loss and creativity

My mother in law, Hendrina van Schoonhoven Rodenburg, died in December of 2018. She was 88 years old, just two days short of her 89th birthday.

When she passed, I lost a person I have known  for 50 years. In that time, our relationship not only covered a half-century of days, it covered a lot of dynamics and transformations.

At the end of her life, she was truly one of my best friends.

Hendrina always loved nature. She discovered hiking later in life, but once she did, she pursued it with a passion. She loved plants and flowers and living creatures. She and I watched many nature programs together. I even took her to my favorite Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge so that she could enjoy nature in the first person. We saw turtles and egrets, herons and ducks, songbirds and deer. She loved it.

In the last years of her life, she lived just a couple of miles away from us. Even as her health declined, we were able to figure out fun things to do together. We played cards and Mexican Train, consulted on knitting patterns, planted flowers, talked a lot, and listened to music.  She and I shared a love of listening to, and playing music.

Hendrina at the organ

My time became her time. At first, I resented the loss of my own creative time, but I could see how much her spirits lifted when I was around. She relaxed when she knew I was in charge. I stopped measuring my personal time and stayed focused on her quality of life. I believed that I could get back to my artwork and music eventually. My creativity showed up in finding new recipes Hendrina might enjoy, or new card games we could play, or a new plant for her to care for and water. We found ways to joke about doctor appointments and hospital stays.

Five months after her death, I am only now digging out from overwhelming grief. It clings to me, trips me and holds me down with my air knocked out. I have moments of happiness, too, and fewer days of tears.

Still, getting back to my creative life is hard. Much harder than I expected. Progress is slow, but it is still moving in the direction I desire. Just yesterday, I went to my beloved Refuge and watched the birds and other wildlife. I sketched the tree trunk below, and while I did, I saw small blue birds pop out of their little home. I felt the healing power of nature in that moment.

When she knew her days were numbered, Hendrina hugged me told me to not be sad. Her death, she explained, was just a part of nature. She urged me to enjoy my life, to hug my kids and grandkids and love every minute of my life. And she told me how much she loved me.

Tree Swallow, Ridgefield NWR

I miss her more than words can say. I know that my life has been enriched by having her in it. What the head knows, the heart takes longer to accept. I guess that is the truth of life and death, for all of us.

Hendrina van Schoonhoven Rodenburg 1929 -- 2018

One of her favorites, Andrea Bocelli with Sarah Brightman, "Time to Say Goodbye."

shell shock

Sketchbook page. 9 x 9. Ink and watercolor.

It is just days after November 8, 2016, and the outcome from the presidential race still has me numb with shock. More than feeling sad that my choice (Hillary Clinton) did not win, I am overwhelmed with sadness and despair for our country. President-Elect Donald Trump campaigned on fear and hatred. His character of disrespect and violence shone through in the ways he spoke and acted in this last 18 months of our attention and his national stage. And millions of Americans voted for him.

I am sick.

As the title of this post suggests, it feels like shell shock.

    Shell shock is term coined to describe the reaction of some soldiers in World War I to the trauma of battle. It is reaction to the intensity of the bombardment and fighting that produced a helplessness appearing variously as panic and being scared, or flight, an inability to reason, sleep, walk or talk. -- Wikipedia

Oyster. Monotype. 12 x 12.

 While the election cycle was not at all like the horrors the soldiers saw during World War I, it brought its own share of horrors. "Shell shock" seems fitting for this election experience. All it takes is to listen to my friends who are immigrants, minorities, LGBT, female, disabled, dependent of medical insurance they finally got by virtue of the Affordable Care Act.

Abalone. Monotype. 12 x 12

Once the overwhelming sadness and numbness passes, I will sort out for myself how I will live in positive and courageous ways for the four years of President Trump's term. I genuinely HOPE that his will be a good presidency and that the people in our country will live well under his leadership. All of the people of this country.

In the meantime, I grieve. And I look for beauty and nature and kindness and love and life. For now, it's the best I can do.

Great Blue Heron at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge

 I know that I am not the only dreamer, but peace seems very far away.

