Stirrings
Something was stirring, emerging from that in-between place
Hibiscus tea
That first afternoon of her visit to Honeymaker’s home, her dear friend and she settled themselves on the puffy yellow leather couch in her back screened-in patio, drinking cold hibiscus tea. Talking and catching up, she shared how she felt stalled with her own artwork. She felt in between things but wasn’t sure in between what exactly. Coming off of an intense and amazing few months working at her friend Color’s community art studio, her own studio felt the opposite—dormant and indistinct.
During her four-day visit, she drank lots of hibiscus tea. Its ruby-red color and refreshing tart taste enlivened and quenched her thirst in the heat.
The meaning of hibiscus flowers in India: (source)
In Hinduism, the hibiscus flower is associated with Goddess Kali. It is offered in worship to the deity as a symbol of devotion and spiritual purity. Its vibrant red color also symbolizes divine feminine energy.
She carried the book, “Shakti: An Exploration of the Divine Feminine” in her luggage to give to Honeymaker as a gift from Color for her 50th birthday. She had her copy, too. She knew a little about Kali’s fiery rage and red tongue. The red hibiscus tea didn’t make her tongue red like Kali’s, and she wondered if her devotion to her artwork was not fierce enough.
Gassed, smoked, alarmed
While Quiet assembled the decorations for Honeymaker’s 50th Go-With-the-Flow Birthday Bash later that evening, she sat beside her and lounged on the puffy yellow couch, chatting away. Some time passed when Honeymaker's daughter suddenly exclaimed, “I smell gas!” We all got up in a flash, searching for the source. It was the grill. Some knob or other, and Honeymaker’s husband fixed it quickly. But she felt woozy and a bit nauseous and walked outside to get some air. She had been sitting on the other side of the grill all that time. Was anyone else feeling ill? No? Just her? Not even Quiet? Honeymaker led her to the front veranda and dabbed cold water on her face, apologetic.
A few hours later, Honeymaker’s husband started to grill the chicken. It was a lot of chicken. Enough for a party. Smoke began to fill the screen-in patio, and the mountain breeze was unable to carry it all away. She started to cough and cough, most embarrassingly. She didn’t hear anyone else cough like her. Was anyone else feeling it? She went to the front veranda again, and Quiet joined her, handing her a tissue to dab her watery eyes. Honeymaker was more apologetic.
She stayed in the Crysalis, the name Honeymaker and her husband gave to their beloved camper. She was happy to stay there, as she had done on a prior visit. It was cozy, comfortable, and had running water. It also had air conditioning, and the main house did not, so it felt like glamping.
But earlier in the day, the carbon monoxide monitor started beeping. Honeymaker’s husband had checked everything—there wasn’t even a propane hookup to the Crysalis—and reset the monitor. There was no battery to replace, so it was likely an electrical issue, he reasoned. He showed her how to reset it if it happened again. Later in the day, it happened again, and a piercing alarm went off. He ran to the Crysalis and reset the monitor. He was very apologetic. She was okay about it, actually. She knew how to reset it if it happened in the middle of the night.
Everyone was trying to go with the flow.
It happened early in the morning. A piercing, screeching, shrill noise that lept her out of bed as she scrambled blind in the dark to find the monitor’s reset button. Her heart was in her throat and she was shaking afterward. She crawled back into bed. What felt like in no time, the beeping started again, giving her warning. She reset the button. Then it happened again a while later—the beeping, then reset. She grabbed her pillow and top sheet, threw some things in her luggage, and went to the screened-in patio, where the puffy yellow couch welcomed her.
She listened to the birdsong and felt the mountain breeze. She saw the dawn break and heard the water flow in the nearby fountain. She felt at ease, even as the faint distant beeping in the Cyrsalis continued. The piercing alarm hadn’t gone off again since she left.
Everything was in flow.
Chrysalis
Days later, as she was thinking about her visit, she couldn’t help but wonder about the meaning of the chrysalis—an in-between place, after one way of being but not yet another.
Chrysalis definition: (source)
-A protected stage of development
-The pupa of a butterfly or moth, enclosed inside a cocoon, in which metamorphosis takes place
Maybe her in-between place was protecting her. Maybe something had been happening all along, even though she felt stalled, particularly with her artwork. She needed that time.
It almost amused her to think that it took being gassed, smoked, and alarmed to fracture her protective chrysalis. She was ready, and something was finally stirring and being set in motion. Even though she didn’t know what it was and didn’t know it yet.
