Weather Diary - Day 27 (Saturday April 15 2006 Hot and Windy 82F)

'On Light'

"Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you."
-Maori Proverb

Holy.
How to describe this morning. There is a brightness about the day, a brightness which seems to be pushing me to be creative.
A sparkle.
Golden light.
Everything with a certain clarity.
You might say 'enlightened'.
Full of intuitive insight.
Light. Bright. Yes.
All reminding me to...
And then, I remember.

I need to buy flashlight batteries.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. A day chock-a-block full of activity. For Chester and me, it will begin before daylight. There will be fumbling about in darkness, ferry crossings, long long car travel, lots of 'The Unknown'.
And if I am going to spend today creatively, today, Saturday,
the last full day of my self-inflicted-hermit's-pilgrimage,
I must get organized for tomorrow - right now.

And what I need are batteries.
My trusty little flashlight is growing dim.
I will be happier knowing that, if nothing else, I am holding on to the light.

Chester and I hike up the highway to the hardware store. The hardware store where the young man I call 'Red' is working. He is busy with paint, (the wall-painting variety), so, looping Chester's leash outside, I enter, perusing the aisles of bicycle parts, nuts, bolts, screws, nails, tools, plumbing supplies. When I hear, "Oh, Hey!", I know he is free.
His wide grin enchanting. We chat about art, about hardware, the beautiful spring weather.
He comes out to see Chester and I follow, clutching a small brown paper bag holding two AA batteries.
This done, Chester and I carry on with our walk, meandering toward the 'Cat Ridge' area of the village. Off in these farther reaches of the curving harbour road, sits the striking Ocracoke Lighthouse.
Call this a (short) pilgrimage of sorts, but I have a hankering to see it close to.

A flashlight on a grand scale.

And it is grand.
Ocracoke Lighthouse stands about 75 feet tall, its brick walls five feet thick at the base. Nearly 200 years old, (and not the first lighthouse marking Ocracoke Inlet), its solid white colouration distinct.
Once known as 'Pilot Town', this little island village was settled by pilots.
(And pirates, for that matter.)
Piloting ships, a tricky (and necessary) business.
The shifting channels around this island, hazardous.
Ocracoke Lighthouse.
A stationary beam visible fourteen miles out to sea, the octagonal lantern, 8000 candle power.

Standing at the base, I gaze up the vast white side, blinding white in the brilliant sunlight.

Ocracoke Lighthouse.
How many, in 200 years, have been guided by this light?
A solid steadfast beacon.

Walking home via the harbour road, we reach the Community Store where I pick up a small mesh bag of foil wrapped chocolate Easter eggs.
And think about what lies ahead.
Tomorrow.
The glorious celebration of Easter.
A day of light, renewal, love, celebration.
Of light risen.
And, (in the here and now), light rising from the sea in the east, and lighting our way.
Hallelujah.

The afternoon is spent drawing.
Oil pastels, graphite, drawing pad.
Between drawings, I gather together what I need for Sunday, stowing it all in my day pack.
I place this by the door with a large water-bottle, Chester's leash, purse, hoodie, car keys.
I am as organized as I've ever been, and unbelievably excited at what tomorrow will bring.

The rest of Saturday, (the daylight part of the day), I am deep in my art.
And when the sun goes down across the Pamlico Sound in the west, and all is beautifully bathed in golden light,
everything slowly and gradually darkens, leaving the moon, (just past full), to take over the business of lighting the sky.
And with this moon looking down on the little island of Ocracoke, I sleep.

Weather Diary - Day 26 (Friday April 14 2006 Wind 75F)

'On Spontaneity'

I feel the winds of change.

A windy April Ocracoke morning.
Good Friday.
And while much of my reading throughout the week has been of the spiritual variety, I have not followed the Holy Week rituals of my youth.

Until this moment.

For one reason or another,
GF was my father's day to spring clean the garage. I suppose, because it was, well, Spring, and that he had a day at home, was an avid gardener and couldn't wait to work outdoors and put spade to earth. All of those reasons. But when we were growing up, GF was a day of work and sacrifice, (to say nothing of fast and abstinence), and therefore a day of recruitment for my siblings and me.

I take a leaf from my father's book and, (putting on yesterday's clothes), begin a cabin-clean-up on a massive scale.

I have been here for nearly a month. I have completely taken advantage of the fact that, (in spite of following a regimen of my own making), really, I can do whatever I like, whenever I like. There are books and art materials (and art) strewn everywhere. Not wanting the strictures of over-organization, or to spend my time here cleaning and tidying ad nauseam, I have laid out my reference materials, papers, pencils, paints, magazines, thus allowing myself the freedom to act and react spontaneously.

In other words, this place is a sty.

Chester, (seeing the broom), senses that he isn't going to like this (at all) and heads for the deck. It is quite windy, even on the sheltered side of the cottage, but he manages to find a still corner of sun, and curls into a ball.
I spend the morning reorganizing, sweeping, tidying, washing dishes, doing laundry. There is a wee room I barely use, a sort of small child's bedroom, where I have been laying out my daily 'Weather Diary' drawings, and it is in here that I organize the clutter of books, magazines, art materials (at least the ones I'm not using), and sort through the mounds of clothes clothes clothes.

This work takes me (well) past lunchtime. I decide (on a whim) to change tack and attend the afternoon GF service. Once showered and changed, I realize that I have cut it very close (time-wise), and hop in the car to drive round (instead of hiking it through the schoolyard) to the Ocracoke United Methodist Church. As I approach, though, I see no one. (Am I that late?) Not only no one, but no where, to park that is.
Lots and lots of cars and not a soul in sight.
Hmm.
Oh sure, I could slip in the door and sit at the back, but, well,
I am chickening out.
Perhaps this could be (instead) my time of Spontaneous Spiritual Solitude.

I spin back to the cottage and pick up the (very happy and excited) dog. We drive on out of town, letting the wind take us where it will. I am quite happy to be without plan. (It feels a bit like skipping school.) If nothing else, we could drive all the way up the island to the north ferry docks, and back down again. It just doesn't matter.

I am deep in my own thoughts.

Halfway up the island, we approach the area known as the Pony Pasture.
This being the large penned area on the Pamlico Sound side of the island, where the (once) wild ponies are now contained, cared for, fed and watered. These two dozen or so 'Banker' ponies (as in 'Outer Banks'), are domesticated, but their ancestors ran free on the dunes and beaches, and in the woods and marshlands of Ocracoke Island.
They are beautiful.
And quite shy. They don't seem to be the sort to amble over in interest, (to see what people are staring at), and have their noses stroked. They are usually way way off, their brown and white coats just visible.
But as I slow to glimpse across the paddock, to my surprise there are two ponies right at the fence, nosing about in the grassy sand.
I park a little distance away and, not wanting to startle them, watch from there.

Chester and I sit quietly for some time. They are a beautiful sight. No need for our interference.
We slip out of the car, and away in the other direction, across the road to head out on the long boardwalk toward the dunes and the sea. Not having been to the 'Pony Pasture' boardwalk before, Chester is all about the new smells of this foreign land.

There is no one here.
We are completely alone on this vast stretch of sand.
The sea, churned up in the strong westerly, rolls shoreward, then is blown back out by the insistent wind.
I feel the winds of change.
We keep to the dunes, and so, are slightly protected. My thoughts, on the solemnity of the day, the beauty of the once-wild ponies, the vast and empty beach, the wild seas.
And the joy of the instinctive impulse which brought me here, not planned or caused or suggested or incited, but the spontaneity leading me to this particular place at this particular time.

Back home, and as night falls, I draw, and think of how this day unfolded.
Then, lighting a candle, cup of tea in hand, I curl up to listen to John Tavener's "Svyati - O Holy One",
a plaintive dialogue between choir and cello - slow, brooding, mesmerizing.
And in this way, Friday ends.

Weather Diary - Day 25 (Thursday April 13 2006 Sunny and Warm 78F)

'On Landscape'

"To see the world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wildflower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour."
-William Blake

Land Ho!

 I am now one with the land.
The land which is sand, that is.
As, when you go to bed with sandy feet, you wake up the next morning with a good deal of it in bed with you. Four to five a.m. spent in futile hand-sweeping.
(Eternity in an hour?)
I begin the day by removing all of the bedding and shaking it over the deck railing.

After the morning ritual, I set to work on a piece I (for now) am calling 'Green Bather'.
I have brought limited resource material with me. But I have a desire to represent the figure as a reflection of my time here on Ocracoke Island. What could be better than a seated woman, donning or doffing footwear (for the zillionth time).
Perhaps she is shaking out the sand.
It is continuous.
And amongst my scraps of visual inspiration, my torn out images, pinned and fluttering to the fishnet window covering, is a two by three inch reproduction of 'Woman Putting On Her Slippers' (1843) by Danish painter
Christoffer Wilhelm Eckersberg.

