Take Flight - Hawk (Original Art)

This original gorgeous hawk, painted in vibrant purples with undertones of pink, is posed mid-landing (or launching) on a red and orange 8" X 10" X 1.5" canvas. The work has been sealed to help protect against fading. Edges are painted using a mix of the same reds and dark purples on the bird.


https://www.etsy.com/listing/219187509/take-flight-original-art?ref=shop_home_active_1

Coffee with Sunday Morning (Original Art)

'Coffee with Sunday Morning'
***SOLD*** (Details: 4" X 12" X .75" permanently mounted to a 8" X 10" X .75", Mix of Medias include Acrylic, Ink, Oil Pastels, Watercolor)

A Taste

I am eager for a taste of this tricky evening.  I watch the wings that sink out. I watch the wings that hold on. I watch the C wings take the last bench.  I see that flat, yet tight turns, determine the fate of those that hang on.  Tips that wobble, from brakes pulled too much or too little, will miss the narrow thermals and rocky rolling lift line.  I watch and watch, learning, absorbing yet hesitating. 

This is some of my favorite air.  It may look crowded for a few minutes but I know I will have most of the ridge to myself if I hold out because most will sink or land out.

I am eager for a taste but I pause as I watch launch.  Many of the pilots, including those who possess kiting skills that far exceed my own, are struggling.  Light easterly cross wind mixes with strong tapered thermals in densely cool air causing wings to rapidly switch from surging forward to buckling in; all while trying to also to rock them into the gullies. 

Once I am past launch, the air will engulf me in the moment.  I know I will be present, 100% present in each instant.  It is a drug for me.  I don’t care about the last course; I don’t care about the bench.  I want the thrill of listening to my wing, of staring fiercely at the stiff sage for flickering foliage, of guessing which ridge will have the tiniest bit more movement as I try to correctly time each sink and lift cycle.

Oh I am eager for a taste!   Again, I pull my wing up but just as quickly I set it back down.  Again the light sharp feather of memory teases my neck.  I have been ‘gullied’.  The result was only a few nasty scratches and a twisted ankle but I have not forgotten it could have been more. I turn around to watch another pilot get picked up, sat down and snarled into a knot.

I look around for an instructor who has before helped me this year on a similar evening but they aren't here. Drat.  I turn back and as I watch I can see the gusts are abating.  It is going to continue to be cross and uneven but it is smoother.  I roll my shoulders, take a deep breath, decide and ask someone else to assist me; to ask them help me be safe and coach my launch.

And they do, while telling me I should take a pass on this tricky air…. J  With their much appreciated verbal only guidance, I have a safe launch and I have my taste.

Oh such wonderful air; the best kind, the teaching kind, the kind that keeps me hyper alert.  I grinned as I missed the minuscule thermal at the gazebo and I carefully tapped my brakes into a flat turn to catch it again, relying on weight shift.  I laughed as I climbed back up to ridge level; I dropped my inside hip, just touching my outside brake to level out my wing’s porpoise effect caused by flying close to the gullies and ridges.  I repeat this movement, searching the ridge for all of the steps.

A strong thermal lifts me up quickly and I turn into it, ‘parked’ for a moment until I feel it roll over and past and down I sink again.  The rowdiest air on an easterly evening seems to always towards the end so I use the lower landing zone to as a visual marker to not go past.

I dance in this silly, laughing turbulent air delivered by a wind that challenges me to be present, to be in every instant, to never let my attention stray and to never give up.  For thirty four minutes I sink, I soar; I live in each heart beat until I hear her sigh that she is done with our play.   I turn in my last chance to be on top, land on the grass and laugh at myself. 

Our Muse

I am twisted slightly to look over my shoulder, eyes glued to the sluggishly waving wind sock behind me.  Every exhale of moving air against my neck is mentally measured. My peripheral vision watches the cells of my paraglider breathing in the north wind's presently insignificant gasps.

A tiny bead of sweat cools the side of my temple.  The rest is caught inside the mesh of my snug full face helmet. My fingers slide softly against my lines...

The north wind is coming.  I know it.  My imagination pictures my Wind Woman tumbling, laughing, teasing around far off flags and trees.  Although she is carelessly delayed by distractions from the eastern mountains and then tardier still as she momentarily pauses to smile at leaves... she is coming and I am patient and impatient as the late summer sun roasts my shoulders through my long sleeved shirt.

