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.