Eckersberg's image is my model, my starting point. I use a grid to divide the space and get down a rough outline of the form - the angle of the tipped head, shoulders, arm, trunk, legs. I am in love with the slight turn of the body. The arm stretching downward.
I am not interested in (Eckersberg's) detail. But the overall. The light and colour.
Or rather, light, shadow and colour.
Using acrylics, I lay on some paint. I find the darkest dark and the lightest light. Moving from foreground to background, negative space back to figure. Just the colour, the lights, the darks, and the image begins to take shape. I use the colours of the earth - of ground and tree, the greens and blues of the sea, the oranges of sunset, creamy whites and earthy reds.
'Green Bather' is becoming the land.
And it dawns on me.

She is a Landscape.

All of a sudden it is crystal clear. Even if I am working on a representation of the human figure, my work is a landscape. It is not just about a representation of the human figure, but equally about the space around her.
It is about colour and light. And a time and place.
And me as the painter.
It is about my process.
And where I am when I paint it.
But also about the viewer. And where the viewer stands to look at it. And the space between.

Our sense of place.

Perhaps the night of sand in my bed has grounded me. A constant (itchy) reminder of the earth under our feet and all around. As I now see the all-encompassing importance to talk (visually) about 'Sense of Place' in my work.

The evening drawing is influenced by all of this sudden clarity.
And influenced by our late afternoon beach walk, with land and sand underfoot. This island is an ideal place to think about the land, (being on the very fringe).
The horizon line sharp. Greys and greens and whites. Golden light sparkling on water.
I call to Chester, now way way off and along the beach, sniffing around a washed up tree limb. He looks at me defiantly and before moseying back, has a long long roll in the sand.
He is grounded too.

Weather Diary - Day 24 (Wednesday April 12 2006 Pleasant Conditions 73F)

'On Music'

"Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends;
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper music to my weary spirit."
-Shakespeare, 'Henry IV Part 2'

Chester and I, deeply in need of company on this Wednesday morning, set out quite early.
After our day of silence and solitude, I am now perched on a wooden stool, on the porch of the coffee shop, surrounded by lively chat, a cup of java in hand. Chester lies at my feet, pointing himself toward the dog-cookie-men. (Just in case.)
As warm as it is, the coffee shop door is propped open, and drifting porch-ward are familiar strains from within, music presumably chosen by the two (quite weary looking, as if they hadn't had a full night's sleep), coffee shop servers, music which fills me with memories of childhood.
I rejoice at the paradox which is Ocracoke. A place where two young men, barely out of school,
would happily begin their workday to the gentle strains of the nearly hundred year old parlour song, 'When You Wore a Tulip'.

For me, 'When You Wore a Tulip', an old camp song, (caught in a place and time), is ringing through the Coselen Camp dining hall, out the open windows, and now a whisper, drifting over the clear cool waters of mid-1960's Lake-of-Bays, Ontario.

But here on Ocracoke Island, it is a solo, and when I wander in to inquire about the music, I find a delightful CD entitled 'Ocrafolk Music Sampler II' which, happily, is available at the bookshop.
Chester and I hang out until the bookshop opens, joining in (mostly listening to) a conversation on the lively local music scene, gardening and fig trees (lots here) and, inevitably, food, Ocracoke's famous Fig Cake being front and centre.
Well, it is a Wednesday. And I seem to be following a pattern of having an insatiable appetite on Wednesdays.
So.
First, the bookshop. Second, the vegetable man. (It being his day for supplying the island with fresh fruit and veggies.) And third, The Fig Tree, a tiny eatery on the main drag where I'm sure they sell Fig Cake by the slice.

When all of this is accomplished, I, on a whim, spin up to the grocery store for a half-pound of ground beef and a package of sesame seed buns. This will be my first non-vegetarian experience in more than three weeks. Since I have discovered a little barbecue, (a grill, as it is called here), in the cottage shed, I decide that, yes,
It. Is. Time.
But before all of this food, (so that I am able to relax in the evening with a sense of accomplishment), some ART.
The afternoon drifts along with drawing and study, accompanied by the meditative music of Hildegard Von Bingen, R. Murray Schafer's 'A Garden of Bells', and Kathleen Battle.
Chester lets me know when he is ready, and we head off for our long beach ramble and the spirit-filled music of the sea. Wearing t-shirt and denim skirt, (no hoodie needed), I find that even on this most exposed Ocracoke beach, it is summer-like.

On returning home, an unexpected surprise.
The next-door cottage, (empty from Day One), is occupied. It turns out to be the owners, preparing for the upcoming season of rentals. We have a good chat as I set up the 'grill', Chester showing great interest in seeing people, especially these new (dog-friendly) ones.
When they drive off for a restaurant meal, I crank up the volume on the new CD, so it can be heard in the little back yard. I find a low-slung deck chair, and when the fire is lit, sit with beer in hand and take it all in.
Such a complete about-face from, first, my silent day of yesterday, then, my meditative afternoon music. Now the air is filled with guitars, fiddles, and ol' time music, and it is sheer joy.
Really good.
In fact, it's all good. The CD, that is, but as well, the warm summer-like evening, the smell of grilling meat, (a drooling dog), the nearing weekend, the satisfying feeling of having (almost) made it through my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
Even the sand, now dried, but still clinging to my feet is cause for joy.

Later, weary but happy, after (Chester and) I have had a burger, I run up the outdoor open wooden staircase, put the CD on again, and retrieve the single slice of Fig Cake.
Under the clear darkening sky, with only the glowing embers and the just-rising moon to see by, the fiddle music reprising 'When You Wore a Tulip', I unwrap the Fig Cake.
I (along with my assistant) savour every bite.
It just doesn't get much better than this.

Weather Diary - Day 23 (Tuesday April 11 2006 Sunny and Warm - Clear Skies 70F)

'On Silence'

"Silence is more musical than any song."
-Christina Rossetti

I am down to my last five days of solitude.
And I am of two minds about it.
On the one hand, I want to cherish every second and slow the hands of time in the last days of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
It is all (rapidly) coming to an end.

And on the other hand, I can't wait for next week. I will move into a new chapter when this all comes to an end. Only then can I look at it from somewhere above, and figure out what, exactly, my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage is all about.
(Hard to do when you are in the middle of it.)

On this clear warm Tuesday on Ocracoke Island, (after much mulling), I am stilled.
As, at the centre of my conflicting thoughts, I find balance.
I now feel no sense of urgency, no need, no restlessness.
And so I stay put, and (as a nod to the Cistercian Monks about whom I'm reading) work in silence.
No radio, no music, no talk.

But first, I squat beside Chester for a moment, lying happily on the deck. He has been down to ground level, (to the tangle of woods behind the cottage, although briefly), and now seems content to lie on the weathered boards of the upper deck in the soft morning sun. I stroke his head, his ears, so he knows how much his companionship means to me, and then I get to work, in silence.

I am focusing on the figure work I call 'Water Girl', the only sound, the pencil scratch on board and the bird song through the open windows. The bird song, first a call close by, then a distant answer. And again. And again.
The world carries on - truck passing, fridge hum, helicopter overhead, insect buzz.
But within, I am holding my thoughts like a vessel, letting them turn and churn, slowly and without insistence, letting them gradually become polished and bright.

My mind stills until I see only my drawing, hear only my breathing.

If I take home nothing else from my time in this place, it is the thankful realization that I can now find the deep still place within. It is this still place I draw from, the heart of my creative ability. And I have found this by being given time. Time to myself. Time for my work.
My art allowed to be central.

I continue to work in this stillness, and when I have no more to give to 'Water Girl', I stretch out on the deck on my back and stare at the sky.
I see the elements, the spirit of this place - earth, air, water, fire - the elements so clearly present on this island.
The earth, the fringes of land, touching the water.
The water stretching to the horizon, touching air, meeting sky.
The sky, aflame, opening and closing the day.
And the fire within.

The silence around it.
Silence. Solitude. Stillness. Rest.

Morning, then afternoon, pass in this musical silence.
A radiant sunset, then all the world bathed in silvery moonlight. The silent stillness, the elements, the fire within, all find their way into my evening drawing. A part of it all.
And then I sleep.

Weather Diary - Day 22 (Monday April 10 2006 Sunny 62F)

'On The Sky'

"Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies..."
- Henry Francis Lyte 

The Sunday service at the Ocracoke United Methodist Church has travelled with me into Monday. Or, rather, the ringing sound of the hymns.
It is a perfect sun-filled morning, and I am humming
'Abide With Me'.
Humming, (rather than singing), as I don't really know the words, but I love it in all of its old-fashioned glory, and the way it makes the tears (involuntarily) well up in my eyes.
Wasn't it one of the last songs played on the Titanic?
The phrase which stays with me, '...point me to the skies...', has (in my humming version), become the only spoken part of every verse.
And so, with this phrase nailed in my brain, I decide to 'up sticks' (at least for the morning) and travel to one of Ocracoke's far-flung beaches with Chester, a box of watercolours and a sketchbook.
And, in so doing, point myself to the skies.

