Memories of a child’s streamside magic. Alone with the tadpoles or swinging across the stream on a monkey vine. Wet spring mornings in sun dappled woods, squishing along the stream in my rubber boots, and finding Jack-in-the-Pulpits and Indian Pipes poking out of leaf mulch.
I’ve always wanted to be fairy small and live in a moss covered cabin in a stream bank, to spend my days swinging through the leafy canopy on vines and wearing flower capes and hats, a Wind in the Willows existence with raccoons and squirrels and their kind as companions.
In last Saturday’s Muse Group we painted water – rivers, streams and oceans and such – by letting the water move the paints and inks across the page and spritzing and salting and squirting! The theme was the River of Life. My own river became a stream that took me back to that little girl, somewhere between 5 and 8, who lived in rural Maryland and Ontario, Canada and then Connecticut (we moved a lot!) In all those places there were streams and woods to play and dream in – tadpoles to collect and woodland wildflowers to become fairy bowers to an active imagination. And I left my wild spirit there. . .so I would know how to find it, years later when I’d become an adult, too “sensible” to spend hours getting wet and muddy along stream banks.
There’s still one or two spaces in the Art Journaling workshop I’m teaching at Sebastopol Center for the Arts on Sat. March 20 if you’re interested in trying out some art journaling like this for yourself. And I’ll be starting a new session of the Tuesday Evening Muse Group April 13 (for 6 consecutive Tuesdays).