 Solitude's Palette / 18" x 36" / acrylic paint on canvas / 08.28.2017 There is a space and time that exists only before the first rays of the rising sun can be felt and seen. This is when I wake. It is the pause before the world starts to stir. It is the pause in which what has come in the blanket of the night begins to turn and retreat into the richness of the shadows. It is the space before the stillness has been broken. This is when I most fully know myself. This is when I am most able to hear, see and touch my soul. This is when I consciously engage in communion with the source of my existence. Prior to August of this year, I had experienced a period of time with a multitude of major life transitions. Throughout this period much of who I had known myself to be was called into question. The voice of my Mother as she prepared to leave this earthly plane formed swirling eddies out of what had been flowing rivers in my identity and psyche. Her words and thoughts of who I was or was not swirled with all of the other changes that had so recently occurred. I found myself struggling to hold on to who I had conceived and believed myself to be. Time and life continued to move in an erratic and previously unknown way over the next six months. There was no "normal". There was no getting back to "normal". Normal would never again be what normal once was. I found myself and my identity being furthered called into question by the relationship that I had begun ten months prior to my Mother's passing. The truth is that I was not who I had been before. The truth is I was exhausted; physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I needed time. I needed space to sit with the parts of me that remained. I needed time to grieve the loss of the parts of me that no longer knew their own name. I needed to enter the silence and sort through the rubble. When asked to prove that I was still who I once had proclaimed myself to be; I could not, for I was not. The relationship ended and I began. In those early morning hours, before the light reveals the day, I began the long walk home. Who was I when I was stripped bare? Who was I when I turned off the cacophony of sound, stimulus and opinions of the world and those who believed that they knew me? Who was I when I stood naked in the mirror and saw myself through my own eyes and the eyes of my Creator? Could I dissolve my own entrapment? Could I set myself free and welcome the form that I would take? In solitude, could I reach into myself and find my truth, my beauty and my soul? In the solitude I found myself to be spiritually pregnant. Once again I began to hear that music, the hidden song that my soul was revealing. A deep and lavish richness is gathering within me and within my hands. It is from this palette that I shall paint. In Gratitude, Love & Art, ~Heather  Solitude's Palette (detail) If you would like to leave a response or thought I invite you to click on the word COMMENTS below.
 I am not who I once was. I am who I have always been. Those of you who know me on a personal level have probably on occasion heard me say, "both of these things are true simultaneously". A few days ago a strong storm came through where I live. I woke up feeling like the storm that had passed through during the night had somehow become part of my internal landscape; a disturbance of the normal condition of the atmosphere, manifesting itself by winds of unusual force or direction. Throughout my life there have been periods of time when I have been deeply aware that I am in the middle of a significant transformational shift. I believe that for the most part we are all in a constant change/state of transformation (if we so choose, welcome and allow). What feels poignant about certain periods of transformation is my level of awareness regarding the shift that is occurring. I could feel the storm inside me. I could feel it changing, rearranging, cleansing, and breaking previously constructed parts of my identity. I cannot say it is a comfortable feeling. It can be rather unsettling, especially when the feeling is particularly strong. It feels like an electrical storm deep in my core. I have had similar experiences before but this felt different. I believe the difference lied within the sharp level of my awareness regarding the significance and impact of my choices on where this transformation would lead. What did I wish to leave behind? What was no longer mine to carry? What had I forgotten and sat aside that I needed to be willing to pick back up and walk with? What parts of me had formed around others beliefs about who I am or who I should be? Could the storm that I am feeling assist me in shaking loose what was not solid and core? Could it move away debris and reveal what is strong, rooted and growing inside of me? There has been one other time in my life when this feeling came on with such intensity. I started pouring through my journals to try and connect the pieces. Eureka! I found it. It was 10 years ago and it was one of the most prolific years of my life and artistic practice. It was also when I was working on a piece that I called Remembered Pieces. Interestingly enough, I never considered this piece completed. It had always been my intention and desire to construct a room out of the panels of canvases. A room that when constructed would create a universe and beyond.