We drive through the village, (stopping for a moment at the coffee shop), and then along the Back Road, Old Beach Road, curving past houses, stunted village trees, jungly undergrowth full of bird song. And on past the Ocracoke Child Care, ('Peace begins in the playground'), turning onto Highway 12. We creep along at 'village speed', passing the main grocery/hardware store, U.S. Post Office, Sheriff's Office,  Howard's Pub and the South Point Road, to the outer reaches where we can finally step on it, on the open two-lane highway stretching up the island.

It feels a bit like escaping. Not that I don't absolutely love the little village of Ocracoke,
but here, when you 'head out on the highway', you are (typically) on your own.
On we drive, past the little airport, the 'lifeguard' beach (with no lifeguard at this time of year), Hammock Hills nature trail, NPS campground, pony pasture, and on to (what we call) the 'North Beach'.

There are, in actual fact, two vehicles already parked in the sandy little pull-off. Chester leads me up the high dunes, (in his eagerness to run wild and free on the beach), but we stop at the top to take it all in. The view, that is.
Oh my my.
This first glimpse (of the day) of the wide open Atlantic never fails to impress.
It is all so extraordinarily beautiful.

I spot the people belonging to the vehicles - a couple, surf-fishing 100 yards one way, and a dad with two kids shelling in the other direction. Chester, unleashed, sniffs his way to a dead something and has a happy roll in it, all four legs in the air.
I set up camp. Paints, pencils, ruler, brushes, water-bottle, sketch pad, folded hoodie to sit on, and (very naughtily) one can of icy cold beer, to bury in the sand until 11 a.m.

As awe-inspiring as the sea is, the sky is a pretty equal match.
And, happily, if I were to choose one day for sky-study, this is a good one.
The first thing that strikes me is colour.  Do I have the right ones in this little paint box to capture it all?
I decide to work in a grid-like manner, drawing a series of small squares on several pages. Now I can systematically record the subtle nuances, and at the same time create (what I consider to be) a pleasing pattern.
But it isn't as easy as it seems.
The sky, blues moving into lighter blues, into greys, into whites.
The paints, though, (in a lovely wooden box inherited from a favourite Renouf relative), are up to the task. I begin with a range of blues, greys, earthy greens and browns. I mix, add water, more colour, and do my darnedest to capture what I see.
The wind, scuttling cloud, swiftly moving shadow, sparkling sunlight, reflecting and effecting the colour of the energetic constantly moving sea.
I include the vivid hues of the sea in my sky studies, (and a fair bit of the ubiquitous sand,
blowing about and ending up as part of the art). Not sure I've really captured the colours, but happy with the process.

And so it goes, until Chester nudges my arm and I see his lolling tongue.
Thirsty.
We each have our drinks of choice, (so good) and then a long long bare-footed amble in the shallows of the ebbing sea.

Later, back in the cottage, (feeling somewhat sunned-out), I read, lying on a sofa cushion on the floor of the shady screened porch, "Hawthorne on Painting". His words speak to me.

"Get acquainted with your palette, dip into pans that you almost know won't do. Experiment."

"Each day has its own individuality of colour."

"Have the humble attitude. To see things simply is the hardest thing in the world."

"As long as one is simple and childlike and humble, one progresses. Keep this point of view and there is no limit."

"Irritatingly correct - charmingly incorrect."

That's it, isn't it. The truth about all things interesting in art. That the work be 'charmingly incorrect'.
Not duplicated accurately.
Nor copied mindlessly.
Nor fiddled with endlessly.
But observed, touched, tasted, with all our human foibles and imperfections.
Point me to the skies and I'll show you what I see.

Weather Diary - Day 21 (Sunday April 9 2006 Sun & Wind 55F)

'On Loss'

Sunday. Sun and wind.
And all I can think of is the fact that this day marks the start of my last week of self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.
This makes me a bit sad.
Yes, I still have a week on my own, to finish the artwork I need to finish. And it's really not unmanageable or overwhelming, (in spite of my panic of yesterday). I just feel a bit sad that this time, a time of my own rhythm, is coming to an end.
My rhythm.
So like the tides, I move toward my work, and step back. Toward and back. Toward and back.

Leaving Chester at home, I hike over to the Ocracoke United Methodist Church for some spiritual nourishment.
First I hear, rather than see, the activity around the church. There is an abundance of children, some running around outside, others standing on the steps handing out bulletins. I enter and settle into a pew, happy to be anonymous. There is plenty to watch as families, singles, friends, young and old, make their way in. I sit behind (what I imagine to be) a mother and daughter, one in her 70's, the other 40-ish.
It seems somehow so familiar, this mother and daughter. One speaks quietly, the other leans towards her, smiling. Both comfortable and content in each other's company. So lovely.
The mother reaches into her purse, fishes around for something, and hands it to the daughter. The daughter stares at the 'something' in her lap. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment. Then both are consumed by silent giggles.
Yes, somehow so familiar.

 I feel a stab of wistful memory, seated behind this mother and daughter in the Ocracoke United Methodist Church. My mother and I spent Sunday mornings in a similar fashion the last years of her life. The last years of her life, and our closest.
I loved my mother dearly, and counted on her for so much, but we both shared argumentative natures, natures which led us up a sometimes rocky path, (though always ending in peace.)
"You and mum are SO alike." My sister's pronouncement to me as a teenager.
And true.
We, at times, rubbed against each other, each knowing the other's argument inside out and backwards (because we'd heard it all before).
But my sister also confided in me her prediction that I'd probably end up closest to our mother.
True? Perhaps.
In her last years, all was loving friendship, and peace.
Peace.
The name my mother is very nearly given, being born two days before the end of the first World War, a name, by her own admission, totally inappropriate. Born on the island of Jersey, Esme, the youngest, much loved and cherished child. Here they live until 1940 when their lives are turned upside down. They leave Jersey on the last boat to England the day before the German occupation of the Channel Islands begins. Her mother, frail, her father, vacillating about leaving, her sister with two small children, and my mother.  Each with one small bag, leaving everything else behind.

My mother, a wonderful story teller and writer, takes it from here:

"When we arrived in Weymouth, (on the south coast of England), we had no idea where we were going to go. My father announced that he was just going to slip away to do a bit of shopping. Leaving the rest of us puzzled and tired, we couldn't imagine what this man, who rarely shopped for himself, needed. He returned an hour later, looking sheepish. In a brown paper parcel was a pair of men's pyjamas. The reason given, that he's forgotten to pack any. As in his one small case (allowed for each person), he had packed the following:
his dinner jacket,
a bottle of scotch,
and a glass."

My mother's parents, my grandparents, never return to their beloved island. Both die in wartime in Shrewsbury, England. My mother marries my father, and when the war is over, and life slowly, imperceptibly begins to return to normal, they, along with my two eldest brothers, immigrate to Canada.
My mother. Bright, sociable, deeply spiritual, funny, argumentative, comforting, loving. A voracious reader, a writer whose craft never really gets the recognition I wish it had. Is this due to her choices, her family, her charitable work? Was this a loss for her?

The service at the Ocracoke United Methodist Church, is lengthy. Each person there for their own reasons. My mother, on my mind throughout. So thankful am I that her life didn't end when I was a selfish child, a belligerent teenager, a needy young adult.
That would be loss for me on a massive scale.
So thankful am I that she lived to an age when we could sit in loving friendship, comfortable and content in each other's company, like the mother and daughter in the pew in front of me, on this windy sunny Sunday morning, in the Ocracoke United Methodist Church.

Weather Diary - Day 20 (Saturday April 8 2006 Sun Cloud Wind 70F)

'On Memory'

Another glorious Spring (more like Summer) day on Ocracoke Island.
I am set, on this Saturday morning, (a morning spreading its pale yellow light throughout the cottage), to knuckle down to work. Well equipped with supplies, (both of the edible and art variety), I needn't venture far this morning, at least no farther than our little jungly back yard for Chester's purposes.
I am feeling a sense of frantic need, as there is so much I want to explore, art-wise, while I am here on this island on my own. The time is sifting away, like a handful of beach sand, and still so much to do.
Nothing like getting down to some good hard work.
Good. Hard. Work.
Ha.
I am muttering it aloud to make it so. But the words are my father's words, as it was he who's use of that expression, (usually to get someone's help in the garden), was frequent.

I search through my art inspiration brought from home - photos, drawings, paper scraps, postcards, torn out magazine images. Some, fluttering on my fishing-net covered window, some in a box at my feet.
And then I come across what I am looking for. A few small pencil and watercolour sketches, done by my father.

It is nearly thirteen years since my father died.

