To be held

When walking through the woods, along a path, a trail, along a street, down a shoreline, moving through mist and rain and snow and sleet, sunshine, morning's chill, mid-day's heat, midsummer magical middle night, winter solstice darkness, or just being where I am, always somewhere... many times there is a distinct feeling that the earth is alive and speaking all the time, possibly in ways that I can't comprehend but then again there are times when I get some sense of an understanding of something that is not within the scope of the senses that I have at my disposal but that is there nevertheless.  I look up and feel drawn to something that "catches my eye", or my ear feels a yearning for a sound that is only just off on the peripheries of hearing but that toys with a promise of becoming sound, or I catch something wafting towards a realization of a scent that draws me off the path, through some space, onwards...

I would venture to say that nothing that man has ever created has ever been created in a vacuum.  We create with the understanding we have at our disposal, or that emerge within our innovative leaps as we explore what we might not know but which we intuitively sense is possible.  The spoon?  Who held the first branch to reach something out of reach?  Who stirred a broth that was too hot to touch with the hand? Who measured out something that was unable to be measured with a cupped hand? 

I'm not sure why I got interested in carving spoons.  There is something about the concave surface, that space for containing, holding so many things, the utilitarian value of that shaped element, and there is something about the handle's movement beyond that space, a space in its own right, its own space for its own holding, which is the contemplation of our hand's envelopment of solidity in thousands of variations of moments of movement.  I don't want to try to have any of it remain within any specific moment but want always to encourage the hand to continue its movement, just as we see and hear and smell and taste and touch, we can be attentive to the ways we move, or the ways that movement effects itself around what we tend to call "us" - the physical construct that takes its place and space within the rest of the physically constructed world even as movement holds us within every moment, even as we might tend to believe that it is "we" that move...

We are like spoons, held within our holding...

Walking to a hill

I went walking to a hill with a friend the other day, which basically meant driving down a pot-hole patterned dirt road to a point where the car could go no further then walking down into a small valley and along a path that wound its way through small trees.  As we moved through the trees I looked through the branches, at the curves and bends that made me think of how thought would look if it was made into a solidity of this world, the winding of tendencies of understandings as they brushed against other tendencies and the articulations of moments when a decision is somehow made to branch towards some new direction yet remain there within a sense of togetherness as the weave of searching continues into the spaces that are there free to be explored, with the whole surface of earth moving within every moment of every plant making these same decisions, and us humans moving there within them sometimes for some reason having a sense of freedom as if we are free?  I saw a spoon in a tamarind tree all bold red heartwood and energy of peace, that might be a spoon for holding as nothing of any meaning beyond the holding.  Within the branches of the tamarind trees there was evidence of cutting, not with a saw but maybe with some sort of hatchet or machete, clean slices through wrist-sized branches, someone's evening firelight, and I realized that I was lagging behind a bit and so I caught up with my friend and walked on towards the hill.

A friend

I went up into the woods the other morning, thinking about a friend of mine I had visited a few weeks back.  She had a sugar bowl, somewhat deep, with a "normal" metal spoon that she used to scoop out the sugar for coffee.  I had tried the spoon, felt the dismaying lack of its ability to work within the space of that sugar bowl.  It was not meant to be there.  It was almost crying out in dysfunction.    I began to look at the bowl, the sugar, thought about my friend, her way of moving through her kitchen towards her first morning cup of coffee, and wondered if maybe I could find her a spoon...

I had a backpack with a handsaw.  I walked along, enjoying the quietude, the morning mist, the sense of stillness around me.  I knew the area, recognized rocks, trees, patches of moss.  I ventured into another direction, thinking to watch for my friend's spoon, and then I saw a large limb that had broken off a tree and sensed a bend.  Felt movement.  I walked closer and saw her spoon.

The piece is now in my house.  The spoon within it will wait for me.  It will be there emerging within every moment that I imagine its being there.  It will be nice.

Collecting

I have been collecting pieces of wood.  I have been watching the spaces around wood.  I have been walking, walking, walking through spaces of watching the spaces around the wood that I collect.  Sometimes I have not been watching so closely.  Sometimes it has only been a moment of experience.  The touch upon a surface.  Á wafting roughness of a piece of bark.  A sense of light touching my eyelid when I close my eyes when sunlight filters past a meshwork of leaves when they move ever so slightly when the breeze sifts space around me.  I have been collecting myself within it all.

Metal

I wanted to have two spoons of silver or stainless steel or some metallic substance and have searched for days, feeling to the touch and sense of balance of smoothness and weight and size and shape pleasing to various levels and aspects of what might be defined as perception, but as of today am still looking. I am learning about my own character of searching and envisioning.

Spring melt

Walking in the forest amidst the winter storms' aftermath, a mosaic of wind-tossed trees, chaotic calculations of potential next steps. I look around, saw in hand. I search through snow. The cold feels good on my hands.

A knot

A simple space in time, a point that eyes move towards, I can feel my knfe dwelling upon a moment when it can move past or rest upont a know, to sheer or shift, slide past or flow over, flow around or flow through. I decide to flow through it, as if like a body squeezing itself through an only slightly opened door that is frozen because it has not moved in so long. The body the knife-blade entering a wondrous world beyond that moment.