All around me stand 30 or more others; gear on, harnesses clipped, their heads also steam cooking in colanders called helmets.

We wait in near silence.

Then... the hang glider waiting on the edge of launch, having leaned forward on his wires for minutes the length of hours, suddenly straightens and takes the base tubes (the frame) of his wing in his hands; he has seen the flag down the valley snap up and strong.  He launches. The nose dips down and then curves up.

She is here.

There is a unvoiced cheer of unified relief as we pull up our wings, each of us now competing for our spot to take off.  We stagger forward like zombies, chests to the ground, toes scrambling; we are laughing with our belated muse as she catches us off the earth's edge to toss us up and up.

Winter is Coming (Original Art)

'Winter is Coming'
16" X 20" X .75"
Print Available 

'The Bug', Ego and a Vaccine

Our perception of self worth and value tends to be deeply aligned with our pesky testy fragile ego and as such it is an incredibly powerful aspect of the human condition, ego can be a serious force to reckon with.

I have my own ego issues, of course, but they are not usually sports related. God and fate did not see fit to give me a reasonable sense of spacial awareness or much by the way of eye hand coordination.  I respect the high possibility I may die carrying the laundry down the stairs some day. So when it comes to sports, of any kind, I hold myself back, take extra care and never compare my progress to others.

And this detached approach works well for me.... Until I catch 'The Bug'.

'The Bug' happens when I get really interested, invested and begin to see 'Dramatic Improvement'. Symptoms include an awakened fiercely competitive six year old self, hair brained determination and a complete lack of concern for possible bodily harm. Having the 'The Bug' means that I will now measure my progress with a ruthless and unforgiving memory.

Skiing is a great example.

I started skiing on gentle runs in the rolling sprawling hills of Harrisburg. I loved it; each time was chaotic movements in a splendor of heavy snow and coupled with fantastic car wheels.

Then I moved to Utah and had a couple of days on snow accompanied with the skilled aid of my dearest. Having grown up skiing on a racing team in Utah, he is more than proficient, ridiculously fast and a persistent instructor. Under his tutelage I went from sort of up right and mildly paying attention to showing some assemblage of 'Dramatic Improvement'.

I remember my first run taken with 'The Bug' and an inkling of confidence... As of that run, I have clobbered my face, free fallen, lost skies, blacked out and seen the inside of the First Aid office at Snowbird and Alta. In the name of 'The Bug' and my burning desire to be awesome; I have become a fanatical devotee to my crusade -despite my natural state of klutz.

Getting 'The Bug' is not a given occurrence though.  Scuba diving, for example; My darling introduced me to the world of diving years ago but the whole thing only enhanced an already acute awareness of my squish-able self. Diving is cool, awe inspiring and down right scary. Scuba diving remains in the category of 'Improve and Proceed with Extreme Caution'

Flying has been in this category up until last October.  I treated the whole thing with watchful meticulous routine and warily eyed interest. Then last year, after a summer of monsoons, cross winds and blown out days, there came a mystical week in October. For six days, in a row, there arrived warm/ cool autumn air, bringing straight and even winds with golden sunsets.

It's incredible what consistency will do. Launching, flying and landing six days in a row, of course, improved my confidence and skills. It also included my personal hook: 'Dramatic improvement'.

Perhaps 'The Bug' is intermediate syndrome, I have read a bit about it. Intermediate syndrome describes making 'choices not in line with one's actual level of experience, skills' and general know how. Regardless of what it is called, I have it, a burning, driving need to understand and accomplish, on my own, continuous improvement.  Along with 'The Bug', my ego now includes the unhappy trait of sensitivity when my choices are second guessed.

Then.... something did not happen to me, it happened to the one who matters most. I listened to the one with a prouder and stronger character than anyone in this world; swallow the first and exemplify the second, and ask for help, feedback and advice.

I think might have found a vaccine for 'The Bug'.

It's called 'Be Quiet and Listen.'

Inspiration Point (Original Art)

'Inspiration Point' 

10.75" X 13.75" 

Heavy Weight Mixed Media Paper

Permanent markers; Oil Pastels; Acrylic

Moab (2009)

I meant to touch on the camping trip and realized, a month later… that I didn’t.

Moab is…. How to draw Moab?