When I reread my original writing for this piece I knew that my feet were once again being placed on a path that I believe to be in alignment with my purpose. A Prayer of Re-membered Pieces Beyond the Veil of my human existence deep in the Ancient Womb where the creative Soil is rich with the dust of a galaxy of Stars I Cry out to the Divine on tears formed from the Waters that rise and fall in my body rhythm takes form and my Soul begins to Sing I am a song of Re-membered Pieces my Humanity aches to know to touch to contact to remember my Divinity the Call is returned, whispered on the Winds moving the delicate strands of the Web with the echo and reverberation of the Voices of the Holies I Cry out to the Divine on Winds formed from the direction and intention of my Breath Life takes form and is carried from one Being to the next I am a Story of Re-Membered Pieces my Divinity aches to know to touch to contact to Re-member my Humanity buried deep within this Temple of Skin, Bone and Flesh a powerful medicine is known cooked by the Fire that in its hunger devours all illusion I Cry out to the Divine Mountains and Valleys sculpted by the heat and movement of my Blood a landscape of great Beauty and forgotten history I am a body of Re-Membered Pieces my Humanity aches to know to touch to contact to remember my Divinity on the other side of the mirrored Looking glass the Eyes of the Snake are clouded preparations are being made to Shed its Skin and cross between the realms I Cry out to the Divine milk of transmutation moving, warmed by swelling breast and beating Heart nourishment crossing the physical Boundary of skin I am only part of the Re-membered pieces my Divinity aches to know to touch to contact to remember my Humanity Worlds touch contact occurs the interface is Created the Veil shimmers and the illusion falters Re-Membered Pieces merging in a Symphony of sound and color I Cry out to the Divine All Life Answers  Remembered Pieces / 4' x 5' / acrylic paint on canvas panel / 05.00.2009 In gratitude, beauty, love and art, ~Heather If you would like to leave a response or thought, I invite you to click on the word COMMENTS below.
 Under the Sheets of Rain / 18" x 24" / acrylic paint on canvas / 11.25.2016 Change can come in an instant, forever changing the landscape that is familiar and known. Change can be subtle and unseen, moving under the surface undetected until it is ready to show its new form, its tender untouched skin. Prior to 2012 I lived in the same location for 15 years. I had come to know this place and I had come to know my place within it. In the five years that followed, I inhabited and/or established 12 different dwellings, 12 different homes, 11 of which I personally lived in for various moments or lengths of time. The cycle of the last 18 months, a year and a half as we currently mark the passage of time has been one in which unforeseeable changes, transitions, beginnings and endings have continually rolled over my internal and external landscapes with the unpredictable movement of a great and massive body of water, like the coming of a storm that lingers, shapeshifts and takes new and uncertain forms. I said goodbye to my father as I knew him in this world to be. Five months following his passing I would care for my mother as she too took her leave of this earthly plane. I have walked and lived on the desert sands of the southwest and I have stood at the shores of the Mother Ocean and tasted her salted memory. I have returned to the land that birthed and raised me: revisiting what had formed and began my construction as the being that I had come to know myself to be. I lived through the season which I have come to call My Winter in the House of Ashes; four containers of those who had passed grouped in passage in their respective urns. I welcomed a new love into my arms and I opened my arms to release a love that I no longer knew how to hold. I have watched as one of my four legged companions, a teacher and a friend diminished quickly from this world, leaving another void and space that echoed with what once was. I lost and found myself, unsure of what remained, forever changed by the movements of lives and the marching of time. I am inhabiting a new place, a new home once more. One previously unknown to me. I am in many ways unknown to myself. I am a creature who deeply inhabits, one whose foundation reaches out like the roots of a tree, connecting to the soil in which it has grown, from which it has come. What happens when the soil is scorched by the cleansing of a great fire? What happens when the forest burns and your roots, your foundation no longer stands as it once did? What happens during the period of time when the landscape lies dormant in appearance, cleared of what had once grown? Is it possible to become quiet and still while the life underneath connects to the nutrient rich ashes in order to begin to push up and live again? I have asked myself if I can be comfortable not knowing what that new form, that new life will take. Under the Sheets of Rain was the first painting that I completed after my Mother's Death. The paintings always come first. Until a feeling or experience has been moved through me by means of image, color, paint, I often struggle with "words" for they are not my first, best or preferred language. Under