His sketches, (all of ships), are quick but accurate. They are done with love, with a hand that knows exactly what it wants to put down. They are done by a deft hand, (and left hand, for that matter, in spite of his being right-handed), a hand that studies and draws ships its entire life. These drawings show ships from port and starboard views, bow and stern, in calm seas or heeling slightly in a stiff wind, both at sea and safe at harbour. They are drawn by someone who knows what they are talking about.
Someone who knows ships. That's the story these drawings tell.

My father's ability to recall minute detail is legendary. All of my life, I hear him relate memories from childhood, babyhood even. Born during the first World War, his is an unusual childhood. Full of love, yes, but unusual from a 21st century point of view. (And full of sea voyages.) A Channel Islander, a Jerseyman by heritage, (Jersey being one in the cluster of tiny islands between England and France), but born in New York City, and sent to school in England at the age of eight. There he lives with his maternal grandparents while attending Colet Court, (the prep school for St. Paul's), and later Victoria College, Jersey, when his father and mother return from the U.S. after the 1929 crash. He receives the Charles the First Scholarship to Oxford, and dreams of studying history, but, being an only child and having many hopes pinned on him, he attends Oxford to study law. His mother, my grandmother, Florence Eugenie Luce Renouf, dies suddenly just after my father's 20th birthday.
What I know about this event, is little. What I sense, is huge.
My father, who I believe had a deep and loving connection with his mother, must have been shattered by this.
Oxford.  World War Two.  Royal Navy.
Ships.
Wartime. Seemingly endless separations from his sweetheart (my mother), terrifying convoys, long stretches of mind-numbing routine.
Being interested in family history, I, (usually with a box of photos between us), wheedle info out of him throughout my childhood and teens.  Mainly stories of growing up in New York, Oxford, the war, my parent's war-time wedding, their move to Canada, our 16 months in New Zealand.
He was a gentleman and a gentle man, my father. Avid reader. Keen gardener. Lover of ships and the sea.

Chester senses a change in plan as I gather up leash, keys, purse. The 'good hard work' can wait another hour.
At this moment, I am in need of the sea.

Weather Diary - Day 19 (Friday April 7 2006 Sun Cloud Wind 80F)

'On Creativity'

I am dreaming in red.

I'm actually dreaming of fire, a red crackling campfire, a campfire of leaping sparks, surrounded by darkness. I feel a deep luscious sense of contentment. All is tinged with red. Warm and comforting.
And when the buzzing drone of an insect breaks the spell, I open my eyes only to see a pinkish glow enveloping my room, the first tinted light of day.

It is 7 a.m. and I have slept in.

It is the first time in nineteen days that I have slept past 5, and I (despite
breaking the morning ritual) am elated.
Before my morning tea, before spiritual reading, moments of meditative silence, plans for the day,
artwork, food, radio, domestic chores, before anything else happens, I pull on some clothes (where they lay from last night), rouse Chester and head out into the day.

Everything is sharp and bright. (Is it me or my mood or the weather?) Everything seems fresh and twinkly with tiny dew drops and dancing light. Chester is feeling it too, so we ramble onward through the village, cutting through the (still quiet) school yard, and up deserted Howard Street.  Howard Street, (more of a footpath, really, but in actual fact a one-way road), with the leaves of the ancient live oak trees rustling and flickering with light.
Past small family burial plots, the slanting light illuminating shaded mossy stones, ('loving father', 'dear sister of', 'rest in peace'), past the front-porch dogs, barking in frenzy but keeping a distance, and then out of this cool light onto the circling harbour road, where things are slightly more active.
We keep to the road's edge, but are passed by only two vehicles, pick-up trucks, each one turning onto the British Cemetery Road, (heading for the coffee shop?), and one with an old yellow lab in the back staring balefully at Chester but passing without comment.

And on we walk past the ferry docks, across to the NPS shop, the little patch of woods behind, the wide expanse of grass, parking lot, public boat launch, a glimpse of Pamlico Sound, the David Williams House, (the museum run by the Ocracoke Preservation Society), and on to the road where the two trucks turned. When we arrive at the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, sure enough, the two trucks are there, the old yellow lab waiting patiently for his human.
Once coffeed, and deciding that I am in need of some new drawing materials, (reds primarily), we make our way to the little book shop which (happily) has a small section of art supplies. As Chester lies on the bookshop porch, I chat and choose a beautiful set of French oil pastels. Thus armed, I am ready for home and the creative part of the day.
The creative part of the day.
What is it about that? Doesn't this part of the day count as 'creative'? Surely my day is already packed with all things creative - sights, sounds, scents, tastes - but I practically disregard it all in the rush to get to my drawing table. Shouldn't all of  it count as 'creative'?
Can these perceptions - sights, sounds, scents, tastes - be useful in creating something new?
Whatever the answer, I do know one thing.
I am all about the 'process'.
Which, in actual fact, covers a lot of ground. My being here, after all, is part of the 'process'.
Process -  the course of becoming.
Exploring, experimenting, (sometimes disastrously), but moving. Moving beyond, taking things further, where even the disasters play a part in the new creation.
That is what excites me, and what allows for freedom to explore ideas, concepts, materials. Because if even the disasters have a role in what is to come, (creatively speaking), I am completely free to play around with ideas and concepts and materials, and be influenced by sights, sounds, scents, tastes, without any inhibitions.
Is that the secret to creativity?

The day turns hot (but breezy), and up in our little sanctuary of creativity, both dog and explorer are happy. One in a shady spot on the deck, and the other in a shady spot on the deck, with a small round table at which to work and a beautiful new French oil pastel set.
And lots of reds.

Weather Diary - Day 18 (Thursday April 6 2006 Partly Cloudy 64F)

'On Friendship'

When I finish my current 'page-turner', I celebrate by hunkering down and getting on with it.
It is absolutely time to
Get. To. Work.

Artwork that is.
Here is where I stand on Day 18:

• The works on 24" x 36" panels are progressing well. 
• My self-portrait at age twelve, is coming along beautifully. 
• I have two (quite successful) watercolours for our hotel-owning friends (So far... working on number three.)
• I am completely and utterly faithful to my evening drawing, (10" x 10" oil pastel and graphite abstract landscapes, seventeen and counting.)
• A small pad full of notes, colour studies, sketches of the sea, comes with me everywhere.
• I  have (at least) half a dozen women's basketball games under my belt.

Oh, wait a minute. (Did I say that out loud?)

A guilty secret, but true. I am still on a high after the NCAA 2006 women's basketball final of Tuesday night. (Maryland Terrapins 78, Duke Blue Devils 75)
A basketball game of such skill that it really makes little sense to point out that it is women's basketball. They are, quite simply, incredibly good basketball players. And the joy for me is that I can watch it! As they actually show such things here in North Carolina!!
I do feel a (wee) bit guilty.
Here I am on my 'self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage', spending the days beginning at 5 a.m., with spiritual reading, art, contemplative walks and sea study. And here I am spending the evenings in front of a 36" TV, perched on the edge of the sofa, clutching a beer.
Doesn't quite fit the image.
Even so, I like this time to myself, for myself. It is my 'kick-back' time, after all.
I am an enthusiastic retired basketball player, (University of Toronto, Scarborough College 1975-78). Thirty years ago.
Ew.
But I can relate to, well, to the extreme closeness and friendship that this level of competition brings out.
And these gals are close. Oh my, they are tight buds. Yes yes, they are a well-oiled machine, excellently coached, highly skilled and trained on plays, (so much so that they could run them in their sleep). But also this.
They clearly clearly care deeply for each other.
And I find myself wondering, "Is this a girl thing?"

Because if nothing else, if I take away nothing else from my basketball playing days of the mid-70's, friend-wise, it is a glorious golden time in my life.
There are four of us.
(There are, of course, others team members, and each year we do have strong ties that bind the team together.)
But the four of us are inseparable. And dedicated.
Dedicated to the point of knowing each others moves, thoughts, reactions.
We master silent communication.
We practice together daily. We hang out together. Go everywhere together. We play together.
We win.
I can't help but wonder if it is friendship that makes things work for us.
The fact that we do anything for each other, that we care what happens, that we love each other.
Doesn't that count for something?
And yes, we all have other friends. Childhood neighbours, school mates, camp friends. But with the four of us, it is as though we have been through something together. Something big. Like people who cling to each other through a crisis and have that extra perception, that tie, that memory, forever after.

It is a strikingly beautiful day on Ocracoke Island. For Chester and me, perfect conditions to walk the beach and study the sea.
The sea, a deep blue-green, the clouds scuttling across the open sky. I think of my basketball friends, all far away. We do still keep in touch, (although there are often longish gaps), and there is still love, the kind of love that has softened and faded with the passage of time and changing circumstances. But it is love, this deep binding friendship.

