Ordinary Objects and the Poetry of Salvage

Last weekend I climbed through many, many trailers of salvaged architectural bits and bobs, old stoves, rusted pieces of ceiling tin, faded signs, and corroded hinges to find a treasure in the rain.  My sweatshirt was soaked through and my boots were caked with mud as I climbed the rickety steps to the next-to-last trailer in the salvage yard.  I squinted into the gloom, took a few half-hearted steps across the sloping metal floor.  Nothing.  I didn't see a single object that sang to me in the way really special things do when you're on a treasure hunt.  I was just about to turn to head back out into the downpour when my magpie eye caught sight of a soft glint in the shadows on a shelf over my head.  I couldn't tell what it was, but I threw caution--and my fear of tetanus--to the wind and just reached up to grab whatever it was.

Well, it turned out to be the frame that you see in the photo above.  A Victorian beauty, completely intact, with wonderfully worn gilding on its inner edge.  That had been the glint I'd seen.  I had to make it mine.  I cradled it in my arms and went in search of the salvage yard owner.  It turns out he had just placed the frame on that shelf earlier in the afternoon.  When I say "placed," I don't mean displayed.  It was just sort of lying there on the top shelf, nearly out of sight in one trailer out of several that were packed to the gills with jars of springs, boxes of brackets, and bins of rake handles.  

When the owner offered to sell me the frame for the little bit of cash I had in my pocket, I knew two things immediately: 1) I will buy more treasures from him, and 2) this frame was going to be important for me, for my photos, for the vision I have of where I want my work to go.

I believe in the stories that beautifully made things can tell us--in the texture of history, the poetry of ordinary objects.  That is one of the aspects of still life photography that appeals to me most. This photo is the first in what I hope will be a series of photos featuring my newly found treasure.  I believe this old frame will help me dream up countless stories in the weeks and months to come.  

A Bit More Mist . . . and a Few Thoughts About Solitude and Togetherness

Do you mind a few more photos of fog?  These are shots I took at Willard Beach in South Portland.  It's a lovely neighborhood beach in any weather, but I do love a good rolling fog for a walk. 

I also wanted to say thank you for all the wonderful comments and emails about my last post.  They made my week.  

I can't help it; in my head I've named this shot "The Happy Couple."

I've been writing a great deal lately, and helping clients work on their writing projects, which is a process that brings rewards of its own.  Often when people ask me for advice about how to become a writer, I am hard pressed to give them any one answer.  Of course, reading heaps of books is up near the top of my list, and writing every day--or as close to every day as possible.  But I think maybe the most essential trait a writer can cultivate is a love of solitude.  Social butterflies are not suited to the task.

When you do seek companionship, it is helpful to find others who love solitude, too.  Then you can be alone together.  They need to be people who don't fret when you wander off for hours to stare at leaves and shells and rocks and twigs.  They need to feel very secure in their own ability to be alone when you lock yourself away for hours to write. They need to not wait for you to come out of hiding.  Instead, they must have their own quiet obsessions that occupy long stretches of time.  In this way, when you do come back together, it will be out of a mutual joy in the work and play you are both pursuing.  There will be much to share, much that sustains both. 

And there will be no petty jealousy.  Each will support the other in his or her pursuits.  I'm not saying this is an easy path to choose, but it is certainly a more joyous and productive one when we can share it with like-minded spirits.  This all seems like an obvious thing to say, but I know what it's like when a writer (or an artist of any kind) tries to share her life with someone who does not understand the need for solitude.  This leads to a silent pen, which leads to loneliness, something utterly different from solitude.  The latter nourishes, the former leeches one dry. 

Are you someone, writer or not, who needs solitude?  If so, how do you find it?  I think it is increasingly rare in our relentlessly "connected" world.  One trick I have is that I don't watch television . . . at all . . . ever.  I'd love to hear some of your strategies for finding solitude.

Wishing you a week of beauty and lots of creative energy, my friends!

Rain, Sticks, Mud, and Leaves

Day five of rain here.  On the plus side, clover covers the lawn, runs rampant through the grass; the lilacs hang heavy, their blossoms bending almost to earth, and the petals of the last few tulips have thinned to translucent sheets of purple glass.  On the minus, the new seedlings are as likely to rot as to grow, the slugs and snails are partying 24 hours a day, and the mulch and compost heaped in the driveway have turned into giant mud mountains--even tucked under their tarps.

Clay pots await planting, the herbs await sunshine, and we keep working.

We are busy, rain or shine, clearing a new bed for the privacy border we're crafting from shrubs and shade-loving perennials.  And then there are the killer vines, the rogue quinces, and the dozens of maple saplings that look like they've been allowed to run rampant for many a year between our patio and a neighboring yard.  I've got my trusty loppers, my pruners, and my saw.  I've cut and cut and cut.  Found old roses and lilacs long-hidden from the sun, but still growing.  Have felt like Mary in her secret garden, uncovering the treasures, bringing them back to life.

And we're falling in love daily with new plants we've brought home from other gardens, from local plant sales and nurseries.  There's the bridal veil spirea with its old-fashioned sprays of white-lace flowers, and the Lady's Mantle to tuck in at the front of the sunny border where it will tumble over the low wattle fence we've woven.  

The salamanders are happy, as are the robins, and the chipmunks who live in the old stone wall don't seem to mind the rain, so why should we?  We have our little house to take shelter in at night when the heaviest rains fall.  There are candles to light and books to read . . . and there's even a chance that the sun will shine on Monday.  Just imagine what the roses will do when it appears.

Gardening in the Rain

 

It rained buckets for days, and I was sure all the peonies and irises would have been pummeled into oblivion, but there they were as soon as the skies cleared, ready to open.  Some had even started without me, had left me rushing to catch up.  

I live on the edge of the most wondrous place, halfway between rock and wave, almost at the very end of what I can imagine--and yet there is always another surprise in store, waiting for me to discover my mind's own eye.  

Night Rain (No Pictures, Just Words)

Some nights rain is a refuge, the foghorn's blast a blessing murmured half asleep.  She finds all the hidden places on those nights, piles memories on like worn quilts, forgets to listen for steps on the stairs.  She reaches for nothing, lets the curtains stay open, leaves the candle be.  What's a little darkness?  

Once she tasted night from a knife's edge in small, hard slices, but over time she has learned the art of the spoon, the small stir and sip, the warm, burnished curve that cools on the tongue, but never turns cold.  Night rain can fall all it wants.  She has her pages and cups and the rise and fall of a small life that needs hers.  

To be needed in the dark.  That is something to hook her heart and hold it fast until the light returns.