All of the Weight

Last weekend I was gifted the experience of spending time outside with an Association of Nature and Forest Therapy trainee. She guided me through several invitations to observe movement in the landscape, to find the smallest thing I could identify, encouraging me to listen to sounds, feel sensations on my skin and spend purposeful time smelling the environment. It sounds a little funny to write it out like this however, in the moment it felt nice. I had a beautiful time in nature, the forest as our guide, and I accepted the gentle reminder: I too, am nature. Mid-March Vaimo and I started traipsing a path down from the house to the lake as the feet of snow receded with warmer days. Each day we found our route a little less treacherous as we sought sure footing in between mud and ice, slush and melting snow. Spring felt possible because almost all but the larger banks of snow had retreated back to the earth and as I walked the land to notice small things, I observed there were green grass blades emerging, and small plants with tiny leaves reaching toward the sun. And then, Tuesday night after a downpour of rain, the temps dropped and we found ourselves in the path of a storm that blanketed the hill leading down to the lake culminating in six inches of Spring snow. Spring snow feels different than Autumn snow, though regardless of the season I am always struck by the limitations of the English language, and my cultural frame that can only name the white stuff falling from the sky and accumulating on the ground as snow. Yes, I can describe it as wet, or heavy, light, fluffy, icy, blueish… but that’s where the complexity ends. Though I can’t describe snow’s diversity in words alone, perhaps I can in feeling. This snow seems wet and heavy though its weight wants to sink and disappear into the ground instead of set up a strong foundation for future snowflakes yet to come. The weight of it is more a psychological weight for those of us who crave spring. The weight of it is the correct weight for the season, the appropriately weighted blanket, not yet thin, though we no longer need the thick down comforter. The snow is here and there is nothing I can do but trust the sun will return, hope for the day that the landscape and the sky will once again be different colors, that the snow will melt on our dirt driveway because plowing is no longer an option. It’s mud season. The weight of this snow is testing my only weather philosophy - I remind myself that the green blades of grass are still there. When I let the dogs out to do their business, they too are distressed by the blanket that has reappeared. We just can’t see the green grass at the moment. Spring is still coming.

I’m finding myself in a similar state of needing to let go of my expectations, to trust the cycles of change, the hope of spring, my ability to rise out of ashes into my next growth spurt in my studio. Part of this is probably because I am rather overcommitted and a touch anxious about my ability to accomplish what I’ve set out to do. This is evidenced by my gesso-covered hands clicking away at my keyboard. My weeks of spring so far have been filled with painting here, writing there. The deadlines keep me moving, though I find I’m also spending equal amounts of time deep breathing and reminding myself that the blades of grass are there, they are making their way up through the surface, reaching for the sun. The weight of the snow feels different right now, though it’s not particularly comforting. It simply is, and my only job is to accept and try my hardest not to assign value, to avoid creating hierarchies between the snow and the grass.

I’ve been mulling on whether there a difference between hoping and wishing? Is hope a feeling that requires trust and action? In this case, I am hopeful that Spring will come. In fact, Spring is already here according to our human-made calendars that loosely correspond to the movement of this rock orbiting an exploding fireball. And, I also find myself wishing that the snow was not here anymore. I’m tired of it, I want to put my snow boots away, pack up my hat and gloves and not have to worry about them again until late October, November if we’re lucky. The evolved part of me knows that wishing for something other than what is sets one up for disappointment. The weight of that can’t be carried very far before it tugs the spirit down into the muck. Are wishes simply magical thinking that rely on the bare minimum of our exertions? Does believing wishes will come true a process by which one’s base desires are named as if doing so is all it takes? As if we simply deserve what we want, because we want it to be so? Do wishes need exchange, reciprocity?

Everyday I open my inbox hoping that today is the day I will learn about some grant funding I applied for that was very vague about when applicants would learn if they were successful. I wish for the notice to come to me so that at least I would know the outcome. I try to tell myself either way it will be good news. Either I’ll be granted the funds to purchase my materials or I won’t. If I don’t get the money I’ll add a tick to my goals of ten rejections for the year. One down, nine to go. It’s my little way of turning the “no” into something to which I can hold myself accountable. Forcing me to keep trying, keep working, keep hoping that I will find fulfillment internally no matter what.