Chester and I have an hour on the beach, marching its empty length. I, in the frilly rippling shallows, he, nosing around the base of the dunes, matching me stride for stride, (unless he finds something 'interesting'). On the way home, we pass the coffee shop, the library (both closed), the one and only Ocracoke school (finished for the day), the outdoor basketball court (with a single orange basketball sitting under one net).
No one about, and a single orange basketball sitting under one net.
As Chester lies in the cool grass, I (at first disastrously - so badly that I am grateful there is no one about), shoot baskets. But gradually gradually, it comes back, and after fifteen minutes, (due more to luck than skill), I sink a hook shot which is, for this fifty year old, enough.
And we head for home.

Weather Diary - Day 17 (Wednesday April 5 2006 Sun 68F)

'On Home'

Why am I always starving on Wednesdays?

Perhaps it is because I know that the Vegetable Man comes to Ocracoke today, and will be setting up his booth of oh-so-delicious fresh fruit and veggies this very morning. Or perhaps it is a mid-week growth spurt of sorts. Whatever the reason, I begin the (eating part of the) day with a bowl of 'grits'.
For anyone new to this, grits are a real Southern food experience. I have taken to them in a big way. They are comfort food, 'suth-un stahl', but such a versatile food that grits can be eaten with any meal, at any time of day. For me, though, grits are for breakfast. A bit like cream of wheat, but more pebbly and corny. If ordered in a restaurant, grits will arrive with what looks and tastes like a pool of melted margarine on top of the white mound.
More appealing to me is a pool of maple syrup, (sort of north-meets-south in a bowl), and a splash of milk, just like having oatmeal or Red River cereal or cream of wheat back home.

Home.

The maple syrup is making me wistful.
Don't get me wrong. I'm happy that I have brought along my litre bottle of the delicious nectar.
But the taste. Oh my.
I dip out a teaspoonful of syrup, (Chester riveted, watching every move), pop the spoon in my mouth, close my eyes, slowly savour the flavour, roll it over my tongue.
I am back in Ontario in an instant.

It is a crisp spring day. The kind of day when you are too hot in winter garb, and too cool without. It is the kind of day for hoodies, bulky sweaters, mitts and toques. When there is still snow in the woods, and you need to keep moving to stay warm if you are not within a foot of the fire.
I am gathering sap, (at least, the buckets within about twenty paces of the sugar-house), and every ten minutes of so, feeding wood into the evaporator.
Doug is way way off in the easternmost part of the woods, and I can just hear the distant clang of the buckets as he replaces each one on its spile. The snow is still deep enough that you can follow the footprints from the previous day's gathering, like a treasure hunt taking you from tree to tree.
When the fire is good and hot and the sap is boiling hard in the pans, the air becomes sweet and moist, combining with woodsmoke and the scents of early spring in Ontario.
Scents of melting snow, and thawing earth, of rotting leaves and wood, and the first minute green shoots pushing skyward in dappled patches of sun.

So here I sit on Ocracoke Island, in the brightening morning of another blissfully warm southern summer-like day, thinking, (when I should be making art), of home, my beloved woods, my boy. And in spite of being in a t-shirt, denim skirt, flip-flops, in sun and heat and buzzing insects, contentedly enfolded in this place, I do miss home, and that slow gradual almost imperceptible shift into Spring which defines the North.

Chester and I decide that there is just time for one more bowl of grits and maple syrup before we see the Vegetable Man, and then, finally, settle down to work.

Weather Diary - Day 16 ( Tuesday April 4 2006 Sunny and Windy 64F)

'On Reading'

I'm so totally into my book.

I have spent over two weeks now honing and perfecting the best way to make use of the hours in my day.
My daily rhythm, that is, while on this art pilgrimage on Ocracoke Island.
But it is, after all, designed to suit my own interests, and be to my own satisfaction, so if I stray sometimes from its structure, that is okay by me.
That is, except for my one-a-day evening drawing. On this I keep firm control.
It must be done.  On. The. Day.

So here I sit at ten in the morning,
enveloped in the comfort of reading.

I keep up my regime of early morning spiritual reading. It is, I think, just about the perfect way to start the day. (Once the tea is made.) And the term 'spiritual' is proving to be fairly flexible. (Flexible to the extent of including, on this pilgrimage, just about everything I have brought with me.)
So, that includes writings poetic, inspirational, reflective, sensitive, artistic.
And, well, maybe stretch just a wee bit further.

And so, I read:

'The Cloister Walk' by Kathleen Norris.
'Beyond the Walls' by Paul Wilkes.
'Pilgrim at Tinker Creek' by Annie Dillard.
'The Pocket Aquinas'
The Psalms

And regularly dip into:

'The Penguin Book of Canadian Verse' (edited by Ralph Gustafson)
'Donne' (poems selected and edited by John Hayward)
'Search for the Real' by Hans Hofmann
'Hawthorne on Painting' (collected by Mrs. C.W. Hawthorne)
'Sara Midda's South of France'

And here's the stretch:

'The Shell Seekers' by Rosamunde Pilcher
'Sense and Sensibility' by Jane Austen
'Q's Legacy' by Helene Hanff
'Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince' by J.K. Rowling
(purchased at the lovely little Ocracoke bookshop)
'Swallows and Amazons' by Arthur Ransome

But it is the last of these that has me in its grip right at this moment.
I am betraying my art. I am being unfaithful to my purpose for being here.
But I do it out of love.
I am in love with a place and time, with an island, (Wild Cat Island), with its inhabitants, (the crew of the Swallow), and their invaders, (the 'Amazon' pirates).
I can't put this book down until I know if they, (the Swallows), are very nearly duffers. Or not.
(Read book to understand.)
So I read, and console myself with the fact that my 'spiritual' reading does at least involve water and an island, and decisions, and conscience and love.
And it is, oh so nice, to lie in a sunny sheltered spot, (without fear of tornadoes or tidal waves or earthquakes), and read.

Weather Diary - Day 15 (Monday April 3 2006 Tornado Warnings 70F)

'On Fear'

"Do one thing every day that scares you."
 -Eleanor Roosevelt

The day starts out friendly enough.
Pleased with the work of yesterday, in the early hours of this Monday morning I take in the considerable development of my self-portrait at age twelve. And as the day lightens, Chester and I go for a long leg-stretch around the village, ending at the coffee shop.
A medium coffee (with room for cream), a newspaper, a couple of dog cookies for Chester from our friendly porch guys, and a vacant stool in a little patch of sun.
As I work at the daily crossword, I can just make out the conversation at the other end of the porch, in which, alarmingly, I think I catch the word 'tornado'.
Well, nothing so new. There is often weather talk on small, exposed Ocracoke Island - the ceiling, the swell, the sets, small craft warnings. And sometimes even the reminder of shipwrecks along the coast (hundreds), fishing boats late coming in, and unsettling phrases like 'lost at sea' and 'washed up on the beach', all reminders of the restlessness and unpredictability of the sea.
Still, as we walk home, there is a certain humidity and haze which weren't there even two hours ago.

I begin my morning drawing session, but the weather is on my mind. I flip through the 'Virginian-Pilot' to the weather page, and yes indeedy, the weather for the entire Outer Banks area looks extremely unsettled. I look out the window. Can this be?

Not knowing how, exactly, these things work, we stick close to home. And it does cloud over. And there is a breath of a breeze now.
Lunch.
Windy now. Quite windy. And the sky is funny. Not exactly darkening but strangely tinted somehow. It is becoming sort of a greyish... well... a sort of greyish-green.
I turn on the TV, (breaking the rule of no TV until kick-back time). There is a wide band of red crawling across the bottom of the screen. It appears to be mid-message, and I catch the words  '...take immediate cover...'  just a few moments before the message repeats, beginning with,
'EXTREME WEATHER ALERT'.
Oh god oh god oh god. Not that I'm panicking. I pull myself together, and consider bundling Chester and me into the car and heading for, (where?), the community centre. But as I read the message again, it gives advice on what to do, and (very kindly) gives a window of half an hour in which this tornado could happen.
I have 10 minutes.
I find my battery-operated radio, water bottle, blanket, flashlight. I lure Chester into the bathroom, (at the very back of the cottage), with a cookie. We shut the door and wait.
When nothing happens, I creep out and check the TV again. The red warning has changed the time to, beginning right now.
The wind, quite shockingly strong now, is shaking the bathroom window, and I try not to think about the spindly stilts which the cottage sits upon. But it is when I see, what looks like a snowball fight, outside the window, (big big hail), that Chester and I shift to plan B, and get into the closet.

I keep the door tight shut for fifteen minutes or so. As I am sitting on the floor, Chester has his head in my lap, wondering what this new game is all about. I'm wondering that too.
I creep out after twenty minutes. All is quiet. Birds are twittering. A glimpse of sun from the breaking clouds.
The cottage is standing.
Again to the TV, as mercifully the power hasn't been effected. Yes, they declare, it is all over. Having missed us to the north, we just caught the tail end.
I give myself some time to adjust before heading outside, (wishing I had a bottle of brandy, my mother's cure for all that ails you). And that my heart rate would return to normal.

