The Age of the Pigeonhole

I am a Trekkie.

I do not need to be psychic to see the images and concepts flashing through your minds:  an overweight, possibly unwashed, geek with pointed ears or Klingon ridges and a zillion t-shirts, out of touch with reality, watching reruns in Mom's basement, buried in 20-year-old fanzines that feature bizarre and unlikely relationship pairings.

Anyone who actually knows me will tell you that nothing could be further from the truth.  Just go look at the picture of me on my first post.  For starters, I am out of doors, and  everyone knows that Trekkies never, ever go outside unless it's to attend a convention, right?

Behold the power of the label.

Humans love to classify things; classification begs labels; and labels are dicey business.  On the one hand they help us to describe with great specificity what we want; on the other hand they encourage the very human tendency to try and "pigeonhole" everything--and everyone.  These days the"pigeonholes" have become more like those really cool plastic tackle boxes with bunches of dividers you insert into slots to create sections of whatever size we want.  Each box has its main classification, say, "Apples", and then upon opening the box you can view all the different sorts of apples, from Macintosh to Red Delicious, each in its own section.  This system is great, because then I can tell my husband to pick up not only Golden Delicious apples for a pie but also several Fujis and Braeburns, because using a variety of apples makes for a better tasting pie; it enables me to say exactly what kind of fabric I need or whether I want oil paints or watercolors or gouache.

Unfortunately, humans don't just classify things:  pretty much since the beginning of civilization we have been classifying ourselves and each other, often with disastrous results.  Man, woman, hunter, farmer, warrior, husband, wife, priest, foreigner, have, have-not, friend, enemy:  these labels--and their subsets--have served as the basis for every conflict in history, and the more specific our classifications have become, the worse the ensuing conflicts.

But after all that, these days the trend seems to be that people have begun to return to the "pigeonhole" mentality.  The people in my circles often bandy about terms like "Republican", "Democrat", "conservative", "liberal", "Christian", and "Pagan",  without even qualifiers like "some Republicans" or "some Christians".

Let me present you with the "Christian" tackle box.  It's one of those HUGE ones, with multiple levels and drawers you can pull out.  The two main drawers would be (despite the Great Schism) Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Catholic, and Protestant.  From these simple divisions would rise the myriad sections (though the Roman Catholics remain largely undivided):  Baptists, Anabaptists, Calvinists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Greek Orthodox, Russian Orthodox, etc.--each with their own set of beliefs and practices.  I am also fairly certain that a number of these groups would object strenuously to being in the same tackle box as some of the others--and I won't get into groups like the Mormons, Scientologists, or Jehovah's Witnesses.

In my community, whose varied groups and people embrace Earth Spirituality, I have friends who toss the entire "Christian" tackle box onto the table, point at it and declare, "They hate us and they want to kill us!"

Uh, no.

I agree there are whacked-out Christians, like the Westboro Baptist Church group, who picket the funerals of soldiers killed in combat not because the soldiers themselves were gay, but because the military allows (in a twisted and ass-backwards fashion) gays into their ranks.  There are whacked-out Earth Spirituality people too:  no group, and no one, is perfect.

By definition, real Christians follow the word of Jesus:  Jesus was a wise and kind individual whose ideas were far ahead of his time (and, it appears, far ahead of ours).  From time to time he had a heck of a temper, but by all accounts it only surfaced when it was needed.  Real Christians walk the walk, following Jesus'  example of tolerance and kindness towards those less fortunate.  Real Christians don't want to kill anyone.

The Real World doesn't always allow for strict adherence to these tenets, especially the latter one.  I am not talking about the killings that would have Jesus deploying his temper in spades like the Crusades or witch burnings or the Spanish Inquisition:  I am talking about wars like WWII, where evil threatened the core of civilization.  And each of the events mentioned was brought about by labels:  Christians killing Moslems; Christians torturing and killing people they perceived to be witches; Christians torturing and killing Jews and Moslems and others because they wanted to be "sure" that they had given up their old religions; Nazis killing people who didn't meet their idea of ethnic perfection .  (Looking back at my examples it appears to me that the Christians have an awful track record...that's because my education was largely focused on Western Civilization:  one only has to look to Russian history to read about Uncle Joe Stalin's non-Christian pogroms.  No worries:  Christians haven't cornered the market by a long shot.)