the Sheets of Rain was painted while I lived in the home my parents' had built a life in. A period of time which is included in a chapter of my life that I think of as the Interstice - an intervening space, or an interval between spaces and times. Under the Sheets of Rain I smelled the coming of the rains aroma of incense washing away flesh, bone, blood, remains I felt each raindrop as it fell becoming part, indistinguishable from the rising swell I heard the moisture fall around I am the voice of its collected flowing, the naming of its sound I tasted the salt of a torrent of tears collected waters of lives and rivers held in divine liquid spheres I saw the world mirrored in every drop merging into awareness, absence of separation; no start, no stop I am under the sheets of rain blanketed in waters of waking and sleeping I am under the sheets of rain sheathed in memories and weeping I am under the sheets of rain days and nights passing without number I am under the sheets of rain descending like a curtain of uncertain slumber obscuring what I believed to have known obscuring what I believed myself to be until the force of its falling was caressing my skin reminding me of what must wash away and what life chooses to begin I am under the sheets of rain it has soothed the burning pain, fire of rebirth I am under the sheets of rain a seed receiving nutrients deep within earth I am under the sheets of rain vision washed clean by elements hidden, revealed, seen I am under the sheets of rain re-membering how beauty can be transmuted by pain I smelled the coming of the rains aroma of incense washing away flesh, bone, blood, remains I felt each raindrop as it fell becoming part, indistinguishable from the rising swell I heard the moisture fall around I am the voice of its collected flowing, the naming of its sound I tasted the salt of a torrent of tears collected waters of lives and rivers held in divine liquid spheres I saw the world mirrored in every drop merging into awareness, absence of separation; no start, no stop As always, I thank you for the moments you choose to enter my world. My Hands, Your Hands, In beauty, love and art, ~Heather I invite you to leave a comment by clicking on the word comments below.
 Arrhythmia / 36" x 24" / acrylic paint on canvas / 07.00.2004 Following "The Dream of the Painted Face" it would take another 9 years before I began engaging in a sustained practice of painting. On that particular day in July of 2004, when I sat in front of the canvas and held the brush I considered the act of painting to be medicine. Arrhythmia The canvas seemed so large. Where do I start? How do I start? How do I begin to put what I am feeling, what I cannot explain in words onto the big open white space? My world was imploding, exploding, opening, closing, ending, beginning. I remember feeling as if my heart was physically detaching from my body and was leaving a bloody and oozing wound and no matter how hard I tried, I could no longer hold it in the place that it once lived. At the same time, I felt as if I wanted to rip my heart out, to set it free and yet it refused to let go and surrender to the freedom that it had so long been waiting for. It clamped down even harder and pumped the hurt through my body. I forgot about trying to figure out where I should begin and I surrendered to the sensations of my heart. As I sat and allowed myself to feel the contortions of my distressed organ, I realized that the middle of the canvas had begun to beat. Rhythmically in and out, thump, thump, thump. If my life as a whole no longer made sense, if there were only bits and pieces, only fragments that I could grasp and understand, I needed a way to express them. As I painted I felt a release or a transformation of the confusion, the sorrow, the hope, the promise, the memories, the fear. I felt as if I did not have to label or define these things. What was before me was the truth of my personal experience. This did not need to make sense. It was not wrong. It was not right. It simply was. It simply still is. There is no need to explain. There is no need to defend. There is no need to understand. It is simply a visual representation for that which I did not have words eloquent enough to articulate. The way the paint felt moving beneath the bristles of my brush…the way the red looked and felt as it spread across the canvas...the way the handle of the brush felt while I held it carefully in my fingers…the way the rhythm of my heart began to smooth and become one with my breathing. I was no longer holding my breath, it was flowing. I was beginning to move through the fragmented pieces of my life and my heart. It began with the heart in the center and ended with the unfinished coiled snake in the bottom left corner. Part of the gift of this painting was the knowledge that the healing, growth or transformation was not complete as a result of expressing it on the canvas, but that the start had occurred there. The painting is a witness to my experience. The snake is a reminder that the transformation caused by the experience is never done and that one experience always leads to another. The ending is always and also a beginning. In Gratitude, Love & Art, ~Heather If you would like to leave a comment, question or thought, I invite you to click on the word comments below.