Blue heron
Sitting on the grass overlooking a lovely garden pond with Honeymaker, she heard herself say she felt in between projects, that her book was stalled and her artwork, too, and it bothered her. It’s like the energy to strive for both was dormant. Her friend had asked about it and gently inquired about it more. “Why not consider a class to try something new or go deeper into a process,” she finally offered. “It could be a way to enliven your artwork and be guided by other artists,” she suggested.
They had been watching a majestic blue heron standing in the pond off to the side. It lifted its wings and flew a few feet, positioning itself across the pond from them. They stopped talking for a moment, taking in its movements. Its wings lifted again, outstretched wide and regal, as it soared above them, so close. They watched as the deep, slow sound of its wings whooshed past.
The heron reminds you that while self-reliance is vital to your well-being, you also need support and companionship. (source)
Crane
A few days later, she was back home in her studio. She had been browsing the Fiber Arts Take Two website earlier in the day and landed on Lorna Crane’s on-demand course, Perfectly Imperfect. It suited her perfectly. It was an advanced course on making brushes, mark-making, geli printmaking, handmade books, and vessels—all things she was familiar with, yet would allow her to explore deeper into her visual language, and learn new techniques and processes.
The blue heron told her she needed support with her artwork. And here she was, guided by another majestic bird, the crane.
The crane’s symbol and meaning remind us to embrace our playful side. It is also a symbol of hope, loyalty, and new beginnings. (source)
So she signed up for Lorna Crane’s course, feeling supported and hopeful. It was the start of something new, which she always liked. She was loyal to her artwork; she would never abandon it, and it would never abandon her. She knew this deeply. Excited, she spent the rest of the day working through the beginning of the course.
Covid
And then it all stopped. Sickness came suddenly the next day and the day after that. She lay curled up on the couch and could only read an easy book between sleep—so much sleep, carrying her to deep unknown places in dreamscapes. She couldn’t remember anything but felt it in her body, her psyche.
She barely ate anything and drank lots of hot tea and water. At night, she slept fitfully and shivered with a fever, waking up with clammy skin and damp pajamas. Her headache was mad, worse than mad, like it was angry at its confining skull and wanted to fracture it into pieces.
It was Covid again.
It made sense that it was Covid, she mused. Her first time with it felt like it cracked her wide open into a wild, psychedelic-ish journey. She was changed after that. Her second time was a deep sleep that she barely remembered. Where had Covid taken her then? This third time, as Covid was incubating for several days before she showed symptoms, it was working its way into her now familiar crevices, finding the fissures and fractures to open her up again. It worked like a charm.
Shower thoughts
A couple of days later, she was fine again. But changed again. She felt different. Something had lifted, like she wasn’t stalled creatively as much.
In the shower shampooing her hair, she thought, “What if it’s not a book after all?” It took her by surprise; she had been terrified to let the book go, if that’s what she was about to do. She told so many people. She went to Thailand for a month to write her book! And now, was she going to let it go?
She was loyal to her artwork, yes, but ideas change, and sometimes need to change.
The thought continued. “What if the structure of the book is the thing that’s limiting me the most? It’s boxy. It’s linear. It’s structured. There are rules. Maybe that’s not how I want to put my energies. Perhaps I can’t. When I think of my art and writing in a formal book structure, it suddenly feels confining and restricting. It gets too hard. Too narrow. My body, my psyche, my spirit, everything fights against it somehow. I’ve been fighting it for so long. Why keep fighting? Just stop.”
Rinsing her hair now, the thoughts continued. “What if the idea was expressed in a video, reading what I’ve written as a voiceover and my art is shown in a different way—through moving images, words and scripts, sound and silence? It’s more abstract. It’s a different expression. I would have to go back into my many writings and choose just a few—the strongest ones that might work well in this format—and see what emerges visually. And what if I made a handmade book for each of the writings as part of the video or to accompany it! What if Lorna Crane’s course was perfect for all this, too—showing me a new way to reimagine my art, photography, and writing?”
She remembered Color first suggesting something like this—thinking differently about her book and what a book could be—back in March when she struggled with it in Thailand. The idea had set her free from her own confines, even though she didn’t quite know what Color meant. She did, sort of. She wanted to know, but she wasn’t there yet.
But now she was there. And she knew.
Something was stirring, emerging from that in-between place and starting to lift.
Flying…
LouLou
“Stirrings” was originally published as an exclusive post to supporters in July 2024. Now it’s public to you, too! If you’d like to support my art and writing life, please consider a one-time donation or a monthly membership ($6/month) on the creator platform, Ko-fi. I would be most grateful!
A huge thank you to my wonderful Ko‑fi supporters for supporting my creative endeavors! Kara B, Kori J, Marga F, Sharmila K, Skip M, Beck C, Richie M, Sush M, Michelle L, Claudia N, and John C.