I don't want to digress into the reasons that people find it important to self-identify as a member of any religion.  In my previous blog I discussed the escalating numbers of "Jesus fish" I see on vehicles and business cards. and pentacles the size of dinner plates hanging from the necks of Pagans.  Back in the day, before crosses and crucifixes became fashion accessories, these were almost always blessed by a Catholic priest and worn by the faithful.  In fact, even today, most crosses and crucifixes (and Stars of David) are small and tasteful, because most members of traditional religions--like Presbyterians, Jews, Catholics and Greek Orthodox Catholics--don't feel a need to throw their spirituality in anyone's face.  The "Jesus fish" however, is symbolic of evangelical Christians, and I believe that it is in response to this burgeoning presence and their sometimes extreme views (i.e.,  "YOU ARE A PAGAN--THAT MEANS YOU ARE A SATAN WORSHIPPER!" ) that Pagans find it necessary to wear jewelry that screams "I AM A PAGAN, AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!"

Gah.

If we don't want to be labeled by others, why do we label ourselves?

Here's my label:

I am a person.

Find a tackle box big enough for that.


















 

Religious Freedom, Redefined

Here's a bill I'd vote for:  ban all political ads.  GAH!

I'll admit it:  I am a conservative.  I am not a Republican:  I believe Republicans in Washington have tainted the party's ideals, and do not deserve re-election.  I wish to see our Constitution returned to its original purpose; I wish to see powers returned to the states; I want less government and less governmental control in my life, and I crave fiscal responsibility.

This is not something my friends always understand.  Most of them are of much more liberal leanings, and that's okay, it doesn't make them evil or any less my friends, and NO, I don't think they are deluded.  Given that the Democratic party has in the past gone to some lengths to be the "party of inclusion", there are many people who feel more comfortable identifying with this political group.

Who can blame them?  After all, the Republican party and its spinoff, the Tea Party, often seem to be very much the party of "religious freedom means 30 different kinds of Christians."  If you're anything other than a Christian or maybe a Jew, you are nothing and no one--or worse, you are seen as downright evil.

Republicans' horrified reactions to this week's "revelation" that Delaware Tea Party candidate Christine O'Donnell "dabbled in witchcraft" as a teenager have just been one facepalm after another for me (the real horror in that 1990s interview was not what she said, but her HAIR, OMG that was, like, Mall Chick Hair...)

Let's get some things straight:  O'Donnell is correct in saying that teenagers do rebellious, stupid things like "dabbling in witchcraft".  I disagree with her that it was a less destructive rebellion than, say, alcohol or drug abuse, but the effects of alcohol or drug abuse are often more obvious than those of "dabbling in witchcraft".   The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary defines "dabbling" thusly: to work or involve oneself superficially or intermittently especially in a secondary activity or interest <dabbles in art>  I think that in this circumstance "dabbling" might be further defined as "messing around without intent". 

The popular imagination, fueled by Harry Potter and other similar publications (did you know there were others?) envisions witches casting spells, riding brooms, and making potions.  The books one finds in the Occult/New Age section of your local bookstore (many of which are bogus) focus on spell-casting --which I feel is NOT something that should be tried by amateurs, rather like driving on the Schuylkill Expressway when you only have your learner's permit.  

The part about the satanic altar (this was a triple facepalm moment)...well, that was just plain stupid and the whole community practicing Earth-Based Religion could have done without that association.  I have already had to call the middle school principal and "explain" to him that witchcraft does not equal satanic worship.  Geez, even the Harry Potter books define the battle between good and evil pretty plainly!

Some facts:

1.  Most people who are "witches" (i.e., self-identify as Pagan, Wiccan, Shamanic, or as a practitioner of Earth-Based religion) do not practice spellcraft.   They are cautious about such work:  like many things it should be left to the Professionals.

2.  Witchcraft is NOT Satanism.  Satanic worshippers occupy a very specific group.  

3.  Witches do NOT sacrifice animals or babies or anything living.  In fact, some of them are pretty wildly against such practices. 

I know in my heart (and from what I've read on Facebook) that my friends are already up in arms at the Republican party's reaction to O'Donnell's admission.  It looks like it's going to be "damage control" for her instead of the golden opportunity for a statement about religious freedom.  

Unfortunately, I don't see the Democrats stepping up in defense of witchcraft.  

Since this is an Equal Opportunity Blog (EOB) I will now turn to the rumor that the President's mother-in-law practices Santeria, and that the President is beside himself with fury.  

Some facts:

1.  Santeria is the Real Deal.  Even the Supreme Court said so.  Santeria makes everything you see in those books in the Occult/New Age section of your local bookstore look like Dick and Jane.  This is Serious Shit and people often turn to it when there is dire illness in their families. 

