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Feb 3, 2018

The Power of Butterflies.


On Saturday I leave the house just after eight, amazed I resisted the temptation to sleep in. It's a half hour drive to Beazell Memorial and I hate driving but I feel it's time to invest more in my painting and visit new places.

On the way, the sun broke through the grey behind me and cast an eerie golden light on the meadows and trees outside Philomath heightening the sense of adventure I feel about wandering into the woods with art supplies. At the park there is only one other car in the lot. I put on my boots and grab my pack, the sound of Plunckett Creek soothing me so deeply I feel like one of those compact sponges that expand when you put them in water.

I head up the trail on the left, faint memories telling me it will loop around to the trail on the right. These woods are mossy, full of thin trees, some bowed over in grand arcs along the rushing creek, Pacific Wrens singing their long intricate warbles from every corner.

Sometimes the expectation to gather sketches from which to paint hinders it's own goal; as I look around for paintings the trees begin to look uniform and disorganized, a little on the bland side.

I focus instead on hiking, the satisfying pull of the uphill, the clean, damp air, the cathedral of trees leaning over the trail from either side. When the path leads high above the creek in its tiny valley I stop to look out. It reminds me of Balch Creek in Portland and this memory of my favorite hike brings a pain to my heart. It’s not the kind of nostalgic devastation that has some redeeming poignancy. It is just an ache, unadulterated with any ideas that might define it as a loss to grieve or a plea to move back.

 Looking for a job, moving, getting settled in a new routine, these all take time and time is the thing I covet: coming home at lunch to paint for 20 minutes, shirking off chores to write, staying up late to finish an illustration. It took so many years to learn how to make art instead of thinking about making art that I am wary of interrupting it, but this ache is not interested in practicalities.

I keep walking, trying to hang out casually with this feeling as though we are friends. I come to the end of the trail I thought was a loop. There is a large metal gate with a Private Property sign on it, beyond which the woods have been clear-cut and I see that the fog has settled in along the ridge line, the morning sun gone. It feels like an augury, a comment on my ache: eventually each thing will end but some endings will be nothing more than a metal gate. This sense of loss may even be a seedling on land I haven’t given myself permission to enter.

I head back down the hill, stopping to check out possible painting spots. I am restless and every grouping of trees seems to be lacking in interest, too close together, too similar. The more spots I look at the less potential I see for a painting until I almost convince myself I do not even like painting trees.

I remember a few years ago, walking down this hill with an ex boyfriend. He was trying to get back together without promising that anything would be different which was not enticing except that I loved the attention. Except that as we walked dozens of silvery butterflies fluttered about our feet, their blueish wings flashing here and there so quickly you could never get a good look at the almost iridescent color. The power of butterflies to enchant a soft heart! The draw of things hinted at! We turned back before reaching the end of the trail and did not know we were on a dead end.


I stop to have a snack, decide the trees to my left will have to do; a mediocre painting day is more appealing than not even trying. As I sketch I see how the group of trees are unique, their lumpy moss coats, the way one has two branches arcing from either side, the little moon shaped piece of creek between them.

When I feel I have enough information to paint I pack up and head down the last leg of the trail, suddenly everything around me is an exquisite scene that would be lovely to sketch. The pain in my heart is gone, it's question unanswered while the creek rushes by inviting me to come back and hike the other trail to its end.

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