Later, as Chester and I head for the sea in the late afternoon, it is like a different day. Still, sunny, warm.
We pass the hotel run by our friends, and she is outside waving cheerfully at us.
She tells me, with a chuckle, that she and her son were outside chatting when the 'snowball fight' hit, but otherwise seems completely at ease about it all.
I, on the other hand, wish my legs would stop shaking.

Weather Diary - Day 14 (Sunday April 2 2006 Sunny 71F)

'On Self'

I work for most of the day on my self-portrait at age twelve.
I am working on this piece, but for two weeks now, it hasn't exactly been my primary focus. In fact, 'working' may not be the right word. More like staring at it, and occasionally applying a few marks. It is faint and soft and ghostly, but like a seashell washed up in the surf and buried in a thin layer of sand, its form is evident.

My desire is to imbue it with who I am as my twelve-year-old self.
As Neil Young says in 'Helpless',
"All my changes were there."
But it is also true that it will be imbued with the rest of me, as life's experiences have a way of showing up in the most unlikely places.

I work on one small area at a time, in a grid-like manner, like an archeologist exposing the layers. It is, I suppose, understandable, that working on a self-portrait would bring about a certain amount of introspection. And my mind wanders, exposing the layers of what makes a person who they are.
I am working on the portrait of my twelve-year-old self, and I catch sight of a photograph, (part of the inspiration I have brought with me), taped to the wall above my worktable.  In glimpsing this photo, I am taken to events from my past which are linked, (in the funny way of life), first to something which happened six years prior to my twelve-year-old self, and then to six years beyond.

Six years prior. A photo, (this particular photo), taken at Hollow River Falls near the town of Dorset, Ontario. I am six, and stand above the jagged rocks, having conquered the worst of them. Taken by my father on a family picnic, at a place we happen upon on a trip through the rural countryside. I only know where this is, as the back of the photo has, written in my father's hand, 'Hollow River Falls, near Dorset'. A spot we chance upon.

But for me, seminal.

And then beyond. I am eighteen, and working at a summer camp in Haliburton.  On this day, three of us are set free on a day off, beginning at 7 p.m. one day, until 7 p.m. the next.
We do what eighteen-year-olds do on a day off, and hike eight miles, (on the one winding road through virtual wilderness), to the nearest pub. On the way, we drop our gear where we plan to sleep, an open spot by a river about a mile from the pub.
It isn't all clear to me now, but I know that the evening involves people, music and beer.
Somehow, I become separated from my two friends. I wait and wait. The pub closes.
I wait.
When a fight breaks out in the parking lot, I decide, (although not in the best of shape to make decisions), to walk back to the spot where we left our gear.
I go it alone, and meet no one. All the world is black. I have a lighter which seems like a tiny speck of light in a vast wilderness, (which it is).

It is a long long lonely road.

Somehow I arrive, guided by the sound of water. I spend a long time trying to locate our gear, imagining the comfort of climbing into my sleeping bag , pulling it over my head, and obliterating everything.
But it is not to be.
I find nothing but trees, rocks and dewy grass. Nearby, I hear the river tumbling over rocks and, not wanting to trip and crack my skull, I curl up in the wet grass and sleep.

As the world imperceptibly lightens, my two friends appear.  I am not amused, and as they sleep, I hike up the river's rocky edge on my own, and stand looking down at them, where they lie in the grass in the first slanting rays of daybreak.
I stand on the jagged rocks. It is not until long after this event that I realize that my father's portrait of my six-year-old self is taken in this very spot, at Hollow River Falls, near Dorset, this spot where I spend a night alone in the wilderness.

It's not really my way to imagine that my six-year-old self guided me to a safe haven, or that my eighteen-year-old self sensed a connection, but.
Well.
And as I draw, exposing the layers of what makes a person who they are, I wonder at these events, inexplicably linked.
And I draw.

Weather Diary - Day 13 (Saturday April 1 2006 Partly Cloudy 74F)

'On Weather'

I have been here, on Ocracoke Island, North Carolina for nearly two weeks. It is the first of April, and we have moved from spring to summer. Perhaps not summer by the calendar, but trees are fully leafed out, flowers in bloom, the air full of insects and birds and sweet scents, the sea, warm(er).
It all has an island feel.
And if I view all from above,
I see the island, the cottage roof, the green marshy sound-side shore, the wide open Atlantic-facing beach, entirely, (as Piglet might say), surrounded by water.

I am here, witnessing the changing weather. I could sit for hours on my west facing screened porch, and watch the clouds move from mainland North Carolina, across the Pamlico Sound, and over the island, where (though out of my sight), they march either up the coast of out to sea.

I am fully entrenched in my daily routine, my artwork, my spiritual reading, my sea study. I carry on with my early morning ritual, beginning at 5 a.m. I work through the day at a pace which suits me, with lots of time devoted to art and study, food, walks, rest.
I have happily become part of the rhythm of the island.

But from Day One, I have begun to flag when the sun sets. In this way, Chester and I are very similar. We have no interest in exerting ourselves after the sun goes down.
On Day One, a (relatively rare) moment of brilliance strikes me.

I will do one simple drawing every evening.

To facilitate this, I do all of the prep work at the end of my afternoon art session.
Before our long long walk on the beach, before my time of sea study, I do what I need to do to bring my simple evening drawing about.

• Clear my work space.
• Open a 14" x 17" pad of 110 lb. acid free paper.
• Measure out  a 10" x 10" square with graphite pencil.
• Apply masking tape around the outside of the square.
• Lay out my tools: oil pastels, pencils, eraser, ruler, scraper, knife.

All is ready.

And this is how it goes from Day One.
Long long afternoon walk, sea study, supper prep, beer, supper, followed by one 10" x10" drawing done each day.
This day is my thirteenth evening drawing. I draw, and as I draw, I recall my day.
Weather, colours, moods, ideas, readings, all part of what comes through me and onto the paper.
I draw.
I don't over-think it. I just draw.
When I am satisfied, after scribbling, blending, scraping, reworking, I carefully peel away the masking tape border. Not only the most fun part, this peeling is deeply satisfying. I see what is basically a drawing of layered scribbles become sharp edged and defined.
I date it, give a weather report, (courtesy of the Virginian-Pilot), say where I am, and sign it.

And the result is - 'Weather Diary' (Day 13)

The sun has set, the sky darkened except for an orange line on the horizon.  A gentle breeze still holds the warmth of the day. The weather report calls for sun and 71F.
Welcome April.

Weather Diary - Day 12 (Friday March 31 2006 Sunny 75F)

'On Family'
     
A memory.
 I am the youngest of four siblings. The entire family stands outside the front door in the pouring rain, as we have, on returning from a day out, been inadvertently locked out, and no one has a key.
I, the smallest, have been lifted up and into the milk chute, the little cabinet-like box adjacent to the front door, normally used by the milkman to deliver milk and retrieve empty bottles.
On this day, I am delivered through the milk chute, head and arms first, my father holding my feet as I crawl through, until I call out "okay", (as my hands touch the floor inside), and am able to right myself.
I am reborn.

My family.
And a (desperate) act of hope and trust. I am supposed to reach up, open the door from the inside, let them all in and be covered with hugs and cheers.
But I do sense, just for a moment, that I am in control.
It's not often that the youngest has power over three older siblings and two (quite wet and tired out) parents. But, for a moment, I relish my control. For a tiny second, I ponder the repercussions of walking away to my room and leaving the rest of them outside.

I am silent.  And still.  As a mouse.

                                                                           *

For the first time in more than forty-five years, I recall this event. Chester and I are outside the door of our rented cottage on Ocracoke Island.
I can't find the key.
I stand at the door at the top of the outside staircase on the sun-filled wooden deck, turn out my purse and pockets, scan the deck, the stairs, the ground, but no sign of a key.
And I recall that distant, long ago, rainy day of my delivery through the milk chute.
When I was in control of my family.
Family.
I think of the old George Burns line:
"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city."
I can relate to this, and not just because they are far away.
And they are far away - my parents, gone, my siblings, scattered around the world, my husband, at home tapping trees for maple syrup production in the damp, slushy Ontario spring.
For a brief moment I see myself as a five year old, in control, and for some reason, as a fifty year old, I take it.
On the sunny deck, I gaze mindlessly, lost in thought.  My mindless gaze takes me to the window adjacent to the front door, and I realize that I have left it open. With surprising ease, I climb through it. The key, I see, is on the kitchen counter.  When I open the door, Chester, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, goes to his water bowl, drinks, then curls up on the sofa.
All is well.
                                                                           *
Back to the rainy day of my childhood, and of my delivery through the milk chute.
I peer through the opening, and see my father's face outside, gently coaxing me on.
It is too much for me, as I see in his face the hope and trust, and decide to let them in.
I reach up to the doorknob with two hands, and turn.
It is not the last time that I save the day (in this way), and for this I am grateful.
Give me my fifteen minutes of fame, and I will relinquish control.
At least, for my family.
All is well.

