THE SUN SETS QUIETLY BENEATH AUBURN CLOUDS. CLOUDS HOVER HERE. WISPS OF STRATA TRANSITION ACROSS THE LAND AND MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE SEA. BEYOND THE DARKNESS OF DESCENDING NIGHT, WIND WHIPS THROUGH THE CITY FROM THE FURTHEST SHORE.
Beyond the islands that make up Washington’s archipelago, one is aware of how small we are, at the edge of the world. The sea stretches out into nothing. Beyond the furthest edge of the nothingness the horizon appears as one faint line.
Feeling’s a hard
Thing to do well —
And slightly absurd;
I’d rather smell.
How different the language between land and sea are from one place to the next. Seattle, has tamed its shore. Green space succumbs to the ever present demand of the city. It is tucked away to a tidy overlook park, or positioned on a ledge of some sort and organized to capture the most spectacular view. Secondary to the urban context. A main highway separates the city from the water in the place where the shoreline used to be. It is really just the light that reminds one of the ocean.
We reflect back to the earth what we absorb from it; we give back what we take in; what seeps in. In Seattle it is the light.
That dance of space, the rotation of the sky…..
city lights at night
the passing of the weather
a tumultuous sky…
There is something magic about this imposition on the land. At night rows of homes climb the hills of Seattle and reveal the shape of the earth. The city shimmers.
My courage kisses the ground.
I am looking out over the ocean this evening. The atmosphere is dark, and the is sky stormy. I keep having dreams of tornadoes, imposing on old Victorian houses. Collections of women run upstairs in these dreams, banding together against the violence outside. Perhaps this is a metaphor for change. Events in life wash over us and we are different afterward. There are few boundaries between our interior and exterior spaces. The very fine skin between ourselves and otherness is permeable. Unlike raindrops on a pane of glass, much seeps through and saturates our interior. Color and light. The act of making art is in many ways about giving back. Reflecting some of this change in what we are making. Colors, impressions return from outside and come through us in our work. It is the most palpable expression of how impressionable we are as human beings. Perhaps this is a reflection of our humanity — being a conduit for the vastness that surrounds us. Writing about change today. I am not sure where to begin. What is this place to me now. What will this moment be about. Where am I going.
If you can’t think, at least sing.
About feeling in work, in landscape work. Working in this realm, in this story of artists — finding a meeting point at the center. Clarifying this — the artist legacy, the landscape legacy — where these two things meet. With cage, perhaps. Change. Chance.
Finding myself in Freeway park accidentally. On wandering in the city.
Being open to miraculous encounter
Appreciating the scale of Seattle, the rise and fall of mounds of earth, emerging out of the sea. Enclosing freshwater.
A cloud climbs to the moon;
Thought within thought can be
Bleak stone upon bleak stone.
An opening from above, into the light of presence. Being present in a windstorm, with the sky alight and raging. A sharpening of the senses. Ah the trees. So visible again. All the peculiarities of bark and dried nut laid bare. A slight shimmering in the arc of a branch. The light from above, flickering. And the tree wavering.
By light, light; by love, love; by this, this.
poetry adapted from T. Roethke