We arrived in the evening and we started our visit then and there by scrambling around the top of Dead Horse Point. My best sweetheart told me the story of how the place acquired its name and it left me with a tightened throat. Sunset fell completely and the night wind swept up the sheer cliffs, blowing my clothes against me and my hair into snarls. My hands hurt which was interesting. My hands always ache when I am high up. Heights do something to my heart rate too. So although I couldn’t see perfectly, my body knew where I was.

For a woman raised on the east coast for most of her formative years…. Beauty, to me, is the wet grass, the fireflies, the smell of the sea, rain in the afternoon, green everywhere. This was a different world completely.

Moab is a swirling dance of red, orange, and dusty purple during the day. It is fire and brilliant shards of light at dusk. It is a calm grey blue at night.

Silence beats against your ears. Regardless of whether is it a trail with very few companion hikers or if it is where tourism and crowds abound, the silence streams around the shrill echoes of laughter and brushes against your legs, eyes and heart. Silence is alive there.

Towering rocks are temples, they are forbidding and watchful as you pass under them. The ground exhales under your feet and for all the stones, dust, and solid ancient landscape, somehow Moab is vibrantly Alive and Self-Aware. It is an Eerie, and almost Holy place.

There the wind woman is even more wild and dangerous and beautiful. Although I have always loved and distrusted her, I have never felt fear. There, I was so sensitive to my fragile body and her fierce freedom that I was actually afraid.

It was exhilarating.

(2009 07)

Wings in the Air (Original Art)

'Wings in the Air'

24" X 30" X .75" 
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)

Headed Home

Lately, the Wind Woman had been something of a pill, delivering only turbulent rain or half-hearted little breaths of a breeze.  Just in the prior week, on THREE evenings, I stood clipped into my gear, sweating in my full face helmet, fingers fiddling with my lines, staring over my shoulder at the flag on the end of launch.... and no wind....

Additionally I was immersed in family chaos composed of college graduation, dinners, military commissioning, an impromptu bridal shower -All of which a happy series of events, of course, but also loaded with family politics and emotions.  

Naturally, it was fantastic flying conditions the two nights booked with family gatherings....

And then it was Sunday and although the weather was not predicted to be flyable, it was still Sunday, the most lovely day of the week.  I am very fortunate to have a deeply religious family and usually I am left Sunday as my day -no interruptions, no events. Ah Sunday, how I eye this day with excited scheming and anticipation.  

Sunday morning we pulled weeds, hauled branches and after four hours of yardwork, the rental property was a little more presentable.  That afternoon, we hurried to Alta to celebrate closing day by slugging through heavy slushy spring snow and admiring the array of inappropriate costumes and outfits (or lack of ).  

As we returned to the car, my darling man checked the winds on his phone and announced... "Hey! It's flyable!".

Skies and boots were never so quickly shed.  Tearing down the mountain, falling out of the car to swap our ski gear for paragliders, we dashed to the flight park.  

And it was flyable;  we stepped out of the car, into harnesses and off of launch into bouncy and perfectly ahhhhhmazing wind. 

We flew and flew, for around an hour until it was time to head home.

"Headed Home"

"11" X "14" X ".75"
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)


***I have decided this piece needs a lovely vibrant background... ;)

(Twitter)

Bike Ride (Original Fine Art)

'Bike Ride'

"20" X "24" X "1.5"
Original Fine Art - Acrylic (Sealed to protect against fading/UV)

Turning point

Something strange has happened.

I noticed it when we went skiing in January.  Something had switched in my focus, something was different in my decisions; I have a feeling of intention.  I skied thinking about the snow, about the day, about the line.  I did not thinking about how steep was the run, how many were the trees and how thick was the falling snow… not one of my usual inner questions awoke to look for and find flickering familiar fault.   I just skied. 

At the end of the day, when my hero wanted to show me a view that required a hike, I didn't mention my trembling legs and exhausted hands.  I followed.  When he turned and saw my slower steps, when he pulled my skies off my shoulder and carried both, I just said thank you. As he turned away, I swallowed back my salty girly reaction to the beauty of our friendship and his seeing heart and hurried up.

I just had my first 'real' flight this month.  Even though it had been months, I didn't find my usual nauseating swirl of nerves and self doubt as I pulled out my wing. I ran my fingers through my lines, clipped into my harness, completed my pre-flight check, kited for a couple of minutes and launched.