"Imagine."

ink: tree with color

Monotype. 13 x 6.5 on BFK.

A morning at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge turned into an afternoon of printmaking.

At the Refuge, I love the natural, beautiful, slow decay of the older trees. Over time, they become "nurse trees" for younger seedlings. This tree was a shell of dry bark holding the shape while the inside was wet and rotting and stunning.

I cannot help but think about my father (who is on my mind a lot these days). His dementia has left him a shell of his former self and now disease is causing further decay on the inside places.

It comforts me to see the tree and think of my father. Life is short. And beautiful. Stunning at the end.

settling back in at home

After a long trip, it takes a while for me to get settled in at home again. With all of the spring rains we've had (a record breaking wet March in Portland!), the wetlands at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge were ... wet!

Red Wing Blackbirds were trying to outdo one another in the vocal part of the contest to win the females.

The geese were paired up, mostly in sets of two but every so often I saw a group of three and had to wonder about those guys. Wouldn't you?

Baby animals are always cute, even this little baby nutria. He was munching on the tender shoots that were just up after a few sunny days. Cute, yes, but destructive as all get out!

It seems that everywhere I look, beautiful abstract compositions call out to me. No wonder I love this place so much.

Even though I've been home now for a couple of weeks, I feel more settled now that I have been to the refuge. Ahh.

all is well at the refuge!

Porcupine

American Bittern

all is well, safely rest

Sunday report from the Refuge

It's been a while since I mentioned the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge, but don't draw the conclusion that I don't go there anymore. I do! This sign marks the entrance, just turn down the gravel road, cross the railroad tracks, cross over the Columbia River Slough on the one lane wooden bridge, and you are there!

Today I didn't see the Sandhill Cranes in the refuge. No, they were gorging themselves on corn in the nearby farmer's field. Just last week I watched the farmer harvesting his acres of corn and I wondered if the cranes would remember previous years of good eating there. Apparently they remembered and told their friends, too!

The fields were filled with Canada Geese and Sandhill Cranes and the racket they made was terrific! Mine was not the only car pulled off on the side of the road to experience this. Trilling and trumpeting and gossiping birds and all of it in the beautiful pink/gold evening glow of a perfect Fall day.

With all of those delicious birds around, you have to know that there are predators lurking in the Refuge, too. I spent a lot of time watching this coyote. And he watched me, across a small ditch filled with water!

As I watched him, I couldn't help but think of many Saturday mornings when I was growing up. Sitting in the den with my sibs and my dad, we all watched Saturday morning cartoons. Dad loved the Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons (by Warner Brothers) and he would laugh and laugh and laugh at Coyote's antics.

When I watched the coyote today and thought of my dad, I could almost hear his laughter.

What was your favorite Saturday morning cartoon?

Whooooo

These owlets were a special treat for me today at the Refuge! With their shaggy fur-for-feathers look, they seemed more like prehistoric creatures than birds.

Peering at me with their outlined eyes, they seemed to ask "Whoo do you love?"

It's alright ...

I've just got to get some rest ...

Oil frustration for the birds

24 x 24, oil on stretched canvas

Goslings making bubbles in the water

Ruddy Duck has an amazing blue bill

I wanted this oil painting to work. I had a nice strong start and then it seemed to fall apart the more I worked on it. I will scrape it off tomorrow. But, in the meantime, since the sun was shining, I zipped over to the Wildlife Refuge to see what was new over there. 

What a treat to see Canada Geese parents and babies! These babies looked only a day old, with their downy soft fur and barely formed winglets. The parents kept careful watch over them and I kept my distance. 

Ahh. I feel better now. Tomorrow I will scrape off the painting and try again.

Far Away Nearby

9 x 12 on recycled Pastelmat

"Well, my kids decided that it was a good idea for me to live near one of them," my father told me today on the phone from Florida. We have had this conversation many times before. I am one of his kids. He forgets that sometimes. I helped him move last year from Southern California to an assisted living facility in Tampa Bay, to be near my brother and his family.