Each time that I enter the studio and prepare to paint, I pause and look at my hands and say in prayer, "My hands, Your hands". This is also true when I prepare to write, and cook. That remembrance is honestly something that I am striving to hold at each and every moment.  on the Origin of Matter, Mater and MotherWithin the origins of Eve's name are the whispers of multitudes of names and stories. A dictionary and thesaurus can paint words of understanding regarding the relation between matter, mater and mother. or... I could paint for you. If I could, I would whirl pigments into eddies and create you visible in energetic glow the matter and mother which embraces you If I could, I would layer incandescent hues to mirror the beauty of your muscle, skin and bone revealing the light my eyes holds you in If I could, I would gracefully trace the curve of your hips in the movement of fine sable brushes whispering of the worlds cradled within your form If I could, I would merge the shades of your soul with the rhythm of my hands giving voice to the map of stories on your skin If I could, I would bathe you in warmth and ardor, creating a sensation of bodily heat you would light the garden in your brilliance If I could, I would Glow In dedication, gratitude, remembrance and love to the Divine Feminine and the Garden of Eden that lives within each one of us. Shine ladies Shine. My hands, Your hands. In gratitude, love and art, ~Heather
Glow / 20" x 16" / acrylic paint on canvas / 10.14.2017
 "The Willow's Dance for the Ocean" Like waves that both crashed against my shore and gently lapped along my edges, I laid in a state of ecstasy, feeling the ripples and energy of the waves wash over me. I knew that I had been forever moved from where I once stood. As my rational mind slowly made its way back from the depths of the watery realm, I watched as the Willow gracefully collaborated with the Wind in the most exquisite of dances. For just a moment; the part of me which had not returned, the part of me which was still dancing on the edge of ecstasy could see the web that held it all together. The Willow and her roots always seeking water, always trying to find her way home to the Mother. Her dance was for the Mother of us all, the one she continually longs to be close to, the one that is home and the one that sustains life. For just a moment I could see her roots stretching like a network of fragile neurons, reaching for that which she loves, longs for, weeps for and always remembers. What had only moments before been ecstasy moved into the deepest waters of grief. I would later find myself on my knees weeping as I had watched the Willow do. I spoke words to the Mother of us all. As the tears flowed from my eyes I made an oath that I would do my part to assist in remembering Her... For the last year the water in my dreams has been steadily rising. Even when the dreams have been rooted in the sands and surroundings of this desert home, they have been messages speaking of the water's arrival. The rising of tides. The dry riverbeds of the arroyos flooding. In this nightly realm, even when the speech and messages have spoken to the absence of water, they have spoken about the events that will occur upon its arrival. What of the last five years of my inhabitance in this desert landscape has been or has served a purpose of "drying me out"? An evaporation or hollowing, a burning away of what is no longer needed or necessary for me to carry. Old ways of thinking like ancient aquifers that no longer reach to the places in need of irrigation, baking in the sun to dry and crumble and once again return to the earth. What if I have been training on how to survive and thrive in conditions such as these? As of late, the liquid landscape of the dreams has been increasing in intensity. Their message growing in strength, and speaking of a quickening. What if the magnificent Ocean Mother has been calling to me? Letting me know of our meeting or perhaps more appropriately of our reunion? When I made the journey to this arid land that has been my home for the past five years I thought then that I would root here for the remainder of my life. I had been called here in dreams by the voices of those whose legacies and lives have been seeped into this ground. This beautiful, rugged, wild and carved landscape has taught me much. She opened her arms and embraced me, and then, as she held me tight, she began her tempering. One lesson after another...parasitic infestations...the plummet of financial instability...near death by carbon monoxide poisoning...lessons on love and betrayal...a touch with bubonic plague...boulders falling from mesas and destroying my transportation...a swarm of locusts devouring the fruits of the garden...the list goes on and on... I wrapped my arms around her neck and held on tight, praying that she would change