High Summer Stillness

Dear Esteemed Readers,

I started writing today’s post a few weeks ago, during an unexpected, double-digit heat wave that spread over the windy shrub-steppe landscape here in Tieton, bringing most activity to a cautious and thoughtful halt. By the time this Art Nun postcard arrives in your inbox on the customary “first Saturday of the month” (September 6), the stillness of summer heat will already be turning towards Autumn.

Fortunately, I carefully followed Mary Oliver’s prescription for a much-needed soul-retrieval during my solitary day earlier this summer, when stream-of-consciousness messages, remembrances, and passing thoughts were allowed to rise and fall with no judgement, similar to what a more formal meditation would provide.

I’ve gathered some of these insights into the narrative below, and invite you to virtually join me now, as I begin my High Summer Stillness exploration:

It’s mid-August here in Central Washington, it’s hot, and I’m weary of hearing the sounds of afternoon delivery trucks rumbling past my window just outside my loft. A motorcycle-racing friend from the past once told me (proudly) how much he loved the sound of an internal combustion engine, but I don't share his tastes. I often prefer plain and simple silence. 

This morning, I put on my unfashionable black sneakers and walked to the nearby pond where beavers cruise in the water at dusk. The pond is only seven minutes by “foot power” from my loft. I have no interest in driving my own internal combustion vehicle to a more active version of Cowiche Creek, which flows below the rocky buttes of Cowiche Canyon, about 15 minutes away:

My quiet solo walk helps awaken me to the beauty that exists in the world, which is often overlooked in the rush of everyday life. Even “artistes” like me, who already value the art of contemplation and deep observation, can easily forget to set aside enough time to restore the balance and serenity of their own psyches.

At the pond, I stand for a long time near the cattails at its edge, remembering my beloved grandmother Fern, whose tiny ramshackle house also stood close to a stand of cattails that grew in an ephemeral stream that flowed through the back of her property. I often spent several weeks visiting my grandmother during hot eastern Washington summers, when I was allowed to wander freely on my own among the weeds and wildflowers. I never forgot the unflagging kindness, humility, and love that my grandmother lavished on me, the artistic grandchild who was “different.”

I was the one who admired my grandmother’s beautiful hand-made quilts and learned her skills. I was the one who often preferred my own company to the rowdy games that my cousins chose. I was also the one who drew endless pictures, sang songs, and enjoyed hosting my own solo “tea parties.”

And as an adult, that part of my personality has never changed.

As I continued on my Tieton stroll, I ended up investigating a large stand of tall native roses, whose flowers had already dropped. Their red seed capsules were ripening in the sun, and when I finally focused on the visual details, I discovered several tiny native damselflies attached to the dry plant twigs at a 90° angle. Damselflies (Ischnura perparva) are a miniature species of dragonfly whose wing veins are microscopically small, making the wings themselves appear almost transparent. I stood quietly and marveled at the delicacy of their structure. I was disappointed not to have had a close-up camera lens, but in the center of my phone photo below, within the yellow circle you can just make out a damselfly’s elongated, twig-like body, with the vague form of its outstretched wings subtly visible against the background of green foliage and red rose hips.

I stayed near the pond sitting alone in the shade for most of the afternoon, listening to birds and the rising hum of crickets as the day started to fade. I was hoping that the beavers would come out to investigate my presence, but it was too early. So I headed home, finally soul-soothed, and filled with a restorative peace and gratitude.

Back in my loft after dark, I made some tea and took out my collection of poetry books to complete my day of silence, “quiet as a feather.” Among my books was a collection of poems by Rainer Maria Rilke, the favorite poet of Richard “Richey” Kehl, the kind and generous art professor and mentor who supported me so much during my art school days and beyond. Dressed in his colorful flowery bellbottoms and beads, he was known among his art school acolytes as the “visual poet,” who routinely presented epic, silent slide shows of enigmatic imagery to visually challenge and inspire us all.

I chose the wise and poetic fragment below to close my summer day of stillness. It was among Richey’s favorites, and supplied the perfect ending to a day of observance, nostalgia, and wonder that could so easily have been completely derailed: 

If you will stay close to nature, to its simplicity, to the small things hardly noticeable, those things can unexpectedly become great and immeasurable.
     — Rainer Marie Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

With all best wishes for your own day of stillness, however you wish to find it,

Sandra Dean, Visual Artist
Tieton, Washington USA