Dad forgets a lot of things. It's a sad part of dementia. Some days I can laugh off the absurdities. Some days I just feel sad. Today was one of those days. When my tears start, I try to end the conversation quickly.

"I love you, Dad. I'll talk to you soon."

"I love you, too, honey. I always love to hear the sound of your voice." He is completely sincere. But, he will not remember that I called when he talks to my brother just a few minutes later.

Vibrant cobalt sky is queen!

9 x 12 on recycled Wallis Museum paper

In the winter, the grasses are stripped of their color and the vibrant cobalt sky is the queen looking in her water mirror to ask who is the fairest of all.

Nightmare

Last night I dreamed that a cloud of radioactive air moved across the ocean to my Refuge, poisoning the water, the air, and the birds. I woke up with a terrible headache that has stayed with me. I am thankful that I can wake up from a nightmare. Thinking today of those who can not.

I've seen that road before

Lighten the sky, darken the curving shape and now it looks more like a road than a pond. 

Savage Dance

Duck Pond, Refuge 3, 9 x 12, pastel on BFK

When my sons were little, my serious piano practice time was right after I put them to bed. On special nights, I would let them call out requests. "Play the Mozart!" And I would play the Sonata or Fantasy, perhaps part of the Concerto. Sometimes I would only hear silence when I finished, meaning that they had fallen asleep. But, sometimes I would hear the sound of their little hands clapping. And then, "Play the Gershwin!" I would play the Preludes. 

But, when they called out "Play the Bartok!" I would answer "No, no! I am sorry but your request is denied!" They would giggle and try to cajole me into playing the Bartok, but I knew that if I did, they would jump from their beds and dance to the compelling rhythms.

Bartok was saved for daytime practice only. And when I played, no matter what the boys were doing, they would run to the piano and dance wildly, what we called the "Savage Dance." One of our favorites, the Dance No. 6 in Bulgarian Rhythm, had a time signature of "3+3+2 over 8" which means that every measure is organized in pulses that go like this: 1-2-3,1-2-3,1-2. Say it out loud, without pausing at the commas. Now, say it again with a little emphasis or accent on the "1"s. 1-2-3,1-2-3,1-2. Again and again. Savage Dance.

On days when I am unsettled, when I feel wild inside, on these days I feel the Savage Dance. And I go to the Refuge.

Seasonal Pond at the Refuge

9 x 12, pastel on BFK

"Let us consider the way in which we spend our lives." 

Henry David Thoreau in Life Without Principle, 1863

Cattail Meditation, new project in development phase

photo credit: R.C. Clingman

cattail meditation

Tundra Swans

I have been thinking about a project centered on my favorite Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge. Enya's music always stirs me to think more, feel more, consider differently. The perfect accompaniment for a day of pondering a new project.

Analogous palette

analogous color design
10 x 10
pastel on BFK


Kingfisher and Egret

Same shapes in the painting, different colors. While both yesterday and today's paintings feel serene, today's painting feels much more quiet.

Sunshine early in the day compelled me to the refuge. I was thrilled to see the Kingfisher (typically a jittery, chittering, quick flying bird, this guy stayed perched long enough for me to catch him with this photo). I watched the Egret catch a vole and swallow it whole just before I took the photograph. Life is always good and abundant at the Refuge!

Friday with friends

more thumbs today at the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge

bald eagle and prey (duck)

water, birds, trees
a perfect refuge!

random scarecrows

delightful gestures

I am fortunate to have good art friends. Today we spent time at my favorite spot, the Ridgefield National Wildlife Refuge. Sketching, talking, laughing, enjoying the landscape, listening to bird calls, more talking. It was a fantastic day.

How about you?

Swans like gods

too much yellow ochre on this oil painting
scrape, scrape, scrape

We've had some very cold days this last week. So cold that much of the water at the wildlife refuge is now ice. The tundra swans are always kind of full of themselves. Today, they walked on the water like gods. There will be no reasoning with them after this!

Watercolor Refuge

Watery Refuge
watercolor on full sheet
Arches, cold press 140#