her embrace. I prayed that she would kiss me gently, whisper in my ear and speak to me of our love for one another. There were moments of such tenderness. Moments when she and I held hands and matched our footsteps to one another. But as a lover she would not marry her hand to mine. As is the case with lovers who sometimes magically enter our lives, the passion and the desire for union was intense, beautiful, epic - they teach us much. They hold a mirror of reflection up and we are blessed to see more clearly our own faces. She has done this for me. She has revealed pieces of my landscape that I had yet to know, that I could not see, that I refused to look at. As the marking of time passed and the events and happenings of the previous year drew to a close, an unexpected man entered my life. He arrived in this desert land with the whisper of the Ocean. The smell of her wind and body carried magically and embedded in his skin, being, words and way of existence. Recently I have found myself wondering if she had sent him to carry me in his arms to her. The cargo is being prepared. The route is being mapped and the sailing crew is almost assembled. The voyage from this land of sand and sun will set sail on August 20th, making a voyage that will lead to the waters. Mother, I am coming home to sit upon your shores and fulfill the promise that we spoke of in the watery realm of the dreams.  "Mother's Nature" What had only moments before been ecstasy moved into the deepest waters of grief. I would later find myself on my knees weeping as I had watched the Willow do. I spoke words to the Mother of us all. As the tears flowed from my eyes I made an oath that I would do my part to assist in remembering Her... That night as I slept I had the following dream… I am slowly meandering my way along a vast and expansive shoreline. There is only the shoreline, the Ocean, the edge created by their meeting and the sound and movement of the Wind. As I travel along the edge I glimpse a small hut a ways off in the distance. As I approach the hut I notice the absence of a door. I step through the opening and find myself inside with a Woman who is of substantial matter. She is sitting on the floor of the hut as if she has always been there, waiting. Her skin is the color of the deepest of sand and copper and her flesh is bountiful and gracefully drapes her bones in abundance and the wealth of her knowing. Her hair flows in thick and wild ropes around her shoulders, past her heaving breasts and touches the earthen floor of the hut. In front of the Woman is a low table made of driftwood that has swam in the waters of the Ocean since time began. On the table there is a row of necklaces each bearing an amulet. Each amulet has been made from pieces of the Ocean, pieces of Her. The Woman lifts her head and her eyes meet mine. She says the following; “My daughters are going to be in a play for the Ocean. Each daughter must pick an amulet to wear.” She finishes speaking and simply holds my gaze with her large eyes. It is as if she has always been here. Waiting. Less then a week after having this dream I was visited by a young woman. Upon arriving at my home she presented me with a present from her recent travels to the Ocean. She opened her hand to reveal a necklace with an amulet made from a white bursa center cut seashell. As she handed me the amulet she said, “I wanted to bring you an amulet from the Ocean.” As I turned to look at this young woman, for just one moment, in her eyes, I saw the eyes of that beautiful copper skinned Woman who has always been there. Waiting. If you would like to leave a comment or have thoughts to share please click on the word COMMENTS below.
 The Old Rocking Chair As the old rocking chair continued making its grooved motion back and forth and I thought of all that had recently come to pass...how those tectonic plates of my foundation had shifted and come to rest in new and previously unknown locations I wondered. I wondered, did I have it in me to rise one more time? My life and story have kept time and space with ancient creatures and their multitude of representations. The Phoenix. Dragons. The Ouroboros. The threads of their mysteries are woven throughout the images of my artistic and spiritual practices and the worlds in which I inhabit. Like the ancient snake circling around to eat its own tail (tale), was I ready once more to let go of what needed to fall away and shed my skin? Like the magnificence of the firebird, was I ready to step from the ashes of what had burned and what remained into a new form and spread my wings to fly? Those who have known me or who have witnessed my story's unfolding have at times spoken about the colorful and seemingly dramatic rhythms of my life: the glorious rises, the plummeting falls, all the mysterious events that seem to move through the passage of my years.