2.  Santeria is an Afro-Caribbean religion:  it is based on traditions brought over from East Africa by slaves and then blended with the Christianity that was imposed on these slaves by their masters.  This means that as an African-American it's part of President Obama's heritage.  

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3.  Just as is the case in most religions (I would say "all" but I'm not a fan of absolutes) most practitioners of Santeria are Really Good People who provide sound advice to those seeking it, and who use their connections to the spirit world to do good.  

4.  Santeria IS a blood religion.  This means that goats, roosters and other small animals get sacrificed.  Before you object, they are probably killed more humanely than that chicken you had for dinner last night.  Yes, I have seen it, though I am not a practitioner.  

According to the news media, we should be horrified by both of these stories--and I am, except not the way that that writers and spin doctors (gods, I love that title) want me to be.  I am horrified that this has become NEWS.  After all, when was the last time that you saw a headline like "OMG, NEWT GINGRICH DABBLED IN BEING A CATHOLIC!" Those of you who are Protestants will chuckle.  

A person's religion should be a VERY private matter--and it should not affect one's opinion of another.  These days we see more and more escalation of in-your-face religious expression:  business cards with the "Jesus fish" on them; people wearing pentacles the size of dinner plates.  Actually, of all of them, the practitioners of Afro-Caribbean religions are the least conspicuous:  lacking fish, pentacles, burkas, yarmulkes, or other traditional dress, they blend into society, often so smoothly that their neighbors have no idea what they believe or don't believe.  

The bottom line is that religion needs to be removed from politics in every way, shape and form.  If people have to have a reason to vote for candidates, it should not be because of their religious preference (because we all know how THAT  has worked out in the past because religion does not equal morality): it should be because of issues like governmental reform and taxes.  I want to be free to practice the religion of my choice, without suffering the judgment of my peers.  And it would be really nice if the candidates didn't have to worry about their past "dabblings" to the point where they have to apologize or explain how "misguided" they were, because in doing so they are offending far more people than they realize.  When was the last time someone apologized for being a Baptist?

Waking Up Laughing

Watching the news I sometimes wonder if many members of our society suffer from the dysfunctional misapprehension that if they appear happy the whole weight of the world will come crashing down on them.  If there are not enough murders, assaults, traffic deaths, natural disasters, and terrorist attacks, newscasters focus their attention on the weather:  too hot, too cold, not enough rain, OH MY GOD IT'S GOING TO SNOW A FOOT!

Similarly, music, poetry, and other arts often seem dominated by references to love lost, love scorned, drugs, and death (thank heaven we no longer have to endure the lugubrious "my sweetie died" songs of the 1960s).  If you peruse the Young Adult section of your local chain bookstore (I used to work in one) you will find entire series of books whose theme is "too young to die".  I am still weighing whether or not the Twilight series is preferable to these maudlin paperbacks.  Song lyrics are chock-full of references to dreams:  sweet dreams, broken dreams, "dream a little dream of me".  Singers even wake up screaming.

But do they ever wake up laughing?

Yesterday I did.

In the dream I realized that I hadn't seen my dog Leeza in like a week.  Perplexed, I sought out my husband, David:

Nyssa (left) and Leeza (right)

"Where's the dog?"  I asked.

David's expression was that of a man who had been dreading this moment.  "Borneo," he replied.

"BORNEO???" I shouted.  "They EAT dogs in Borneo!"

"It's okay!" he assured me.  "She's on her way home!"

David

Emily

It turned out (in the dream) that one day Emily (our daughter) was home by herself when someone accidentally came to the wrong house with a UPS-like call tag, and she didn't check with us before sending the dog off.  David had been hoping that I wouldn't notice the dog was missing until she got back!

Borneo.  I awoke, rolled over and looked up at the hotel room ceiling.  Borneo?  I chuckled.  I got out of bed.  "Borneo,"  I said out loud.  "Borneo!"  I began laughing in earnest, until I couldn't see, could hardly breathe, and certainly speak even to say "Borneo" again.


Over the course of the day, fragments of the dream surfaced.  This dream had been about miscommunication and innocent mistakes turned serious:  earlier in it someone had posted something totally inappropriate on a website because they had accidentally copied and pasted the wrong pictures.

And when I got home, I forgave Emily for accidentally sending he dog to Borneo...

Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained

I met my friend Mary Beth a little over a year ago.  I had gone to her fabric store--a hole-in-the-wall mom&pop place--on the day after I found out that my sister Tina had stage 4 lung cancer, when I needed to be somewhere else than my house.  

