A Year and a Word

We woke up yesterday to find our  backyard blanketed in many more inches of snow than we had expected.  It was the thick, heavy snow that bends small trees to the ground and breaks off large limbs from the great white pines.  It also temporarily turns our funny little garden shed into an enchanted fairy tale cottage.  

Earlier in the week we'd walked the icy trails at Gilsland Farm, seeking quiet amidst the chaos of the season.  This year's holidays have felt even more tumultuous than usual.  I think the news of the world after this long, often terrible, year has left many of us exhausted.

In the face of unrest and suffering in the world, I've found myself turning more and more to the wintery landscapes and seascapes of my home state for solace.  It's there in the bone-colored branches of birches, the grey ocean waves laced with white, and the dry tufts of frozen grass in open fields that I look for the escape my heart longs for.

I haven't become a complete hermit, I promise.  I welcome the cries of seagulls as I walk the cobblestoned streets of Portland, the rush of winter robins' wings overhead in the trees, and the laughter of school kids swooping down hillsides on makeshift sleds.

And the companionship of loved ones.  I'm not always up for talking these days, but I am almost always up for a walk, and a shared cup of something warm when we return home.

Choosing my word for 2017 was easy.  I didn't even think about it.  I just knew: peace.  That's all I hope for this year.  Peace for those I love, for myself, and for the world.  Over the summer I taught myself how to play ukulele, and one of the first songs I learned how to play was John Lennon's "Imagine."  As I learned the chords and gradually discovered how to weave the words in as I played, I found myself experiencing the song in a new way.  I've always loved the lyrics, but each time I now come to "Imagine all the people, living life in peace," I feel it so strongly that I often have to stop playing for a few moments.  Peace is what I hope for, for me and for you, my friends.  I will do my best to help make it happen in the tiny ways that I know how.  Wishing you a year of joyful adventures, truly funny moments, inspiration, love, and peace.  xo Gigi

Five on Five

Hello, my friends!  Once again, I'm joining in with some photographer friends to share five of my favorite photographs from the past month.  When I look through the shots I took from the past thirty or so days, I feel a tremendous rush of very mixed emotions.  I can't go on without saying that the world feels like it flipped upside down since the last time I posted, and I can honestly say that November 2016 was one of the most surreal months in my lifetime.  I promised myself that after some truly terrible experiences on Facebook early in the month, I would keep my blog a politics-free zone, so I won't talk about any of it here, but I will say that the photo above is of a place that has become a safe haven for Todd and me.  In October we bought a small, rustic cottage on a lake here in Maine, and I took this shot on the afternoon of election day.  It's part of the view from the little beach in front of our camp.  We've already begun work on the place, and we've got lots more to do, but I can hardly wait until spring, when we can start really using the place.  I promise to share photos and stories of the journey.

When life has been too hectic to make it up the camp, we've taken some great walks.  I took the two shots above and below at one of our favorite birding spots, Gilsland Farm, in Falmouth.  It's the home of Maine Audubon, and I can think of few places I'd rather walk at this time of year as autumn dips into winter.

My sister and I spent a couple of days earlier this month making wreaths.  I hung this berry and rose hip wreath up on my shed one night, only to come out in the morning and discover that it had snowed overnight, making the wreath far more beautiful than my humble imagination ever could have. 

I've been teaching and developing classes quite a bit this fall, and haven't had much time for my still life work, but I bought a couple of absolutely incredible pomegranates a couple of weeks ago, and when I combined them with the berries we'd gathered for wreaths, I just knew I had to find a little time for taking some still life photos.  This one below is one of my favorites from the session.

As we head towards the solstice, I wish you much peace and joy, my friends!  May you spend time with the people you love most, may you be warm and safe from harm, and may you discover inspiration in unexpected places.  

If you'd like to see five of my talented friend Stephanie's beautiful photographs from the past month, click here.

More soon! xo Gigi

October

Always my new year. Always a beginning. Always an answer to an unspoken question. 

When I stray too far from the ways that keep me centered and whole--thinking, listening, sitting quiet and still--October reminds me. 

In my kitchen I watch a ray of sunlight shift to copper at day's end. Apples on the counter wait to be peeled and sliced. Ginger simmers on the stove, its steam curling a golden trail through the room. Outside a cardinal calls to her mate from the oxblood leaves of the ninebark tree. What she sings to him I can never know, but her song keeps time with the beat of my own heart. 

Finding Stillness

What do you do when one of your oldest and most treasured blogging friends announces that she will be holding a still life photography workshop for three magical days at her brand new studio in Rivers, Manitoba . . . and another of your oldest and dearest blogging friends invites you to come stay at her house just twenty minutes from the workshop . . . and those two sweet friends also happen to be among your favorite photographers in the entire world?

If you're me, you thank your lucky stars, and you book a flight to Manitoba.  

In my post last week I mentioned that I've been a thousand miles away both literally and figuratively.  Really, I've been two thousand miles away, but the miles cannot begin to measure what my time at Kim Klassen's The Studio meant to me.  

Finding Stillness was much more than a workshop.   

