. (By the way, we were also scientists, architects, doctors, athletes, teachers, explorers and any other number of types of “people” we could conceive of in our minds and hearts.)

Somewhere between the state of wonder  and the region of adulthood, our perceptions of ourselves underwent some fairly radical redefinitions. Along with those redefinitions there were heaping doses of judgment mixed in: “This drawing is good.”   “That dance was so-so.” “The song sounds like it needs a little more practice.”  “You’ve got ‘real’ talent.” “Hey look, you got an A” and so forth. It became difficult to continue seeing oneself as much of a creative being when there was always a yardstick being held up by others and eventually, by oneself.

The end result is a rather backward evolution from being thriving artists to being: tone deaf- two left footed- stick figure drawing-blocked writers. Picasso nailed it when he observed, “Every child is an artist, the problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.”

A giant part of how we grow and learn is tied very tightly with the fundamental need to creatively realize ourselves in the world. It’s vital to give kids opportunities to express themselves in a wide variety of ways and chances to deepen existing relationships with different artistic modes. By giving a child the opportunity for a “WOW” experience in the arts, she might be emboldened to see herself as an artist straight through childhood and into adulthood. He's more likely too, to use that part of his personality to strengthen whatever he has decided to do in the world. 

For those of us who've already crossed into grown up land and have realized that we may have left a crucial part of ourselves behind, we need to remember that not only is it not too late to reclaim our artist-selves - but it may very well be the key to keeping our hearts intact for the long journey of life. It’s as much about choice and attitude as it is actual activity, and it has nothing to do with other people’s assessments. Remember the first line of this post? It’s how you see yourself.

I can look everyone of my close friends in the eye and tell them the ways that I believe they are artists. (Some of them might be a bit shocked!) But who cares what I think, what can you see in yourself?

"Everything we do is art and can be an act of artful living - if we so choose. Writing, drawing, baking, dancing, relationships, work, parenting, even just siting still - especially just sitting still, are all forms of artistry."   m.l.p.

Words & Art ~ Cutting Loose

Cutting Loose

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell you where it is and you
can slide your way past trouble.

Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path -- but that's when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on earth, again and again.

~ William Stafford ~

Original art snapshot of
"She Dances!"Acrylic on four panel door, (circa 1907)
Available for purchase

 

Boot Collage

In honor of Boot Week here in the studio, which is already a departure from the norm (whatever that really is), I thought I'd put together an interesting collage on boots and stomp it on down into one blog. Hope you enjoy stepping out in a new direction today.


1) You can read a nice little definition on the boot through wikipedia - as well as see a photo of one damn fine pair that were custom made for and worn by my very favorite President of the United States of America, Harry S. Truman. I'm guessing that Harry didn't call his boots "shit kickers," but perhaps they were called his manure footwear? And I wonder if Bess liked them?


2) Function vs Fashion When Buying Cowboy Boots. A short video (1:20) from Dustin at Expert Village. He starts by outlining how to get your best and most functional boots, or as he puts it "fashion verses whatever else you need." Wait! We need something else? I'm confused. Did you know that a functional boot has something called a spur lift? It's true. And you need to avoid the waffle soles on your boots unless, according to Dustin, "you like being drug around for a couple of hours." (I'm pretty sure he's referring to something to do with horses here.)


3) Speaking of spurs. Apparently there are over 16 types of them and entire websites devoted to their exploration. Personally, I'm more intrigued by something referred to as a jinglebob, although I'm not sure what it's exact function is or what it's relation is to boots. For those of you more interested in spurs than boots, you can even buy the book Cowboy Spurs and Their Makers to flame your new passion. But I digress.....


4) These are a series of some of the more outrageous looking boots I could find on the internet. I'm sure you can find many, many examples - as shoes of all types can certainly be considered art forms - depending on the creator, the wearer and the admirer. Be sure to check these images out:
KISS rocker Gene Simmon's Boots
Very Scary Go Go Boots from Japan
Some skin tight thigh high platform heeled boots that are - well, impressive
And such exotics as Cut Python Cowboy Boots


5) You can take a quiz to discover what kind of boots you are in no less than five questions. Yes, I took the quiz. It said I am high heeled boots and a bunch of other stuff about flirting, flaunting and fascinating behavior. Funny thing is, I don't own any high heeled boots. I'm more a manure footwear kind of a gal.


6) Boots are not just found on feet...
See definitions: boot ^{: 1}  (bt)n.

1. Protective footgear, as of leather or rubber, covering the foot and part or all of the leg.

2. A protective covering, especially a sheath to enclose the base of a floor-mounted gear shift lever in a car or truck.

3. Chiefly British An automobile trunk.

4. a. A kick.

b. Slang An unceremonious dismissal, as from a job. Used with the.

c. Slang A swift, pleasurable feeling; a thrill.

6. Computer Science The process of starting or restarting a computer.


7) And finally, for those of you who doubt that great dancing can occur with one's boots on, here's a spicy little clip from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. (You may need to verify your age to view this clip, but it's well worth the extra clicks). After 1:55 (and a few naked butt shots) there's some fine boot-shod dancing!

Well, that's enough of this silliness for one day. It's looking like rubber, rain or maybe even snow boot weather out there. Whatever you choose, enjoy!

"Her Sturdy Brown Boots " ~ the poem

(~ a continuation of Boot Week in Martha Phelps Studio;

this is the companion piece to Monday's sketch)

As boots go, no one would dispute the simple truth
that hers were intriguing.

Relics of some off season
consignment store
discovery, this footwear was uncommon,
well-crafted and possessing ginger-
flavored attitude that winked as it
walked.

What with the carefully
stitched strips of pale blue leather,
hand tooled designs of
paisley,
sunbeams, teardrops,
and perfectly inlaid freckles of delicate
red and orange peering out from sturdy
buttery
brown calfskin...

...what with the tough ringing clip
that followed each step as she crossed a street,
yet with soles worn smooth from dancing many nights

...what with just-so heels
which lent an advantage for the occasional tall kiss.
Indeed,

they were not only perfect in winter 
with comfy blue jeans
or a short
skirt and tights,

but in summer -
they polished off a backless dress,
and charmingly invited glimpses
of bare brown knees
that peeked not-too-shyly, from 
between
the fall of the dress’s hem

and the rise of the boot's rim.

No, there would be no
wrangling this truth. 


As boots go, her tried and traveled pair
had panache,
wit for wearing
places to go, and were indeed

intriguing.

Boot Week at the Studio

"...with soles that were smooth from dancing many nights and heels that gave her an advantage for an occasional tall kiss - they were not only perfect for..." 

(to be continued)

"Her sturdy brown boots" 

a colored pencil and pastel sketch

Visual Inspiration

Fall in love
or fall in hate.

Get inspired or be depressed.

Ace a test
or flunk a class.

Make babies
or make art.

  

Speak the truth
or lie and cheat.

 

Dance on tables or sit in the corner.

Life is divine chaos.

Embrace it.

Forgive yourself.

Breathe.

 
And enjoy the ride...

* * * 

Fall in love or fall in hate.

Get inspired or be depressed.

Ace a test or flunk a class.

Make babies or make art.

Speak the truth or lie and cheat.

Dance on tables or sit in the corner.
Life is divine chaos. Embrace it.
Forgive yourself. Breathe.
And enjoy the ride...

~ Solbeam

All photos by Martha L. Phelps 

Today's post is dedicated to my extraordinary friend,
Peter Way Cotton.
You've been enjoying the ride for seventy incredible years now - always dancing with the chaos, ever embracing the wonder, loving the world of vast possibilities and falling in love with life!
Happy Birthday, dear one.