Weather Diary - Epilogue

Final Week

And so it goes.
The self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage being over, we have a week of real holiday time - outdoor eateries, lying on the beach, strolling through the village. And in the evenings, (while Chester begins his night's sleep), we cycle up to Howard's for a pitcher of beer and (if we're lucky) a bit of the hockey playoffs on the screen at the bar.

The highlight of the week is unexpected. Our hotel-owning friends, entertaining visitors from inland NC, invite us over for a real North Carolina fish fry. We are delighted to be included, but completely unsure of the protocol for such occasions. (Being Canadians).
Do we dress up?
Do we bring something to contribute to the meal?
And, a bigger dilemma. At home we'd take a case of beer, or a bottle of wine.
Or both.
Is that how it's done here, we wonder?

We solve this by putting both beer and wine in the car, to be retrieved (or not) as soon as we see the lay of the land. We also bring one of our favourite NC appetizers, pimiento cheese and crackers,
('pimenna' cheese being that glorious creamy spread, only ever experienced by us here in Ocracoke.)
We wear our 'best' (not great) beach holiday attire.
And we leave Chester at home.

There are eight or ten people visible as we pull up.
Having been a bit of a rainy and blustery afternoon, they are congregated under shelter, but the evening is clearing.
We approach, bearing our edible offerings, and immediately see a beer in our host's hand.
Relaxing, we admit that we have brought some drinkables to contribute to the festivities, if that would be alright.

After introductions and handshakes, the first question asked by one of the visitors is,
"How do you pronounce the word 'p-e-c-a-n' in Canada?"
We (mercifully) pronounce it the same way as these North Carolinians, and this leads to talk of accents in general, ours in particular, the consensus being that we sound kind of 'formal' - even British.
We persuade some of the guests to try our wine, and the evening moves into full swing.

The cooking is done in a large deep-fryer called a 'fry-daddy'.
(The name 'fry-daddy' alone being enough to make the evening for us).
It all feels so Southern.
Various salads are set out to go along with the shrimp, scallops, oysters, drum, etc.
It is wonderfully, delightfully casual, all of us standing about, paper plates in hand, watching the 'fry- daddy' do its thing, and sampling the crispy morsels as they come out of the bubbling peanut oil.
I am particularly partial to the shrimp, and think (afterwards) that I probably single-handedly consumed 30 or 40 of the (sweet tender delicious) little darlings.

The evening, in spite of being breezy and overcast, has an underlying summery heat, so typical here.
We mill about until well after dark. When we do take our leave, so genuinely grateful for this slice of Southern hospitality, good conversation and excellent food, we drift home full and happy and ready for sleep.

The week winds down, and the prep for the return trip to Ontario cranks up.
I have mounds of artwork to bundle and stash in the car, to say nothing of clothing, gear, and many many etceteras.

I need to be by myself.

Doug and Chester leave me to it, heading for a harbour walk. I systematically empty the trunk of the car and re-pack it, stowing the 24" by 36" artworks first, and following with everything else, except what is needed for our last night.
As I place the cartons of art supplies, the folders of drawings, the clippings, photos, shells, colour samples, magazines, books, the carefully folded fishing net, all into the trunk, I can't help but feel sad, a lump tightening in my throat.
Lying in the top of one box, a folded sheet of paper trapped in the pages of a book, fluttering in the breezy descent from cottage to car.

I unfold it and read these words:

"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by."
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and a white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking."

John Masefield's Sea Fever.
A poem that speaks to me of my island ancestry, my yearning for the sea, and most especially, of my time on Ocracoke Island.
My time here drawing to an end.

"I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying."

Perhaps one last long walk in the dying light of day.
I want to walk in the cold two inch deep, last-gasp-of-another-rolling-breaker, just before roll-back.
One last time.

"I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over."

.

Weather Diary - Day 28 (Sunday April 16 2006 Easter Sunday Sun and Cloud 80F)

'On Love'

"I love you for putting your hand into my heaped up heart
and passing over all the foolish weak things
that you can't help dimly seeing there
and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful belongings
that no one else has looked quite far enough to find."
-from the writings of the Jewish poet Martin Buber

Easter Sunday. Ocracoke NC.

I wake at 4:30 a.m. and there is no going back to sleep. I make a cup of tea in the trusty microwave, and climbing back into bed, read the words beginning "Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark...", words I almost know by heart, the words of the Easter Story. The dog snores gently. I am a quivering jangle of excited nervousness. Or nervous excitement. Not sure which.
At 6:00 a.m. I will get in the car, drive to the 'Lifeguard Beach', walk the boardwalk in the semi-darkness toward the shore, and facing east, stare out over the Atlantic, waiting for the sun to rise.
Easter morning service on the beach.
I get ready. I pull on my (as yet unworn) dressy pink silk skirt, black hoodie, leaving my feet bare.
I rouse Chester at 5:50,but he will not be moved. (After all, it's still dark.) Having planned on taking him with me to the service-on-the-beach, I hesitate, not sure what to do. But he decides for us, (in lab-like fashion), by firmly burying his nose in the depths of the covers, and showing zero interest as I go out the door.
I comfort myself with the fact that I will be back in an hour or so, (still before his normal waking time), and then we will switch gears for the activities of the rest of the day.