I saw my first red winged blackbird on Wednesday, though Vaimo told me she heard them trilling last weekend. I wish for them safe journeys when they leave our wetland environment toward the Gulf of Mexico and for their return back to us. I hope they are at least half as excited to see me as I am to see them. I hope they’re safe while they too wait out the snow melt. I hope to be awakened by their songs for the next three months. I hope, I hope, I hope for Spring.

What I’m Reading

The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin

On an endless Twitter scroll someone’s handle description included this mandate: “Read The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin” and I took that as a message that called on me to follow. The novel, published in 1974 won several awards and happened to be on the shelf of my favorite local library. It is described as an anarchist utopian science fiction novel and as I was reading, Octavia Butler’s message from Parable of the Sower kept reminding me that there are teachings in fiction, that we should seek wisdoms in all our art forms. The brilliance of the book (though I must admit I’m three-quarters of the way through) is how it compares and contrasts two worlds, one where property and capitalism function in the ways most of us are familiar with, versus another world where revolutionaries generations ago set out to create a different way grounded in the ethics of mutual aid. I’m most drawn to Le Guin’s ability to infuse philosophical, ideological, and spiritual messages throughout the worlds of the characters she creates. I’m also mulling over her characteristics of work and motivation and accomplishment many themes that I am constantly chewing on as I figure out how to find joys and pleasures in my work and beyond it. Both worlds have challenges, ultimately reminding us all that systems and structures function because of our continued engagement with them, and should never be left unfettered for too long.

Artist Offerings

• At a talk by Dr. Arlene Davila hosted by the University of Nebraska Omaha in concert with the ArteLatinx show I learned about this awesome Latinx Project she launched at NYU
• The Getty put out this podcast about women artists and I'm really into it
• What if piñatas and Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delight creatures merged? Roberto Benavidez answers that question that I didn’t know needed to be asked!
• I have had the privilege of getting to know rural artists and creative people doing amazing things through a writing assignment through Springboard for the Arts [Link: - I’ve been moved by and sitting with Mai’a Williams’ work this week and wanted to be sure to share it with you! In the Ruins of Paradise
• Super moving drawings by Ukranian artists as they grapple with war in their homeland 
• Q1 of 2022 ends today, consider writing yourself a letter for the future, plant some seed and see what grows!

Creative Ritual

As mentioned above I’ve been working on assignment interviewing awesome artists doing awesome things and being paid for my writing (wahoo!), though this has been keeping my plate very full. I’ve also been making steady progress on two grant applications. Made four new stretcher frames with the help of a local woodworker (thank you Kim!), finished another large painting, and am prepping my next two 5’x4’ canvases as I write. My online shop is still open, but I will be closing it April 15th and taking any remaining tiny tequilas to the exhibition I’m working on with New York Mills Cultural Center that goes up late April. If you want to add a tiny tequila to your collection, I suggest doing so sooner rather than later. Much is underway to prepare for that solo show in the form of ordering prints, framing, and zine making! I've started this new Instagram Live studio check in called Lunch 'N Munch with KCF - join me and occasional guests as I lunch and munch on food and ideas in my studio on Thursdays at 12:30pm (CST). And! I've been making some significant decor upgrades for my studio and renovating Vaimo's office upstairs. No wonder I feel like I'm fried! Phew!

Questions to ponder

What are you hoping for?
How are you hoping?
How do you share community with birds?
What are the contours of snow or Spring you want to explore?

Thanks for journeying with me. I hope, as always, that you take what you need and leave the rest for someone else, or for another time. 

-KCF

As always, I appreciate your support in whatever forms it arrives and I am particularly grateful to my monthly sustainers. Thank you all for being a part of my artistic practice. Please share with a friend who you think will be moved by my work.