A Pocket Museum

A Pocket Museum

March 5, 2008

I gave each of my Creative Writing students at Linfield a 5x loupe and told them to go out into the beautiful spring weather. They were to collect natural objects to create “a pocket museum,” then to use their loupe to draw what they saw, and then to write analogies.

This purple periwinkle looks like an Easter bonnet,
the purple star of Perfect Repose,
a violet kiss in oaky weather,
a tattoo I might like to have on the back of my left knee,
the violet membrane protecting Inua, the feminine soul of a whale,
a lavender smile I saw out of the corner of my eye….

The Spiral Source

March 3, 2008
Last night, I asked each student to write down a time of day (like twilight, dawn, high noon, etc.) on a scrap of paper and put them in a hat. We all drew one and the prompt was to express the mood of that hour in art while letting memories, dreams, and reflections related to that time of day come to us for writing about afterward.

I have a lovely student with emerald green hair. Last night, her ripped tee-shirt revealed the words “Lost Girl” tattooed across the top of her chest. Libby has multiple piercings including a bar across the top of her spine that looks painful, but in spite of her ritualistic accessories, her dominant facial expression is best described as gamine. She is big-hearted, sweet-natured, and artistic. She gave me the word “revolutionary,” which began the spirals.

However, as the “leader of the pack,” I am always aware of many souls focusing and creating at the same time. In a previous scribble drawing called “Holding It Close,” which I also did while drawing with my students, the object being held close and growing was the spiral of an unfurling frond. I see that same cosmic spiral symbol of the psyche repeated here is a source image of many hearts working together in one space, “rocked in the spiral arms of the Milky Way,” as Lisa Aschman’s song says.

Spring Moon

SPRING MOONCHILD

The first of March, and our garden is purple and gold with crocuses, and the tiny miniature daffodils act out Wordsworth’s poem in the chilly, bright blue breeze. I imagine the fields by moonlight like a great Moonchild coming up out of the body of the Earth.