Something to Say to the World
Branching out 007
First of all, vote.
And in the midst of the chaos of the world, I feel like this is nothing, but maybe it’s everything:
It rained recently. So long has it been since I’ve heard that sound that at first I was a little confused. And then I smelled it. It was early morning, still dark, so the memory feels almost dreamlike. I’ve often wondered how animals (those who live without tap or well water, anyway) can find water by scent. But there’s something so elemental, so primal and comforting about it—at least here, now, when we have been without for so long—that I realize we must be exquisitely tuned to this scent for our survival. Recently the ground has felt hard and unyielding under my feet, and my mind leaps from that sensation to our global challenges. This softening that the rain brings, even just a little bit—we need it so badly.
*
In the wind later that day the big old sycamore down by the creek, our sentinel tree, swayed impossibly. I watched, tense, sure it would break. How could it not? How are any of us still whole, still standing? Why are we not all completely shattered? Or maybe we are.
The wind distracts me, reminds me of Zugunruhe, the migratory restlessness that birds feel. (My understanding is that it’s related to a hormone called ghrelin, but I have not researched this very thoroughly!). I give in, get up, go out. It’s not what I’m supposed to be doing, but maybe it’s exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. With the relentless blue sky as a background, oak and maple leaves swirl above me. I run around trying to catch some, because I heard it brings luck, and really, could it hurt? Anyway the effort makes me laugh, and that’s definitely something. (For the record, I caught four.)
*
On a walk a few weeks ago, I saw pre-migratory hummingbirds taking their last sips of nectar from jewelweed flowers in a nearby wetland, and dragonflies stitched the sky over an old field. They’ve all gone now, and my attention turns to the Red-tails circling, one so close I see its beak open, screaming as it flies by. A Raven, maybe a new resident, flaps overhead, wind sharp on its stiff glossy feathers. The bird squawks and pings, its voice low and nuanced, sometimes almost human. A few years ago I hunkered over a piece of paper on the kitchen floor, not quite sure what I was doing as “Something to Say to the World” emerged. Now I wonder what this bird in our yard is saying, and how we can learn to listen.
This list, this hodgepodge, this collection—it’s how I write and make art, how I think, how I live. It’s everything. Or maybe it’s nothing at all.
If you’re still here reading, thank you. And also: vote!
Rounded
I’m delighted to share that later this month I will feature an interview with Rosalie Haizlett.
I’m also delighted to share that later this month my art and writing will be published in The Hopper.
And, if you’re starting to think about holiday giving, please consider supporting the amazing artists, writers, and organizations that you’ve seen here on Twig & Ink. Purchasing their work, or making donations to the organizations that I and others mention, will soften the harsh borders of our world a little bit.
Reaching
Are you a scientist who has an art practice of some sort? Or do you know a scientist who does? I’d love to talk with you!
What a beautiful combination of your words and art, Lisa! I especially appreciated everything you had to say about rain, and how welcome it is these days.
What a beautiful work of art 💕