I had been to her store at some point in the past:  I remember getting lost finding it; I remember digging through fabric to see what I could find; and I remember being utterly overwhelmed.  There were piles and piles and piles of fabric in remnants and bolts, zippers everywhere, thread, masks and costumes.  Everywhere.  I remember not being able to walk in sections of the store for the mountains of stuff.  

Fast forward to May of 2009:  having learned about my sister, and knowing in my heart that not only did she have cancer but that there was little hope for her recovery, I went over to the store to bury myself (literally) in the comfort of our mutual obsession, fabric.  

Trims (and Not All of Them)

I burrowed into the fabric, but, having been in retail most of my adult life, I started tidying up as I went.  It was, I suppose, my way of taking control in an overwhelming situation (not only was Tina mortally ill but she lived in Colorado Springs and did not want me to come out).  

Each day, I was galvanized by new discoveries. I organized the trims and laces--all of which pre-dated 1980--and became aware that there was a vast treasure trove of vintage fabric on the disorderly shelves around me.  

I am pretty sure that Mary Beth didn't know what to make of me.  It became apparent that, even though it was clear that she was overwhelmed by her surroundings, no one had ever thought to try and help her.  The advent of the local Wal-Mart several years before had gone a long way towards putting her out of business--to this day many people don't know the store is still open.  (When it opened the Wal-Mart sold fabric and patterns:  after they drove out Jo-Ann Fabrics and nearly killed Mary Beth's store they stopped carrying both.  Go figure.)  They had also suffered a flood and the movers who had packed everything so that the store could be cleaned up had packed and unpacked them carelessly, making what had by all accounts already been a cluttered mess much, much worse.

As spring moved into summer, new sports developed:  Fabric Diving, the Fabric Bolt Toss,  and Costume Wrangling.  When I was not camping, I was crawling over, through, and around fabric and racks in the darkened and HOT (no A/C) back section of the store.  

THAT is where the treasure was.  At least, the fabric treasure.

This one is in the Better Homes and
Gardens Sewing Book!

In the deepest, darkest part of the store, underneath tables that had been stacked high with bolts of (ew) polyester double knit, on shelves that I had not realized existed because they were buried beneath three feet of piled bolts of fake fur, were the brocades, the boucles, the Lurex brocades...

Lurex Brocades

This is stuff you will see as clothing in vintage clothing stores.  Mary Beth had it by the bolt.  The caves at the back of the store yielded one stunning fabric after the next:  often as I pulled them out all I could see was a glint of color or metallic thread and it was only after I got them to the front of the store that I realized what I had found.  

IT'S PINK!!!

I can't tell you how much I sweated, how much water I drank, how much dust I inhaled, how dirty I got, how many bags of trash I put out, or how many times I lost my Bluetooth.  Eventually Mary Beth stopped fretting that I was going to end up in the emergency room because I had been buried by an fabric avalanche (believe me, it happened; I survived).  What drove me to do this was not the promise of more incredible fabric (although that was a factor) but her gratitude for what I was doing.

Flashback!

Double Flashback!

As time went by, Mary Beth started pitching in (I am convinced she didn't know what to do in the beginning; the mess was so overwhelming that she didn't know where to start).  

One day, I brought my little black light into the store and made Mary Beth turn off the lights so we could watch the screaming psychedelic fabrics fluoresce.  (Note:  apparently these fabrics are so screaming that Blogspot can't upload them.)

To be continued...

 

They Call it "Crazy" Quilting for a Reason

Last year I painted "I Rise Up, Not Without Help", which was intended to be submitted for the 2011 We'Moon Women's Calendar www.wemoon.ws.  The theme was "Up Rising":  the editors asked what trials we faced, how we overcame them, and what we brought with us into an uncertain future.  I chose to portray myself moving over and past the stressful or tragic events I have experienced.  After much mental wrestling and many sketches, I settled on a crazy quilt robe to acknowledge the people who have supported and taught me over the years.

"I Rise Up, Not Without Help" (2009)
Watercolor and Gouache

I do sew, and have won awards for my beading and embroidery, but I have never, ever quilted anything.  I had been exposed to crazy quilting by a fellow vendor at Free Spirit Gathering:  she showed me how she did ribbon embroidery on velvet:  her work was dazzling and I enjoyed watching her, but I wasn't burning to do a crazy quilt.  However, the idea stuck with me and was a huge inspiration for the painting.

