Our next stop was an orchard between Sister Bay and Ellison Bay. The cherries are ripe for picking starting this week. We'll probably have to get some on our way back to Green Bay on Tuesday. Don't they look like gems in the sunlight?
Next I showed off The Clearing where I go every year for a writing workshop. One of the staff that I see every year was pinch-hitting as the welcome hostess today so we got to visit a bit. She gives good hugs.
After showing off one of the cabins we walked down to the Council Ring where we admired the bay and the breeze. On the way down the path we saw this tree that looked to me like it was signaling a right turn. Then we walked on to the Schoolhouse to look at the mural and the weaving sculpture. They understood why I save all year to spend a week there; it's just so peaceful.
When we left The Clearing I asked BV to drive a mile up the road to Garrett Bay where DS and I floated Durwood's ashes last fall. I just wanted to have a quiet visit with him but the place was teeming with divers. First I saw DM and his wife, JM; D has a torpedo shaped propeller he mounts on his tank to assist him as his legs have gotten weaker due to childhood polio. Next was M and his son C who'd just gotten certified last weekend. Another diver walked down the boat launch and when M said my name he turned to me and said, "Are you B? I'm TR." OMG, I hadn't seen him in 15 years at least. He was a very active diver when I first started working at the shop but his job changed or something, but there he was today. Finally as we walked back to the car another diver came walking down to the water, looked up, and said, "Hi, B!" Another long-time dive shop customer. What are the chances that I'd see five people who had been customers when I haven't seen any in over a year? Rare, that's what. But I felt like Durwood had a bit to do with that, making sure I had a happy visit to Garrett Bay instead of a sad one. That Durwood, still taking care of me. *shakes head*
On the way back to our condo we stopped at The Door County Creamery where TW and I split a BLT and BV had the world's biggest prosciutto salad. We saved room for goat's milk gelato and probably will have to have more tomorrow. So. Good.
I cast on a camera strap cover this morning but I'm not sure I'll continue using this yarn; it isn't very soft. I'm sure I have softer yarn at home, lots of it. Something in baby llama perhaps. I won't need the cover the next few days anyway, I forgot the battery charger for my new camera and none of the charger cables we have with us fits. Drat. It's a good thing I have my phone to take pictures with.
28 July--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon.
I was ready to be the worst in
class and spent a lot of time before the drive agonizing over how I'd fit into
the scheme of things. But once class got
started I found out that skill-wise I was somewhere in the middle and didn't
have to worry. Merely being in class and
loving to paint was enough to fit in.
Most of the
students had been painting for years and many of them had followed Laurel from
Rockford to take her class. For all she
looked like the prototypical grandmother with her fluffy white curls, round
cheeks, and ready smile, Laurel was a tough teacher demanding the best from her
students and herself. As the days
passed, I could see my paintings take on a life they hadn’t had before.
Early in the week Connie had read me
a poem she’d written called “Wise Woman” about loss. It was full of images I itched to paint. It was the first time words, instead of
things I could see, made me want to pick up my brushes.
wise woman
wise woman
She stood on the
shore of Lake Michigan,
feet firmly
planted in the sand.
Cloak tightly
wrapped to ward off the January chill.
January/Janus.
A time of
looking forward – and back.
A time of
reflection and change.
No matter how
tightly she held the cloak,
the coldness
within would not subside.
She did not
expect nor seek a warming yet,
just a calming
of the restlessness that roamed her soul.
Roamed through
all those empty places.
Places where
memories pulled her back.
Places that
could swallow the joy from life
if she let
them. But the woman was a wise teacher.
Healer. Truth
seeker.
And knew it was
time to turn inward, focusing her gifts to heal herself.
Numbness
preserves. New growth brings discomfort.
And she was
greatly discomforted.
She welcomed the
pain as a sign of healing.
She braced herself against the
winds of change,
contemplating the paths before
her.
At a time when others were
storing up for the winter
of their years, she wanted to see
more.
Know more. Feel more.
To fill the empty places
with new thoughts.
New teachings. New people.
A new tribe. Her old tribe had disbanded.
Her first born now dead through
an act of violence.
Her daughter soon to be married,
forming an alliance of her own.
Her marriage partner, living
apart in his own reality.
She was alone, and left to carry
on.
It was nearly a
decade from the death of her child
to the rebirth
of her spirit.
And she had
survived
would continue
to survive and seek the way.
For she was a
woman with gifts,
a strong
woman.
A wise woman.
--Connie
Anderson
She gave me a copy of it
and in the evenings when most of the painters went back to the Schoolhouse to
work, Laurel helped me paint my impression of the woman in the poem. On Thursday afternoon I went into town and
found a relatively inexpensive (it was a tourist area, after all) frame so I
could give it to Connie on our last night to thank her for being a great
roommate.
Mealtimes at The Clearing were
fun. Not only was there fabulous food
and fresh-baked bread, it’s a rule that you sit in a different place with
different people at every meal. So instead
of cliques forming of painters or writers, everyone sat with everyone else,
asked about how classes were going, sharing their own triumphs and tribulations
both in class and in life. I’d never
realized that there were so many interesting people in the world.
By the end of the week Connie and I
were getting to be friends; she’d read me her writing and I’d show her my
paintings. Connie had taken a watercolor
class at home so she understood my frustrations and I’d been a secretary so
long I could help her a bit with her grammar and punctuation.
She was touched
when I gave her the watercolor I’d painted from her poem. She gave me a blank journal because she said
she thought from our conversations I should be a writer too. It turned out to be a wonderful pairing. We exchanged email addresses and pledged to
keep in touch. On the drive home, I
resolved to call Aaron and ask for his help getting a computer.
Laurel praised
my work and complimented me on my skills.
I had to give Jake, the painting Nazi, his due; I wrote him a little
thank-you note while I was still there.
A couple of the
other students in class had heard of Jacques Tunis or read about him in an art
magazine and were very impressed that I’d actually taken a class from him. One night we sat around sharing a bottle of
wine and I regaled them with stories of my adventures in Jake’s class, I even
told them about yelling at him and throwing my first artistic temper tantrum
all over him. They thought that was
hilarious. I must admit I embellished a
bit, made Jake more looming and myself more courageous, but essentially they
were true stories. And no one thought I
was bragging about how terrific I was. I
don’t know if they were thinking it but no one said it aloud.
One of the
women looked at Laurel and said, “No one could get that mad at our nice
teacher.” And Laurel came right back
with, “Oh, don’t be too sure about that.
Ralph can tell you stories of students I pissed off that would curl your
hair.”
We all laughed
but I looked at the small grandmotherly woman with her fluffy white hair and,
without thinking, said, “I’ll bet you can be a real witch if you think it’ll
pull something out of your students.”
Everybody
laughed. Laurel laughed loudest and
said, “You got that right!”
I'm still tired. We spent a lot of time walking outside today and, oh yeah, we stopped for a glass of hard cider after our stop at The Clearing and Garrett Bay. I'm hoping to sleep well. I might have bought a bottle of the Pear cider. Yum. Smooth.
--Barbara
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