It was a time and a place where we had the freedom to set up a shot, and to keep coming back to it as the sun moved across the sky over the course of the day--no distractions, no responsibilities, no other task than to play with color and focus and shadows and light.

It was a space filled with well-worn tables and chipped-paint chairs and shelves of cups and bowls and books for us to use as we practiced making magic.  

Kim Klassen giving a demonstration on how she makes her magic

It was also the place where after years and years, I finally got to meet my two incredible friends for real . . . and to watch them work . . . and to soak up their brilliance.

Aeleen Sclater setting up a shot

Barb Brookbank, Diana Foster, Kim Klassen, and Shelley Rounds out for a morning walk on the trail

And it was, perhaps most importantly, three whole days that I got to spend with ten inspiring and talented photographers from the United States, Canada, and the UK.     

Carol Hart and Diana Foster

We talked shop--lighting, cameras, lenses, techniques and tips--but we also talked life.  And we laughed.  A lot. 

Ilse preparing a gorgeous salad while Xanthe Berkley, Barb Brookbank, and Barbara Skrobuton shoot

We also ate the most delicious and nourishing food, cooked by Kim's mom as well as by Aeleen, and by Aeleen's friend Ilse, an incredible chef who graciously let us photograph her preparing our gourmet lunch on the final day of the workshop.  It was a relief to be in a room full of people who not only didn't roll their eyes when I grabbed my camera to take endless shots of a gorgeous basket of peppers or a bowl of fresh salad tossed with line vinaigrette, they grabbed their cameras, too, and we all happily snapped away.

And then there was the stillness.  I found it each day in moments both expected and surprising.  We all shared an hour a day of silence, during which we were free to keep photographing or to process shots, read a book, write, take a nap--whatever our hearts desired.  I treasured those hours, as I'm naturally a pretty introverted person who loves to spend most of my time working in silence.  

But I discovered many times of quiet stillness throughout the day, even working side by side with other photographers.  It was easy to simply be.  Kim created such a light-filled and welcoming space that I think we all felt at home, whether we were gathered around Carol Hart giving a shop talk on using studio lighting or watching Xanthe Berkley make one of her incredible stop-motion animations or learning the secrets to gorgeous top-down shots from Barb Brookbank.  

The feeling of home extended beyond the four walls of Kim's studio to the town of Rivers itself, where we took walks, went out for supper, and popped into some of the local shops.  Everywhere we went in this small prairie town, people welcomed us, asked where we were from, and swapped stories.  I can't imagine a more perfect spot for a photography retreat.

Kim's sweet dog Ben was our muse and companion.

For me, the retreat extended beyond Rivers all the way to Aeleen's beautiful house on the prairie.  There, I got to meet her husband and one of her sons, hang out with her in the evenings, and run out the front door, into the fields each morning with her sweet pup Zoe.

Morning light in the room where I stayed at prairiegirl's place

Everything in prairiegirl Aeleen's world is arranged with love.  The shots above and below were taken in her house.  I didn't have to set them up, because this is just how she sees things, how she crafts beautiful vignettes at every turn.   

me and beautiful pg (Aeleen)

On my last day in Manitoba, I got to roam around early in the morning, taking shots full of color and texture at Aeleen's like the one above.  And her gardens!  And her studio!  I think I need to save them for another post.  There's too much to share.

As if staying with Aeleen were not treat enough, on my last night there, she took me to her neighbor Willi's Octoberfest, where we watched the full moon rise over the fields, and I got to see the biggest, most impressive bonfire of my entire life . . . not to mention fireworks and a fire lantern being launched.  Fire was definitely the theme of the evening!  And Abba.  Did I mention Abba?  There was much dancing to Abba.  Perhaps there wasn't much stillness that one night, but it was a time I won't soon forget.

Spoons and leaves at prairiegirl studio ~ love

Since returning to my own life back on the coast of Maine, I've been swamped with work, but I've also been finding that my week in Manitoba is very much present in my mind in heart.  The people I met there, and the time we spent simply sharing our love for taking photographs, have helped me to see why I turn to my camera so often, why I set up corners all over my house, always chasing the light, always seeking to discover a mood, a moment of stillness that once I've captured it, will always be mine . . . and maybe someone else's, too.  

Ben

I found myself using one hashtag again and again on my Instagram account while I was in Manitoba: #feelingblessed.  Thank you Kim, Aeleen, Xanthe, Carol, Diana, Barb, Brenda, Dorry, Shelley, and Barbara for three days full of more blessings than I can count.  

April Rains--A Garden Update

The April rains have come, and with them the green and red buds on the trees.  Out in the garden we've had crocuses--then snow--then then more rain and even more crocuses, sprinkled with some snowdrops.  We have raked and tidied the beds, made way for the grape hyacinths, the buds of which are tinged with purple at their edges.  The tulips are midway up, as are the daffodils and fritillaria.  The lady's mantle are everywhere, pushing up their tiny pleated fans through the soil, and the pulmonaria are showing off their polka-dotted leaves.  I've even caught sight of the first secret frills of red where the bleeding hearts grow at the edge of the woodland border.  Out along the edges, the shrub border is filling with color--the red twig dogwoods and the Hakuroo-Nishiki willow are scarlet red, covered with buds.  I'm thrilled to see that all the hard cutting and pruning I've done on the lilacs these last two years is paying off.  They are looking stronger than ever--and they are loaded with buds.  

