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.

i carry your heart with me

Fifteen years on June 6th, one of the most remarkable human beings I have ever been blessed to know - came into my life. She arrived with beauty, grace, steadfast intention, a will to be completely present and love that radiates. This collage of photos and the words of cummings, are for Sarah Grace - then and now. Happy birthday, wondrous one!

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)

 

i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;

 

and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

 

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet) 

i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
 

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
 

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
 

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
 

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart 

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

e.e.cummings

...when shared

"Happiness is the only thing that doubles when shared." 

~ Albert Schweitzer

Photography & Design by Martha Lee Phelps

Hanging In

This blogging stuff is an interesting business. What started as a cathartic process to help ease the long days of my boy’s chemotherapy treatment, then evolved into a creative palate and idea platform, and has occasionally merged into community-level public relations spots for clients of my studio.

Turns out my blog page, An Untamed Life On Purpose, has a small following. With the number of daily visitors ranging between 20 and 40 folks, I am grateful for your time and especially appreciate your thoughtful comments. Mainly though, who you all are is a mystery to me, and I enjoy the surprise when someone unexpected reveals that they are a reader!

The other curious wonder about this blog is which posts elicit more attention and responses than others. I was convinced back in mid April, that what people most enjoy are short thought-provoking quotes accompanied by photographs, like “A Simple Quote.”  Nonetheless, the last three entries in April (the three part letter, A Lifetime Love Affair, to my daughter) and May pieces such as, “Standing Fast” showed me that audiences are equally enthusiastic about reflective writing. Other May favorites have included “Supporting Folks We Believe In” (thanks to all Stella’s friends in Palmer, AK for dropping by), the whimsical and mildly interactive “Summertime Checklist” and the purely visual “And Later That Day.”

When I started actively blogging, on Monday, January 11th, I committed to post on weekdays for ninety entries. Today marks the 93rd blog post for Martha Phelps Studio since that day.

Thoreau said, “Things do not change; we change.” I know this wisdom to be true.  It’s no coincidence that as I approached my benchmark of ninety, I was offered a part time job that will, among many things, encourage me to tap into my skills as a writer and creative thinker. It’s part time, which is just right for this juncture. It’s for a local company I respect and admire, which makes it easy to be passionate about. My new “boss” wants me to learn and grow, which makes me feel very happy. And my schedule still gives me freedom for m.l.p. studio clients and the art-making that occurs here during the summer months.

Outside of taking time off to travel every now and then, I’m going to hang in with this blog for as long as it makes me happy. I hope that my readers will hang in too, as well as share it with friends. If there’s something you’d like more of, please let me know. I like a good healthy challenge on occasion! 

All will be well, mlp

For any and all you who may be interested, I have a public Facebook Page whose purpose is positive, unusual and thought provoking quotes and the subsequently interesting exchanges inspired by said quotes. Please visit and become a "Friend" to the page!

And Later That Day...

"Last Thursday Fair" on Alberta Street in Portland. Very fun, exceptionally colorful, delicious food and even better company. Even the ominous Oregon rainclouds couldn't keep folks from coming out to play....

Thursday in Portland

When a photographer has a good day...

on NE Klickitat Street in Portland, Oregon

 

Ode to Common Things
by Pablo Neruda

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls -
not to speak, or course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small -
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.
Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It’s full of pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers -
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses
carpenter’s nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.
Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.
I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine;
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms
glasses, knives and
scissors -
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.
I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet;
this one because it rings,
that one because
it’s as soft
as the softness of a woman’s hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.
O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It’s not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

Evolution of a Tulip

As fate would have it, the deer that cruise our neighborhood have made a trail along the south side of the street. Turns out, tulips are one of their favorite springtime morsels and even though the north side of the street had hundreds of them throughout the month of April, the deer didn't diverge from their trail....even down to the very last blossom in my front yard. I sighed. I swore. I muttered and wailed. And before the summer's end, I will fully surrender - dig up the bulbs - and plant them safely in the back yard where our beloved pup can watch over future blooms. Meanwhile, sensing the inevitable a couple weeks ago, I started photographing the last standing tulip. Here's what I came up with - for as long as it was there. To see these photos in a larger - full screen format, simply double click the desired image. Enjoy.

(Please remember: Photographic images, art and writing on this blog, unless otherwise credited or noted, are © Martha Lee Phelps. Please do not cut, paste, or copy what is being shared, be it for personal or professional use, large (screensaver) or small (facebook profile picture) without my permission. Full resolution, signed reproductions are available for purchase. Please drop me an email if you'd like to order any image that has appeared in my blog or my website's portfolio. Thank you for your support. ~ mlp)

"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.