In my newly found willingness to share my stories and thoughts with the world beyond my own skin in a written form, I offer my deepest vulnerability. Please allow me a moment for further explanation as to why it is important for me to say this out loud. I am a painter. As I mentioned in my last communication this identification and knowing, this act and process of painting, well...this is my terra firma...my solid ground. I do not question it. I never have. Whether or not a painting sells, or whether or not I receive affirmation or acclaim for the act of painting or the corresponding result in many ways is inconsequential. For me there is no choice. I was born to hold a paintbrush. I was born to swirl colors into formation and images. It is as essential to my being as breathing, I do not mean to say that I do not embrace or welcome the monetary benefit that could result from the engagement of painting. Nor do I mean to convey that when a person witnesses or is moved by one of my paintings it is not appreciated or beneficial. What I am saying is that if those factors ceased to exist you would still find me holding a paintbrush and mixing paint. In this act, the process of painting, I am incapable of lying, withholding, or telling someone what they desire to hear or see. Painting is my truth. At times this truth is raw, beautiful, ugly, not easily understood (even by me), simple, complex...whatever it is...it is a piece of my internal landscape, my mystery, my magic, my soul, my story. At times people have suggested that I paint images that are more easily understood or embraced by a wider public. These suggestions have come with the best of intentions and perhaps a desire for those who care about me to have the joy and experience of seeing a lifetime of work begin to "pay off". I understand this logic and reasoning and yet I am incapable of doing so. To do so would be a lie and a coercion of some core part of my existence. I know for some this will sound dramatic, but it would be the beginning of the death of a part of my spirit. So why? Why do I share this with you? Why do I share with you this insight regarding my feelings and thoughts around what it means for me to bring an image onto the canvas? Because the same promise and process exists within my commitment to sharing these written words. The truth is I have been writing for years. There are books upon books, pages upon pages of my thoughts. I have been asked by numerous and various people to share them before but it has never felt right to do so...until now. Perhaps it has always been too close to the bone. And so...back to that glorious old rocking chair. Back to that moment when I rocked back and forth and I asked myself the question - Do I have it in me one more time to rise? You see, as I rocked back and forth I honestly did not know. This time it was different, everything seemed different. The driving energetic force that had always propelled me forward had shifted along with those tectonic plates. I kept rocking back and forth and a thought began to creep in. What if...what if instead of shedding my skin and feeling as if I had to protect that oh so tender new and exposed skin, the skin I did not yet know...what if instead of rising from the ashes of what remained into a new form...what if I chose to step fully into the skin that had been being formed around my blood and bones? What if I began moving from the inside out? Perhaps this seems easier for an outsider looking in to realize, but for me it was revolutionary. In that moment, in the rocking of the old chair, I understood that I had to think about it differently. This time I could not shed or rise. This time I needed to step into and inhabit who I am becoming. The old rocking chair made the sound of of its bones creaking as I continued to move back and forth and I believe the friction of its' moving sparked a small and delicate flame. That flame flickered and I was moved. What if like a painting, this was an offering from my soul...what if I shared the experience of my inhabitance with you? You who might be interested in what I might have to say. In that moment I made a decision to fully inhabit my skin and a commitment that I would share what I had been previously unwilling to do so. Here is my promise to you whose eyes are moving over the formation of these words - I will be honest and I will paint now not only with images but also with words the picture of my soul. The same rules will apply...I will not make a portrait of myself that is easier for the masses to embrace or one that is an inaccurate depiction of who I am or understand myself to be, I offer you me, as honestly as I am capable of seeing myself as I begin consciously inhabiting the skin around my blood and bones. I have always believed that we grant each other permission. What do I mean by this you might ask. Well, I believe that the more capable you are of being truly and authentically who you are and the more you live or inhabit this authentic truth, the more you allow or give permission for others to do the same. What I have to say and what I will write is in many ways an invitation and one I offer with and in the deepest of love. So...it is time for us to pull up our beautiful, old, creaking rocking chairs and let us sit side by side. Let the stories begin.
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