Weather Diary - Day 11 (Thursday March 30 2006 Sunny 65F)

'On Art'

"Which would you rather be if you had a choice - divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?"
L.M. Montgomery,'Anne of Green Gables'

I have, inside of me somewhere, a little bit of L.M. Montgomery's 'Anne'. As a small child, my mother, (an avid 'Anne' fan from very early on), reads virtually everything 'Anne' to my sister and me. (I have a sneaking suspicion that I am that Anne's namesake.)
But here in my workspace, in the little cottage, in the village of Ocracoke, in the midst of my art pilgrimage, it is this question that I pose to the (inanimate) drawing I'm working on.

'Would you rather be beautiful or clever or good?'

I actually have several artworks on the go. Each time I reach a tricky bit, I move to a different piece, and round and round she goes. (She being me.)
If things are going well, I may suddenly look up, realizing that Chester hasn't been out for hours and hours.
If things are not going well, I sit at my table and stare, glancing at the clock every 30 seconds or so.
But today, things are going well.
Sunny, warm, with a spring air full of sweet scents, I fling open all windows and doors. I spend the first hour priming 24" x 36" masonite boards, boards which are now lying outside on the deck, drying in the sun, Chester sprawled out amongst them.  Inside, I set up three of my art projects.
One, a half-done watercolour of our friends' hotel, (or more accurately, one of the charming vintage buildings on their property).
Two, the work entitled 'Pilgrimage', with drawn figures walking across (what I refer to as) a moonscape.
And three, a long thin strip of canvas tacked to the top of a door and hanging down its full length, with the barest of beginnings of a figure work, a self-portrait at age twelve.

I ponder the 'beautiful or clever or good' question while regarding my 12-year-old self. Or at least, the slowly emerging figure work which I call my 12-year-old self. It is (virtually) life-size, and so far, is a mixture of delicate graphite and soft colour, the colour made with watercolour pencils, thinned out with a wet brush. These wet colour areas, (due to gravity), create long watery trails, giving the figure a sense of earthly attachment.
Beautiful?
I think of my old Scottish art prof, saying "We're not here to paint pretty pictures!"
Or clever?
Perhaps, (in some aspect of this work), I would hope to reflect some cleverness, or the odd moment of brilliance. But, try to get this across, and it shows.
Good then?
What makes art 'good'?

I work on the emerging figure work which I call my 12-year-old self. I find the place deep within, and close everything else out. I work on this piece with intuition, devotion, something akin to love. I don't worry about results. I immerse myself in each step of bringing out the figure. I immerse myself in the process.

I have everything I need today to keep me fully occupied. Not beautiful, not clever, not good. Just
enough, for now, to be in the midst of the process of creating.
The rest will take care of itself.

Weather Diary - Day 10 (Wednesday March 29 2006 Sunny 64F)

On Food

The vegetable man cometh.

I hear that on Wednesdays, a small vegetable market is set up on the lawn in front of the (one and only) bank on the main road of the village of Ocracoke. There are, in fact, two places in the village to buy veggies, but the selection is somewhat limited. I am eager to see what is available from the vegetable man.
And it is one man. He is quite elderly, quite elderly, (a bit of a surprise, considering all of the hefting and toting involved), and has an absolutely genuine coastal North Carolina accent, the kind of accent which is rapidly dying. As each day passes.
He has quite a variety of veggies and fruit. And with a number of eager customers ahead of me, for a good ten minutes I get to ponder my selections, and hear his accent in action.  When it is my turn, I pick out some lovely fresh lettuce, carrots, peppers and peas. Slimmer pickings as far as fruit, but I take a few apples and a bunch of grapes. All packed into a brown paper bag, Chester and I hike back to the cottage, (Chester to curl up on the sofa, and me back to work.)

I eat most of the grapes as I am working. (What is going on with my appetite?)  I am craving the fresh peas in their sweet little pods, and convince myself that the longer I wait, the less flavourful they'll be.

I consume them.  All.   It is 11 a.m.

I am in the midst of the 'Three Hours of Art' part of the day, and am working on a series of mixed media figure works, works on panels intended to become part of one larger work, and which for the time-being, I call 'Pilgrimage', (for obvious reasons).
I am so distracted from my work, (by the contents of the kitchen), that I take a break to flip through the 'Virginian-Pilot'.
Staring at me from the front page of the life section, the word FOOD. Included in the many delights here, a wonderful recipe for 'Black bean, tomato and rice tortillas'. But here's the thing. The great thing. The directions are for microwave preparation.
The cottage does have (what I assume is) a perfectly good gas stove, but due to emotional circumstances beyond my control, I avoid it. I have been here, on this island, in this cottage, for ten days, and have done all of the cooking, ALL of the cooking, (including dozens of cups of tea), in the microwave.

I cut out the recipe and head for the grocery store, the bigger one, I decide, as I am unclear about the likelihood of finding several of the ingredients. But I am impressed by the extent of Mexican foods. There is a whole section of really interesting canned goods, some of which I have no idea, (after turning and turning the can in my hand), what the contents actually are. But I do find what I need, and some. Tortillas, green chiles, diced tomatoes, enchilada sauce, jalapenos, black beans, refried beans, rice, and monterey jack cheese. (The cheese is astonishingly cheap, compared to home.)

I manage, (with some difficulty), to put my new finds away until supper time, and to stick to my regime of art making, long walk and sea study. It is another sun-filled afternoon, the sea a pale blue/grey with yellow sparkling light. But like a small child anticipating Christmas, I can't WAIT for supper prep, and walk quickly.
We are home, and I put on some music - Jerry Jeff Walker, ('Takin' it as it comes'), cranked up. I pour my beer into a bulbous wine glass, lay out my materials and go at them.
I create a little salad as a salute to the vegetable man, cook rice, grate cheese. I put my ingredients in small colourful bowls and lay them out in order (a la Julia Child). I assemble and cook.
The results are spectacular. The tortillas (I have several) are heavenly, the combination of flavours and textures, the oozy cheese, the picante jalapenos - I have hit on the perfect combo, the perfect meal, a signature meal in fact, the 'theme food' for my time on this island.
I am...full.

Weather Diary - Day 9 (Tuesday March 28 2006 Sunny 68F)

'On Pilgrimage'

Buoyed up by yesterday's hugely successful art workday, I do what any self-respecting artist would do.     I take the day off.
Well, not totally true. It's not the whole day, and I do still follow my daily routine. I just replace the 'three hours of art' part of the day with a hike in Hammock Hills.
It is another gorgeous day, (promised by the red sky sunset of last night), and I am eager to go farther afield. Farther than the coffee shop, farther than Red's hardware, the grocery store, the harbour. Farther, but not off the island. That would be a day trip, and I think three hours will do.
I feel the need to walk amongst the trees. The village roads are tree-lined, but Chester and I are confined to road's edge. I know there are taller pines farther north (three miles or so) and this maritime forest, on the Pamlico Sound side of the island, is calling me.
To justify this, I call it a Pilgrimage. Which it really is, as walking on unexplored (by me) ground, I will free my mind and heart and be renewed with freshness and vigour. Or at least, work up and appetite.

Hammock Hills Nature Trail, part of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, is a well marked trail with boardwalk, signposts and information on flora and fauna. But being March, it is not terribly busy. In fact, there is no one. I hesitate at the start of the trail, but Chester is off and away, and I am comforted by three facts.
He is a hundred pound (protective) black lab.
We are unlikely to run into anyone.
There are no bears in Hammock Hills. (Or any large animals, for that matter.)

And that is how it goes. We follow the boardwalk, Chester with his nose to the boards, me stopping to identify trees and shrubs. We turn into the woods when the boardwalk ends, becoming a sandy trail well marked and easily followed. The atmosphere changes, becoming still and enclosed, darker with tall straight pines towering above. It is like entering a cathedral, the music is bird song, the hushed movements that of small creatures. Out again, on the sound side, to a platform overlooking the marshy edges of the western shore of Ocracoke Island, and the bird activity is captivating. I could sit here all day, my legs dangling over the edge, gazing through the grasses and buzzing insects, over the flat still pale grey water.
The trail circles back through the maritime forest, the ground dune-like but sheltered and nurturing. We see a tiny bright green lizard-like creature, a Carolina Anole, basking in the warmth of a dappled sunny spot on the boardwalk.