Careful Out There!

One of my all-time favorite photos courtesy of the very talented Jim Schlight

Did you know that April is “Children and Nature Awareness Month”? I didn’t. In my world, and in my children’s world - every month is Children and Nature Awareness Month. I realize, however; that we are a rare breed of family these days.

As a mother, teacher, artist and poet  I have very strong feelings about Nature and its roll in the lives of children. I strongly hold the opinion and belief that Nature is at the root (no pun intended) of creativity. Nature is grounding, healing, humbling, miraculous, inspiring, frightening, beautiful, vividly honest and a teacher. Nature is an equalizer. I feel that this all applies to ALL of us - of ALL ages.

It wasn’t so many decades ago in our country that when some children were released from school for the day (if they went to school), and they headed home to work on their family farm or, if they were of an age, some other part time afternoon job. If they did neither - they were loose and rambling. In cities, they rambled in and out of doors in a cityscape. In less populated areas, there were woods, fields and beaches to explore.

As anyone who  is paying attention or has kids today knows, the after school and summer vacation-time lives of American children has changed radically - definitely since I was a child forty-odd years ago - but even in the last ten years.  In our relatively small community alone (and granted, this is a fairly affluent community), there are programs galore. There are languages to study, toys beyond belief, waaaaayyy too much electronic stuff, music  (which is wonderful), lessons – lessons – lessons…sports, groups, clubs and so forth. If you look at the calendar hanging in the average Ashland kitchen that tracks the movements of our “average” American children, it truly is incredible. Hopefully, there is gratitude for all of these opportunities, and yet - I’m feeling a bit of melancholy as well.

I’ve a fond childhood memory is of sitting in the apple tree near our family home on Oregon Street. The tree grew in a vacant lot (now there’s a term infrequently used lately), and ones main objective was to get up as high into the branches as possible and eat the tart apples while throwing the wormy ones down the adjacent street. Picture it: the arching, spinning toss of a bright green apple against a pale blue afternoon sky and dangling bare legs and pavement dirty feet hardly visible through the leaves. Hear the laughter and cry of delight at the “Pop!” of the fruit striking the ground; the skin bursts and viridescent flecks go flying, white flesh and seeds explode and scatter across the dark asphalt. Breathe in the too sweet fermenting aroma of windfalls which are composting slowly in the leaves and dirt below, and grin with delight at the mischief and poetry of this simple pastime…sitting in an apple tree.

We have to wonder, in our present busy lives, how many children have spent even ten minutes in an apple tree, much less picked their own tart Granny Smith from a heavy branch? How many backlot spy games will transpire this afternoon? Walks down spring rain dampened dirt paths?  Contests among friends in an open field without a whistle or a score keeper or a clock - where the rules evolve as the sport unfolds and officiating occurs by consensus and fair play?

How many of our children know how to hang out in Nature? How many of YOU know how to hang out in Nature?

It’s really not that complicated and definitely no big deal. You do not have to go camping or hike some steep mountain. Just step outside a few extra yards today. Leave your agenda (and your iphone) behind. Whether the place in nature is a window box, a back yard, an apple tree or the deep woods – when Nature and humans are brought together peacefully – there is positive alchemy that feeds imagination, curiosity, intelligence, relationship with self - and thereby others, and one’s very soul.

Careful out there. If you do it everyday, in some small way, even for just a moment or two - you will change. For the better.

To explore the very real phenomenon of Nature Deficit Disorder, check out the incredible work of Richard Louv, author of Last Child In The Woods.

To read up on how other communities are pursuing No Child Left Inside, start here with a fantastic article from Orion magazine.

To change your mind and your heart, the only link to click is the off button on this box. Try it for a bit, and take a walk in your neighborhood.

A Simple Quote

"MAY YOUR LIFE

BE CROWDED

WITH UNEXPECTED

JOYS!"

Quote by H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Photos by Martha Lee Phelps

Presence

presence -
is about holding
true, beautiful,
strong and vibrant no matter
who is
or is not
watching.

it is a way,
a manner and a spirit
brought to each moment —

without self importance,
without self recrimination,
yet with
the truest of one's Self

it is the all-at-once recognition
that
we are both essential and non
essential,
and always
we are able
to choose
presence

in grace and love.