The final painting--which was accepted not only for the 2011 desk calendar but ALSO for the wall calendar (I kept walking around, dazedly mumbling "One of twelve...one of twelve...") --features myself walking up a slope, upon which are inscribed the most recent obstacles in my life:  my husband's year-long deployment in Afghanistan and deaths of my father and sister.  I am wearing a cloak which is casting off black feathers in favor of white ones and which features--as the peace I bring with me into the future--a view from the labyrinth at Four Quarters Farm (you will see the photo in a previous post) and a crazy quilt robe, each of whose patches represents someone who has helped or influenced me throughout my life.

I showed the painting to my friends, and the first question out of their mouths was, "You're going to make the robe, right?"

"No," I said.

"I dare you!"

"Nope.  It would be a huge project, and I don't have time."

"I double dare you!"

Fine.  Double dare the Badger.  Well, heck, I reasoned, I had more than enough fabric and ribbon, yarn and embroidery floss to give it a shot without spending thousands on materials.  Because I have a well-documented habit of diving into new medium head first, I found a book of stitches and a robe pattern, and started planning.  We were going to Tucson for the Gem Show, so I made a bunch of patches with the basic form appliqued on them and then took the appropriate threads and yarns for embellishment.

The Dad Panel

The Pele Panel
Embellished Printed Fabric

I love trying new media.  I determined that I should teach myself a new stitch with each patch:  not only would I be learning something but it would give the quilt more variety.  It also, incidentally, fascinates fellow airline passengers, though you have to be careful not to accidentally stab your neighbor (who, thanks to airline designers, is probably uncomfortably close) with your needle.


The Dad Panel features three things Dad, who was an artist, taught me:  "You don't have to draw every damned leaf on the tree; you don't have to draw every damned brick on the house; and STOP RIGHT THERE".

The Digger Panel

Some of the panels are recognizable in the robe; others are slightly different; others are completely different.  Given that I now have an entire robe to cover instead of just one side, I have a lot of leverage with design.  Also, if I had left the panels the size they were in the painting, they would have been miniscule.

Digger was a good friend.  He was a cantankerous old miner, discoverer of amazing linarite and wulfenite deposits.  He was responsible for getting my art into the Tucson Gem Show and he gave me my very first nickname, "Tiger".  We lost him this past January, but he did get to see the patch in the painting.

 

Mark's Dragon

Back in May or June, I suggested to Orren Whiddon of Four Quarters Farm that I do a workshop on crazy quilting at an upcoming festival.  He looked over at me in only the way that he can, and said,  "Describe to me in one sentence what crazy quilting is."

I should have known this was coming.  Orren likes brevity and specificity.  I took a deep breath.

Tina and Rob Panel

"Crazy quilting is a less structured, more organic form of quilting."

He was satisfied.


I became bolder.  I pulled out metallic threads, and started embroidering in earnest.

Badger Panel

I also went to town with the fancy stitches, combining stitches to attain more interesting effects.  I got out my beads.
I found that it while it is possible to create a patch with which I am dissatisfied, it is impossible to overdo a patch.  With the Badger and Tina panels I simply ran out of room to do more.  Note:  the associated Rob panel is actually my design, following the lines of the fabric from which I made the Tina panel.

   Eventually I realized that in order to know what size of patches I needed to design I would have to start actually assembling the ones I already had.  I cut out the pattern pieces for the robe and stitched down the extant patches.  I would also be able to add the interstitial patches (you can see some to the right of the Digger panel) needed to complete the design.

Right Side Robe Front

Left Side Robe Front

Fancy Stitches

Since I took these photos I have added the panel next to the Badger, which will eventually have a platypus (I figure that since I am not traveling, I don't need to use the more compact method I described above).  Here is a close up of the fancy stitches I used to integrate the blue with the red of the Pele panel.

If Orren asked me to define crazy quilting again, I would change my response.  Crazy quilting isn't quilting, really:  it's painting with fabric; it is less about sewing and more about fiber art.  It's "anything goes" using thread and yarn and fabric, beads and buttons.

It's CRAZY!

Imagining Being in the Woods while Sitting in a Hotel

Before launching into this first blog, I shall set the stage for you:

It is just after 8AM on the Wednesday after Labor Day.  I am sitting with my English Springer Spaniels on the carpeted floor of my living room in the coal region of Pennsylvania with ABC news playing.  My sixteen year old daughter is at the dining room table experiencing the miracles of modern schooling in her virtual algebra class with the PA Cyber Charter School.  The windows are open, admitting a fine breeze whose coolness belies the 90 and 100 degree weather we endured last week out at Four Quarters Farm.  I just got home yesterday:  I am thinking about the daunting task of unloading my van and cleaning out my storage shed so that there is room for my vending equipment; I feel fit; I look tanned; I have a broken toe and a spectacular case of poison ivy.