There are twenty or so cars in the parking lot. As I scan the still-dark world around me, I see a family heading beach-ward.
My bare feet, on the cool weathered boardwalk, follow.

The service involves lots of singing, instrumental music, short readings, prayers, all thrown skyward. At 6:41, the first blazing sliver of sun appears, rising out of the sea.
For a moment, there is silence as everyone takes it in.
And then the beach is filled with song. Not like church hymns, bouncing off the ceiling and walls and circling throughout.
But sharper. Clearer. Fleeting. Staying on earth only a moment, and then rising up and out of earshot.
Like a balloon of sound floating up and out to sea.

Following the service, there is a bit of social time on the beach. I speak to a few people, including the minister. She asks where I am from, and I tell her.
"Canada?!" she exclaims, as if I had said 'Siberia'.

Three hours later, Chester and I are on the road.
Walked, breakfasted, coffeed.
There is a bit of a queue for the Ocracoke-to-Hatteras ferry, but we, (in the little Tercel), manage to squeeze on, the last car to board. Although I have allowed lots of wiggle room time-wise, I am thrilled we are not having to wait for the next ferry. Not liking the ferry ride much, Chester sits in the back seat looking uncomfortable. He is only attentive to my efforts to distract him when I mention that we are going to see DAD.
(DAD being Doug.)
I know. I know.
Chester probably hears 'blah blah blah DAD', but his reaction to the word DAD is enough to make me believe he is the smartest dog in the world.
Once the ferry docks, we are heading northward (I tell him) for three hours, meeting DAD at the Norfolk VA airport, then driving three hours south to board (once again) the Hatteras-to-Ocracoke ferry, and spending a week at our little cottage.
With Dad.
A week of biking, swimming, strolling.
A week of restaurants, outdoor eateries, bars.
A week of lying on the beach.

The self-inflicted-hermit's-pilgrimage is (almost) over.

We do have a map with us.
But Chester is a lousy co-pilot.
I am driving the (very busy) eastern branch of the main highway through Norfolk VA, desperately trying to spot the airport sign. The map is on the seat beside me, but I can't read it and drive, and I can't (very easily) pull off right now.
I take a chance on the next major exit. I'm pretty certain this is right.

I glance left and right. No airport signs. Hmm.
The houses become more stately. The road divided by a boulevard, treed, green and floral.
Somehow, not looking airport-like.
I turn the car around, heading back to the main highway. Spotting a waiting bus, the driver outside, I ask him, (staring longingly at the cup of take-out coffee he holds), if he can point me to the airport.
Easy, says he.
I am now cutting it mighty close.

We arrive.
A bit of time to spare, thank God.
I need to pee so badly, I'm not sure I'd make it into the building to search for facilities.
And Chester is most anxious to get out of the car.
It has beautiful grounds, this airport. There is a little copse of woods in the centre of the parking lot, with criss-crossing foot paths, and lots of undergrowth. As there is no one about, Chester and I enter the woods.

Happily, there is now no longer any urgency.
We will wait for him outside.
We have a good 15 minute walk, and then things begin to happen. Obviously, something has landed, as people with suitcases scurry about. We head closer to the main doors, so as to spot him as he exits.
But looking left and right, I'm befuddled in this, not exactly a 'crowd', but a rush of people, all knowing where they're going.
Hard to look about when in the middle of it all.

Chester suddenly pulls hard on the leash, almost causing a dislocation. Nose down, he drags me against the rush of people.
What the...
People are skipping out of the way of Chester, the leash and me, so as not to entangle themselves.
And then I see.
He finds what he is after.
On his hind feet, Chester's front paws are on some man's chest, (a bearded man), licking his face madly.

It's Dad.

The three of us have a happy reunion.

Love.

I am awash in it.
I have made it through my self-inflicted-hermit's-pilgrimage, and am ecstatic with
a) where my art is going,
b) where I am spiritually,
and
c) the presence of this man.
We head slowly to the car. To Ocracoke Island.  Home.

Love.

"I love you because you are helping me to make
out of the lumber of my life not a tavern but a temple;
out of the works of my every day not a reproach but a song."

The Jewish poet Martin Buber. His words speaking to me.

Love.

"I love you because you have done
more than any creed could have done to make me good,
and more than any fate to make me happy."

Love.

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.