Falling into the Land
The day before my family and I left for an 11-day road trip across six states, I (in my sound mind) decided to commit to a 30-day painting challenge called 30 Days of Presence. In this practice I hoped to gain mindfulness through repetition, but I also knew that committing to “work” before “vacation” was an interesting choice, to say the least.
On the road, or in any form of travel, it can be challenging to use that time as a way to express yourself. Often when we get away, we also want to get away from us—not be seen, to disappear into the new land we are entering, as if this whole “me” could just blend into the city, sea, or mountain range we’ve found ourselves in.
My boys and I drove from California to Colorado Springs and back, visiting many national parks and epic natural reserves. During this “family vacation,” I think I wanted to pull away from the city girl and her comforts, though not exactly consciously. Perhaps shame in relation to the ease with which I come by resources left me embarrassed as someone who claims to be eco-conscious. Maybe this road trip would cleanse me of those habits? Maybe you’ve seen a vacation as an opportunity to use this “new space” for reinvention: the stressed-out parent becoming the attentive, fun parent; the post-breakup newly single now free and in love with herself or himself. Maybe you’re her or him. I know I have been.
However, I also wanted to use this journey across the Southwest as an opportunity to let falling into the land be a way of falling further into my core—with self-expression, a.k.a. painting, as the byproduct. I will never forget the moment I spotted the full moon rising over the east end of Arches National Park as the western desert swallowed the sun. The moon and sun faced each other low in the sky over land formations that felt otherworldly. As my little boys giggled and cried, I thought, “To feel and see so much all at once is what life is all about.” I wondered, “How can I fall deeper into all of this?”
The cave of Mother Earth leads back to something deep and ancient within me. In the vast Moab desert, with red sands and periwinkle skies, I saw the ages of stories of peoples who called this challenging place home. I saw the crows whose cousins live near the shoreline of my home, but who also find themselves deep in the mountains. How could all these lands—so vast and so different—be so alike? A knowing lies deep within.
To create art and share it is to be seen. Presenting this rawness of self while diving into the void felt, honestly, like contradictory actions. Falling in love with the lands of Navajo Nation, embodying the silence, and taking the hot wind and blinding sands onto a small textured paper by way of a dirty watercolor palette was like digging up soil and placing it in a pot. But to take it a step further and share it online, with a price tag, was to remove that pot from the land it came from, bring in foreign soil and a pretty hybrid flower, and sell it.
A strange business indeed. And yet, in this transmutation or transaction, there is a shift of magic. The magic of the land is carried to eyes and souls who might not have known it existed—or perhaps to the mind of someone with a longing for this land, where the art serves as a remembering. Better yet, into the hands of the land’s current steward—she who tends to these mountains and deserts and loves her more deeply than us all. The art becomes a token of her love.
We are all taking, removing, transmuting, digesting, processing—always. In sitting with this interplay, perhaps what I discovered is that the void—whether found in a desert cave, a mountain gorge, the abyss of the sea, or deep within our bodies—shows us a moment of wholeness and connectivity that is pure. It doesn’t take or give. It just is. But when we come to the surface for air, we are brought back to the life force that is in flux and flow. And so, to see and then create anew is the most natural thing this realm has to offer.
What did I learn from 30 Days of Presence? That eyes open can see, eyes closed can feel, and the oscillation between the two—the flutter of the lid—is like the pull and push of the tide. Observe–Create. Take–Give. Cry–Laugh. Courage–Fear. Awe–Overwhelm. Land–Sea. Desert–Forest.
This motion is the movement of life, and in its presence—with our awareness—we can see the calming power of a rhythm that is within and around us all, from the tallest peak to the darkest depths of the ocean.
P.S. Several pieces from my 30 Days of Presence collection are still available. Each one was painted on the road or in my home studio after returning—small treasures of those vast lands and the rhythm they carry. You can see them all here. If one calls to you, I hope it becomes part of your own landscape.