Chores for the coming couple of weeks include dividing some of the day lilies and spreading the three yards of compost that we're having delivered this weekend.  No bed will be left out.  Everyone will get a top dressing to start the growing season with a bang.  I'll also be starting many, many flower seedlings for the new cutting garden I'm planning to grow in one of the raised beds this year.  And then there are the dahlias.  They will be emerging from their winter sleep down in the cellar.  I'll chit them out until the soil is warm enough to put them in.  For the past couple of seasons I've mixed them in with other plantings, letting them grow with all the other flowers.  This year I think they may get their own bed.  We shall see.

Spring came late here in the Maine this year, but now that it's here, every plant seems to be rushing to put on a show.  I am relishing these cool days, especially the ones when the sun puts in an appearance.  It's too cool yet for the mosquitos, so we can just be out there in the mud, spreading grass seeds, trimming limbs, and dreaming up new garden plans.  I hope your spring is shaping into a beautiful one. If you garden, I'd love to hear what is blooming right now and what you're up to in your garden.  More soon--plus pictures of the early spring garden!

Storm Watch(es) . . . and Catching Up with You

Before the big snows came.

Like so many others, we've been hunkering down, stocking up, and shoveling out an awful lot over the past week.  More snow is on the way Monday, which is fine by us.  We'll put another log on the fire. 

I grabbed the above shot out my study window during the "Great Blizzard of 2015."  We only received about 22 inches--much less than some folks south of us.  Then a second, smaller storm blew in on Friday.  I think we're up to about 30 inches, which translates into snowbanks up to my shoulders.  This time Monday they will be well above my head! 

I took a break from shoveling on Monday to take a few quickies of the garden with my iPhone.  I especially love the bits of sprigs and twigs that seem so delicate, yet don't break, even under two or three feet of snow.

Mr. Magpie shared a fantastic piece with me from the Boston Globe about "Snow Removal Types."  It had us giggling, as we know people who fit nearly every category of snow shoveler listed here.  Mr. M. is definitely "The Incrementalist," so, during a heavy storm, we tend to head out every two to three hours to do another pass over the drive and walkway.  At the time I shot this photo, at least 12 inches had already fallen.  Notice the nearly clear front porch?  That's the work of the Incrementalist.  ;)   

Maybe the best part about the snow has been that we've been able to get out to do some incredible snowshoeing.  The days in between storms have boasted gloriously blue skies like the one above, and very little wind.

We watched a documentary the other night about some folks who walked the John Muir Trail in California.  Sprinkled throughout the film are quotes from the man himself, and one in particular that I had forgotten about (although how I do not know) struck a chord with me: "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world."  

Trudging out onto the salt marshes of Maine Audubon at Gilsland Farm, those words echoed in my mind.  Across the Presumpscot River estuary, cars rushed along 295; overhead, the vapor trails of planes crisscrossed the sky; at the edges of the preserve, smoke billowed from the chimneys of the large show homes wealthy folks have built for the glorious views.  None of it stopped us from seeing eyelet-lace rabbit trails in the snow . . . or Eastern bluebirds in the trees that bordered the meadows . . . or the glowing white underside of a gull against the blue as it flew above us.  The human world is so loud and harsh and destructive so much of the time.  I'm grateful for every bit of nature we still have, and I hold onto each piece as tightly as I can.

So, more snow is on the way, which will mean more wintry shots from me, I'm sure.  For those of you shoveling your way through January, February, and March, I hope you're staying as warm and safe as possible, and I also hope that you're getting a chance every day to enjoy a little of the beauty of winter, too.  xo Gigi

Storm Dreams

The wind raged and the rain lashed at the clapboards of our little house last night.  A fleeting thought flashed through my mind in the moment before drifting off: the giant white pine in the yard--a crack splitting the dark, and a rush of air and limbs as the great god of all trees fell.  I'd had a vision like this once before, when we lived on an island a few feet from shore.  One night during a storm, my mind's eye had seen the waves bounding up over the rocks and carrying us away, cats and house and all. 

I wasn't afraid then and I wasn't afraid last night.  Both times, the oracle had given me but one possible future, and as my cat curled the yin of his legs into the yang of his belly on the pillow beside me, I fell into a deep sleep to dream of the squirrels who live in the pine, their nest rocked and tossed like a boat on a stormy sea.  

This morning I opened my eyes to white sunlight.  The wind had died, but I was alive. Downstairs in the kitchen, the cat cried for his bowl.  The radiator awoke with a knock and a hiss, and I heard my husband's feet shuffling from cupboard to stove to sink.  We were all here just as we'd been thousands of times before.  There was toast to be made and juice to be drunk.  As I passed by the window on my way down the steps, I glanced out at the ancient pine.  A small branch or two had fallen in the night, and a few dozen gnarled cones littered the lawn, but the tree seemed unfazed by the storm.  

Beneath it, the squirrels raced to gather black sunflower seeds and dried corn.  The day's work, and its joy, had begun.