Thus endeth my working vacation.

  I was raised loving the outdoors.   I am convinced that my late father was an incarnation of the Green Man:  through him I overcame my childish squeamishness about dirt, worms, stinging caterpillars, swamps, mud, bugs and snakes.  Seeing Saturn or Jupiter and its Galilean moons became much more important than being eaten alive by mosquitos or coming inside half-frozen because the universe was huge and endlessly fascinating, and my little problems could be solved with Bactine or Mom's hot chocolate.  I learned that tramping through the dirt was a much more desirable activity than tramping through the malls that were becoming so popular during my youth, and that there was more value in finding interesting rocks than in finding a great sale at the department store.  Dad was a birder:  he was always looking up.  Having been collecting rocks and minerals since I was 4, I was always looking down, and in areas where there were no rocks there were always other treasures like wildflowers and fungi.  I just had to keep my eyes open.

Most people dread thinking about their teenage years:  I think of mine as idyllic.  I was outside much of the time, reading, drawing, writing, dreaming.  I read Tolkien and imagined that the nearby woods were occupied by Elves and Hobbits and wizards.

After high school I moved to Philadelphia so that I could attend the University of Pennsylvania.  I loved the city, but was always glad to go home to what at the time were the far western Philly suburbs and sit on the porch at night and see the stars.  But over time I became disillusioned with my old haunts as new people moved in and the woods where we found the Pink Lady's Slipper orchids and stinging Saddleback Slug succumbed to the unfortunate tide of McMansions that swept over the landscape beginning in the mid-1980s.  Woodland Dad and I had explored became PRIVATE PROPERTY with manicured lawns and driveways.  I was no longer home.

I figured it was time to "grow up".

I spent the following years in places that were, at least in terms of development--if not population-- entirely too civilized.  I became cosmopolitan:  my burgeoning art business took me to science fiction conventions in hotels in various cities, and there I drew portraits of people as Klingons gazing out at the stars, and wizards in magical woodlands.  In my Fantasy Portraits I drew people and their visions of nebulas or galaxies or mountains or trees or sweeping plains, but we sat in hotel air, getting hotel cough, eating hotel food and sleeping in hotel beds.

In late 2005 my sister Hollie finally succeeded in getting me to accompany her to Four Quarters Farm www.4qf.org ostensibly to help her close out her campsite.  I had, I felt, endured at least a year of her tales of the wonders of this place (ordinarily if someone says I "have" to see or do or try something I do exactly the opposite--must be that Badger thing) so I agreed to go out with her.

The day dawned cool and crystal clear as we drove south on I-81.  I love traveling early in the day, and we listened to our favorite music and sang along as the miles rolled by.  By the time we reached Hagerstown, Maryland, the day had become warm:  we had to shed several of our carefully-planned layers of clothing.

View From the Labyrinth

Four Quarters lies off of I-68 (conveniently, it happens, at exit 68).  To reach the farm, we traversed a number of country roads over hill and dale, and by the time we reached the dirt and gravel driveway I was absolutely certain that I would never--even with GPS-- find the place again (I later learned that GPS in fact does NOT get you all the way there).  As we drove up to the farmhouse, I began to understand Hollie's attraction to the place:  I experienced that overwhelming feeling that I had finally arrived home, which only increased as we passed the labyrinth, stone circle, vendors' meadow, kitchen and picnic tables, and entered the campground proper.  By the time we reached Hollie's campsite, I was hooked.

The Mother Stone

Perhaps in a future blog I will discuss the happenings of that weekend, the people I met and the things we did, but that's not really the thrust of this story.  Suddenly I was Outside again, in the deep woods, in a place that was decidedly wild, where the stars were not dimmed by street lights and members lived in tents rather than McMansions--although some of the campsite setups were decidedly palatial!

I became a promoting member of Four Quarters; I got myself an EZ Up; I became an Outdoor Vendor.  In the intervening years my business has undergone a remarkable transformation:  instead of being mostly done in hotels it is now mostly conducted outdoors.  The number of portraits I have done has dwindled and I often call them Spiritual Path Portraits now.  I have instead a series of paintings that cover many spiritual subjects http://badgersoph.deviantart.com.  I have been rained on, subjected to wild wind, and been sent diving for cover in thunderstorms.   I have had relationships come and go.  I have camped in brutal heat and teeth-chattering cold.  I have walked the creek bed and seen the Great Blue Heron; I have paddled around in the swimming hole and done battle with the Nibbly Fish and yellow jackets; I have picked out the songs of the owls late at night and loved every moment of it.

