Nature, Spirit, Craft

Tree of life

This blog came about inspired by the amazing craft I’ve seen on flickr, Etsy and blogs. I’ve been so curious about the makers inspirations and thoughts and with serendipity weaving through virtual worlds we naturally connect, encourage and answer a barrage of questions!

My motivation lies in the sparks I feel when I see particular pieces. I want to walk around their creative sacred place and look at what they’ve gathered around them. I want to know what inspires them, what’s their working process and find words to converse in a language we naturally don’t use words for. This is an ancient language: one which we are naturally fluent in, through our long evolution on this planet alongside our non human family. We are after all interconnected and cannot live without each other.

‘It was as if my body in its actions was suddenly being motivated by a wisdom older than my thinking mind, as though it was held and moved by a logos, deeper than words, spoken by the Other’s body, the trees, and the stony ground on which we stood’.

D. Abrams*

Wooden Heart

The nature of modernity has somehow swayed us off that course away from our inherited knowledge, and lead us to believe that here in our man made world we are somehow elevated above the natural world.

Maybe that’s why we often feel a little lost in this modern world, we no longer embody that ancient natural knowledge we all possess. The prevailing powers feed us with distractions and maybe if we were a little more fluent in out mother tongue, we might just be less addicted to the quick fixes of modernity’s drugs and a little more self satisfied with our relationship to ourselves, each other and the place in which we live.

Reassuringly ancient

So when I see a craft piece that stirs my soul I wonder if the practitioner is fluent in this ancient language. I wonder if my questioning reflects that early on in life I knew I saw the world differently and by that nature it’s been impossible for me to ever feel alone, or lonely. How can you feel alone when their is the wind, the night stars beckoning from vast distances, bird song, snow, mist, weather, cold, thunder – they all have their voices their spirit.I am unsure where this questioning will lead, but it weaves serendipity so I set sail in it’s stream trusting the guiding forces. I do wonder if we are more aware of our relationship to nature – in that we are nature – do we then act accordingly? How can we then share that inspiration to act, share that feeling with others and offer an antidote to addressing the problems of the world?

* Abrams, D. 1996. The Spell of the Sensuous, pg 21. Vintage, USA

Migrating birds

I’m happy to report that my little birds have been leaving the nest as fast as I can assemble bodies, wings, beads and brooch clips. Like my little birds I too am preparing to leave the nest, my lofty eyrie looking out to Ben Lomond and the surrounding hills. My migration however involves the impossible task of taming an unruly flock of immigration forms which like little birds never seem to stay in the same place for too long.

A snowy Ben Lomond taken from my flat

Although my migration is voluntary, unlike the many forcibly moved from their Western Isles lands, I will follow paths many took over the Atlantic to Asheville, North Carolina ~ a place in the Appalachians where fibre arts are very much alive. Along with good friends, family and a small dog I will miss my mountain, Ben Lomond on the East shore of Loch Lomond. A peak which magically summons rain clouds from the Atlantic. Even on days when it envelopes itself in mist and cloud, immersed in its own weather system I feel its pull, its steady heart beat, its roots are my roots.

Carman Hill (Neolithic burial chambers and Iron Age Fort) pic taken from flat

As a kid on surrounding hilltops I would peer squinting through the half light of dusk and imagine the darkening land dotted with ancient fires, surrounded by an ancient people’s sharing stories. Time was wrapped up in layers and I was always looking for my way in to pull aside that vast curtain and crawl in. I still hunt for those keys in the shape of crow, tree or moonlight.

Driftwood

Out on the ocean beneath the forming rain clouds flows the North Atlantic Drift. It has brought me curious treasures washed up on the Clyde shore: coconuts, magically shaped driftwood and odd curiosities.Deep magic, our tie with the land, isn’t lost or forgotten, it’s very much alive. From my eyrie I look out to a town which cuts of the night skies in its excess of light pollution. As individuals we’re sidetracked by advertising, wide screen TV’s, traffic countless sources of noise into the belly of the consumerist beast. Above the artificial light the mountain peaks are tinged with the last light of the day, from the setting sun, shining on the lands of Tir na Nog.

We can bring the deep magic of the land alive through us, what we make with our hands and all that we do. It is a magic that lives within us as we are an integral part of the land. There is no ‘saving the environment’ we are the land saving ourselves.