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