I have put down roots in this place.

Panoramic view of the Stone Circle at Four Quarters Farm

The Author
Photo by Pete Muench

Labor Day weekend is reserved for Stones Rising, a festival in which the community (i.e., those who show up; you don't have to be a member to participate) gathers to pull and raise megaliths in a tradition that will eventually produce a circle of standing stones.  My visceral description of this activity goes  something like this:  "It is the coolest damned thing you will ever do!  Even when you don't like working in groups you will find yourself working in one way or another!  I would rather cut off a limb than miss this event!"  More specifically, people at Four Quarters have, over the years, succeeded in pulling and erecting over 40 stones, some tilting the scale at over 14,000 pounds.  The entire event is centered on community, but before you balk at attending the definition of "community" here is fluid, and includes all who show up.  Newcomers are treated as much like family as five-year members like myself or those who have been there since the beginning.  And there you are, pulling or drumming or cooking or bringing water to the workers or witnessing or (like me) directing traffic--you find your focus shift from the noisy outside world to the core of who you are.   This is, as the cliche goes, "what it's all about."

On my way home from Four Quarters yesterday, I talked to my very good friend Beth, who with my other very good friend Beth had gone to Dragon Con in Atlanta.   She described to me the guest panels, the autographs, the photo ops with guests, the myriad people and activities, the shopping, the food, the fun...and I was really happy that she had had such a good time.  I don't look down on the convention scene, but I also realized that I was grateful to have spent the same time period in the woods helping to pull and raise two megaliths, taking part in ceremony, swimming in the swimming hole, socializing at the Coffee Dragon's, or just sitting out in front of my booth at night listening to the drum circle, looking up at the stars and talking with anyone who happened by over a bottle of mead.

Last weekend, a friend remarked to me that she knew people who tried to attune their spirituality while sitting in hotel rooms imagining being in the woods.  As I wrote this blog I realized that, for a long time, I too--along with many of my customers--had been doing the same thing.  I sat in hotels drawing the woods and mountains and starfields of which my customers dreamed.  I sat in my studio, drawing the forest.

Now things are different:  I walk the woods, and when I am not there, I carry them in my heart.

There is Treasure Everywhere

Sideling Hill Creek, downstream from Hemlock Hole

We spend a lot of time looking out, up, or straight ahead.  When we're driving we (hopefully) look at the road and the other vehicles around us; we look up at the clouds to see if it's going to rain; we look out at the landscape, at mountains or lakes or vast sweeping plains, perhaps searching for a landmark, perhaps simply enjoying the view.

Without a doubt, looking up is what makes folks who are geologically inclined among the worst drivers on the road,  providing stiff competition for the people who send and receive text messages while driving.  Example:  Me:  "Look at that road cut!"  My daughter:  "LOOK AT THE ROAD!!!"

I can see it now:  the straight-laced state trooper peers at me through his mirrored dark glasses.  "Ma'am, can I see your license and registration?  No, you weren't going over the limit, but high-speed stratigraphy has been outlawed in this state.  You'll appreciate that outcrop better if you're standing still."

As I mentioned in my previous blog,  my passion for rockhounding led me to look down, which led in turn to my appreciation for fungi and wildflowers.  My habit of looking down is also, relatively speaking, safer for myself and those around me:  I tend to not step on bees or other interesting insects and, despite what you may think, I manage to avoid MOST of the poison ivy that adorns the woods of south-central Pennsylvania.

Mist on Hemlock Hole
 Late August
2009

Sideling Hill Creek http://www.sidelinghillwatershed.org/wprofile.html runs through Four Quarters Farm.  www.4qf.org   Like much of the landscape at Four Quarters, the creek is wildly beautiful, running past high cliffs formed from steeply tilted beds of "old red" Upper Devonian Catskill Formation sandstones.

Tourists!
Boaters at Hemlock Hole
 During Reconstruction of the Steps
in April 2010

In the spring, the currents are brisk (spring floods in Sideling Hill Creek are legendary).  For most of the season, campers cool off in the sublimely clear waters of two major swimming holes and a number of smaller pools, but about the middle of August the water level starts to drop, limiting the number of places that one can (or would want to) swim.  This year the water level began dropping markedly in July; by mid-August long stretches of the creek bed became so dry as to be able to serve as a path.