It's taken less than an hour, but I feel a huge sense of accomplishment, refreshed and hopeful. Hardly Santiago de Compostela, but this camino has led me somewhere too. We have circled back to the beginning, but as with any journey, we are changed by it.
We head back to the village, but as an afterthought, stop on the east side to catch a glimpse of the open sea. Calm, glittering, orderly waves, sun high above. We slip down to water's edge where I wade to knee depth, Chester eying me carefully. I reach into the churned up water, seeing something rolling about with the waves. I pull out a scallop shell, nearly flawless, about four inches across.
Well, that's appropriate. The scallop shell, symbol of pilgrimage.

'Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory (hopes true gage)
And then I'll take my pilgrimage.'
                           -Sir Walter Raleigh

Weather Diary - Day 8 (Monday March 27 2006 Sun 59F)

'On Simplicity'

It is a glorious Monday morning, and I am pumped. It is as if I am enrolled in a course of study, a course of study of all the things I love.
Art-wise that is.

Yes, here I am in this day, on Ocracoke Island, in the midst of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage, ready to begin the day. A day which follows a routine, a rhythm spurred by my proximity to the sea, influenced by the ebb and flow of the tides.

Tea. Spiritual Reading. Walk. Coffee Shop. Three Hours of Art.  Lunch. Short Walk. Read. Nap. Two Hours of Art. Evening Art Prep. Long Long Walk and Sea Study.  Supper Prep. Beer.   Supper.  Evening Art.  Kick Back.  Bed.

Perhaps it is the fact that I am away from life's usual distractions, but it actually seems manageable to be able to immerse myself in my work. All of the wheels are turning in order to give me the space and time to do this.
In a moment of anxiety, of feeling the pressure to produce some decent work, (in the days before I arrive here), I spend time accumulating and listing all of my art ideas, starting points, exercises, visual material, to ensure that I don't find myself with nothing to do.  But those fears are unfounded. I have so much to work from in this place, that I will draw from it for years.
I am (finally) in the midst of practising my art.

And all wrapped up in the idea of practise, is the concept of order. Not being the most organized person, order at least gives a wayward daydreamer a pattern to follow. And the notion of order reminds me of the monastic life of which I have a deep interest, a life of routine and spiritual study and simplicity.

I read an article on abstract expressionist Agnes Martin. I can't get enough of her work, her life, her imagery. Imagery which is simplicity writ large, (if that's not a contradiction in terms), composed of soft graphite lines, grids, and subtle colour fields. Simplicity, order, pattern, organization of space. Minimalism.
I am drinking in the systematic patterns of Agnes Martin. I see washes and delicate lines which come from within her, from a place not of intellectual analysis or study, but from deep within. These works are personal, spiritual, simple and spare. They are intuitive. Peace and joy.

I  am seeking this simplicity.

Regular daily life - so often fraught with complication, desire, abundance, selfishness. While I'm here in this place, I vow to follow a simpler way, perhaps easier here as I am on my own and immersed in my work. But I want to carry it home with me, for the simplicity to stay in me, and for the work I do to come from this place deep within.

Chester and I head for the sea after a day filled (for once) with satisfying work and few breaks. He is bounding ahead, up and away along the boardwalk toward our first glimpse this day of the sea. We are rewarded by  jewel-toned blues and turquoises glinting with golden end-of-day light. Regular gentle waves, a reminder of rhythm and simplicity.
As I take in the whole wide-open scene, I see the sea, both delicate and vigorous, and  think of Agnes Martin, her work, my own work, and the place deep within.

Weather Diary - Day 7 (Sunday March 26 2006 Sunny 56F)

'On Childhood'

Sunday Service - 11 A.M.

So reads the sign in front of the
Ocracoke United Methodist Church.
As I am on a spiritual journey as well as an art pilgrimage, and as I need all of the influences I can get on the subject of spirituality, and as I am eager for social contact as well as inspiration, I go.
I am slightly apprehensive, knowing very little about the NC church-going experience. I wonder if my assumption that it is similar to ours is merely wishful thinking.
But it is lovely. Quite a large congregation (comparatively speaking), lady minister, (good speaker), lots of singing, (slightly different slant on the hymns, some of which I know), a few smiles and welcomes directed at me.
And children. It is almost always more interesting for me when there are children present. Some are sitting very quietly between parents. Some participate in the music. Others are running around outside.
I spend a fair bit of the service just taking it all in, especially the southern-style wooden church itself, which puts me in mind of another church on the other side of the world, and as this completely occupies my thoughts, I daydream.

I am four, and the youngest of four siblings. My ambitious parents take us from Toronto, Ontario to Auckland, New Zealand, where we live for sixteen months. We travel by ship - I am impressed enough by these events to carry them with me through life. But it is the sense of smell which is strongest, and this I can conjure up at any time. The ropey tar-like salty smell on deck, the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked dinner rolls in the dining room, the wafts of tropical flowers, frangipani, as we watch little islands pass in the south Pacific, the smell of paper and rubber and children in the playroom, the wood and linen and soap smell in the dim light of a sleepy cabin.
We arrive.
I begin school in Auckland, on my fifth birthday, cementing the place in my memory forever.  I tie my own tie (school uniform), begin to read, learn to play 'knucklebones', and foster a lifelong love of hot-meat-pies. (Oh, and of course, lamb.)
As a family, we sail our little boat in the bay, swim, picnic, hike. We attend church in a small plain wooden building, where I gaze longingly at the bare feet of local children, (as we are forced into proper shoes). Our home has no phone or television, but with an enormous garden, quiet street and lots of children to play with, here we run barefoot. When I am told that we are moving back to Canada, I cry.
I am heartbroken. After all, sixteen months is a big chunk of life when you are five. (And no one gives me a straight answer about the likelihood of finding a hot-meat-pie stand in Canada).
My parents, for the rest of their lives, remember it as an amazing adventure, but I think of their hopes for a less materialistic life and equal society, and wonder if disappointment has a role. We settle easily back into Canadian life,  and within a couple of years, our much loved baby brother is born.
What remains of that sixteen months?  A tiny bright flicker within me.

I am back in the little wooden Ocracoke church.
'Shall We Gather at the River?' and it is over. I make my way home to Chester, past the reds and pinks of the azaleas, past the one and only Ocracoke School, ('Home of the Dolphins'), the playground, the outdoor basketball court, the coffee shop, all singing and ringing with the high birdlike chirp of children. I am welcomed by Chester, (as if I'd left him for a month), and we head for the sea, the beach, and more of childhood, on this soft and sunny and memory-laden day.

Weather Diary - Day 6 (Saturday March 25 2006 Partly cloudy 54F)

On Colour

Vermilion. NaplesYellow. Pale Turquoise.WarmWhite. Olive Brown.
Five of the oil pastels nestled in my toolbox, just for days like this. When the light is so sensuous, so tangible, that getting it all down is my only consideration.
I remove just these colours - Olive Brown (earthy, elemental), Warm White (soft, clean), Pale Turquoise (bright, fresh), Naples Yellow (sunny, creamy), and my fire, my soul, Vermilion (so rich, red, blood-like, that it is practically a living thing) - and spend the day with them, and a 14" x 17" pad of 110 lb. acid free white paper, 100% recycled.

Some hours later, on a dog-walk around and about the village, (a dog- walk strictly due to necessity), I manage to reconnect with old friends. They are the owners of the hotel where we have stayed at times in years past. ( Doug and I, that is, not Chester, it being a 'no pets' establishment.) They are a lovely couple, originally from inland NC, and now on this island and in the business of running a hotel with their son and daughter-in-law. We exchange phone numbers, and they tell me not to hesitate to call on them in an emergency, or if I get myself in a 'tight'. She and I chat for some time. She's interested in the art I'm working on, and mentions that, sometime, she would love to have some watercolour paintings done of their place. The hotel accommodation is made up of several charming older buildings. I am both keen and willing to give it a shot.
 I have (luckily) brought with me a beautiful little travel box of watercolour paints, (as I felt they may come in handy at some point), and an 8" x 10" block with 15 sheets of good quality hot press watercolour paper. She tells me that she will find  some photos for me to work from, and we make a plan to have tea at my place.

Well.  I have arrived.  Now, I'm (almost) a 'local'.
I have friends (plural).  I have a project.  I have social plans.  I am ecstatic.  I'm not sure I qualify as a hermit anymore.

It is this course of events which leads to the opening of the little travel box of watercolour paints.

And, oh, the colours.

I realize that, with a range of (some 50) colours, I can capture every subtle shade and nuance of this glittering light-filled place. It is like opening a box of chocolates.
I pore over the wooden box with its slatted dividers, each tiny compartment holding a half-pan, a little square of paint. But, the names intrigue me as much as the colours themselves. The colour names are a whole different language, a painter's language, a language with a deep, long history:

bismuth, gamboge, cobalt,
antwerp blue, potter's pink, alizarin crimson,
indigo, sepia, ochre,
burnt sienna, terre verte, caput mortuum

And so begins my love affair with watercolour - incorporated into the mix, into my daily rhythm.