Looking Downstream
 from the Hemlock Hole.
Taken from the Middle
of Sideling Hill Creek
 in August 2010

Previously I had only walked the creek via a trail running from the camp to the farmhouse.  I began a series of explorations, either alone or accompanied by anyone who was inclined to tag along, including photographers, longtime members, and even newcomers.

According to John Harper, who wrote the chapter on the Devonian in The Geology of Pennsylvania, Sideling Hill Creek and its predecessor streams have been cutting through Sideling Hill and associated landforms for about 290 million years. To put this into perspective, the events that raised the Appalachian Mountains occurred about 300 million years ago--a mere 10 million years before.  That sounds like a lot but in the context of the 4.5 billion year history of our planet, it's not.  Really.  In fact, it means that the creek was probably already there when the continent-continent collision that produced the southern Appalachians took place, and that the water started cutting into the rock pretty much as soon as the rock started rising.  Note:  the first appearance of Homo sapiens sapiens is a by comparison only 195,000 years ago.  Sideling Hill Creek is REALLY old.  Okay, not as old as the Susquehanna, but pretty damned old.

Undercut Sedimentary Bed, Sideling Hill Creek
August 2009

Walking downstream the cliffs, layered in pinkish brick red and pale green, rise high to your left.  Certain beds seem to attract moss and lichen; others do not.  Some beds are shot through with quartz veins; others have evidence of fossils.  The stream's meandering power is strongly evident as well:  less resistant beds have been cut deep back into the hillside, and you may find flood debris lodged in tree branches 7 feet off the ground.

Last summer I became fascinated by how Sideling Hill Creek seemed to cross cut some of the rock beds; this summer I was able to make more detailed observations of the bedrock that ordinarily lies underwater.  Some of this rock is very dark, seems much more resistant to erosion than other layers of the formation, and is pocked with craters, of which a number have worn straight through to become holes.  In the picture below you will observe (especially at the left) the layers of rock plunging into the ground.  I am still working out in my head how the creek came to be cutting across these beds instead of following them.

Panoramic View of Quartz Arenite Beds in Sideling Hill Creek
August 2010

These stones had already gotten my attention:  holed stones are considered sacred in many spiritual traditions, and over the years I have amassed quite a collection from a number of locations.  In my time at Four Quarters I had collected a number of these rocks further upstream, but had puzzled over their origin:  the rock was very hard and well-integrated like a quartzite, but quartzite was not a part of this sedimentary sequence.  I posited that the parent rock had originally been a beach or lagoon bottom, and the holes belonged to ancient burrowing creatures, but how this worked into a quartzite I didn't know.

During our conversation John Harper filled the gap for me, identifying this rock as quartz arenite, an extremely well cemented sandstone, and the fossil worm holes as Skolithos.   Not to worry:  knowing their name does not in any way diminish my fascination with them.

 Remember, when you're looking down, rocks are not the only thing you'll see:

Red-spotted Purple
Limenitis arthemis astyanax

This past week was the Week of the Voguing Butterflies.  Everytime I turned  around there was a butterfly in front of me, wings outspread as if to say, "I'm ready for my close up!"

Red Admiral Butterfly

Unsurprisingly there is also a fair amount of debris from floods on the numerous islands in the middle of the creek bed.  I found cobbles deposited in layers, their size a testament to the fury with which Sideling Hill Creek has flooded in the past.  I ran across the remains of campsites that had been carried off, either in the spring floods, during a hurricane or summertime flash flood.

And that is--I think--how Ganesh came to me.

Sometimes, when the weather is especially fine, I like to go on walkabout before I head out from the Farm,  to take pictures and--wait for it--look for rocks.  On this particular occasion, armed with camera, tripod, and walking stick I set off down the path past the Fox Altar.  I found a worn trail down to the creek bed, and spent the next hour wandering idly taking pictures of places I could not have reached earlier this spring.

I was about to turn back when something oddly un-rocklike caught my eye.  Before me lay an oxidized metal plaque:   an elephant-headed god superimposed on the symbol for the sacred sound OM.  I don't follow the Hindu gods, but I know one when I see one, and this was Ganesh, who is god of good fortune, of teachers and learning.  It is from his trunk that the OM emanates.

I could not believe my eyes.

The Ganesh Plaque
Above the Arch
Altar of Things Found

Reaction has been universal:  finding Ganesh in this fashion is considered to be extremely good luck.  I took him home and cleaned him up, then brought him back to hang over the altar at the entrance to my campsite.

SO...

I hiked the creek bed trying to find understanding,

find rocks,

take pictures,

and got the spiritual pot of gold.



There is treasure everywhere.