I actually felt lonely without my shadowy quivering fears. I am the queen of self doubt, the champion of personal mistrust.  All alone with the wind on my face, I just flew. I flew for thirty three minutes until I decided to land and warm up. There I found the glow of sunlight, a calm sunset and familiar friends.  I looked around as I packed my wing, wearing my usual dorky 'just flew' grin plastered on my face and I wallowed in awesomeness that is this time in my life.

While I would love to attribute my new found confidence to myself; it is because I am watching someone else's audacious bravery that I have this unfamiliar poise.

Someone important to me, someone I have long respected, admired; someone I 'knew' would always alienate me because I'd chosen a path he could not understand, relate to - much less praise –This person has decided to chose an uncharted and unknown path, one that is the complete opposite of the one he has long followed. 

I am amazed, I am enlightened because his new direction was discovered only because of his staggering possession of courage and his driving need for truth.  But that isn't what astounds me, it is that He Intends to Take the Journey.

Ohhhhhh I flinched and glowed when I heard his intentions.  I took this journey.  I remember my horror when I realized my prior belief system was built on terrible deceit. It seems that all religions maybe presently followed with good intentions but the original story was certainly not. 

Individuals I respected and loved looked at me as the betrayer for questioning their strongly revered and complicated superstitions.  When a person declares they are leaving - leaving means you are a cancer and you may infect the rest and so you must be cut out or held at careful bio-hazard clothed arm's length.

For YEARS I had stood bewildered by my loss of culture, acceptance and identity.  And here's the thing Reader -I got out early, I took the chicken route, I moved away and I never approached the topic directly.  Snide comments were swallowed and judgmental verdicts accepted.

He, on the other hand, has invested years, oodles of  tithing money, scarified friendships - Every personal and professional decision ruled by  rationale decreed from inside religious parameters..... And he didn't just have the spine to research questions, earnestly and honestly.  He actually accepted the answers he found deploying sound logic and He Intends to Take the Journey. 

– By this, I am set free. 

http://mormonexpression.com/2012/12/19/episode-219-ex-mormonism-as-a-heros-journey/

Just fly

All of us hide in ourselves. We hide in makeup or no makeup or in too many or too little clothes. We hide behind smiles, behind boasts, behind silence; we are all hiding.

Watery warm autumn sunlight kisses my cheek and jaw line. The Wind Woman plays lightly with my hair. She is whispering in my ear, her cool bare breath against my face, tickling me into a smile.

People are flying and I want to fly too. I came out here to watch, to be inspired, to talk to the Wind Woman, the Lady of Wild Hair and Random Tangents. Lately I am afraid of things I want and I wonder why. Is it a mortality fear? Fear of aging, am I overly sensitive to the fragility of my human body? I had pondered this two days ago too. I thought about the fear when I launched and flew but then completely forgot about it as I excitedly landed EXACTLY where I wanted.

‘AH HA!! TADDDAAAA!!!’ I shouted to myself, this included an imaginary high five to self too. Out loud I only quietly giggled to myself, mildly drunk on my happiness. I launched again, caught up in the surging glory of success. I continued to forget about fear as I flew back and forth awhile –until I unexpectedly bumped into it again on landing.

When I notice something about myself I notice it in others. Or imagine it in others. Either and/ or. Most of the time I think no one notices I am watching them; trying to understand how we are all so alike and yet so separated. Occasionally, I think my ‘observing’s’ are noticed by some and that some become suspicious and think me suspect of something. When I notice them noticing, I wish I could ask, “I see this in me, I think I see it in you. What conclusions have you arrived to?”

But people are hiding and dislike nothing more than being found out.

Back to today. The air is calmer than yesterday, rich in dense cool air, rising up like lazy champagne bubbles… My Wind Woman sighs her question softly ‘Would you like a glass?’

Yes, yes I would. Despite falling over the dog, then the cat and then my shoes and dropped coat; somehow I make it out to the park with my head attached. Carefully, systematically, I pull and lay out my wing and my things. I call my dearest to tell him where I am. I strap in, flight check twice and pull up.

It was perfect -until my glove caught in the brake handle, came off and I flopped the wing over trying to catch it, making myself laugh. Redo was effortless, launch was clean, and up up up I went. I made a very low bench, the kind that had me grinning all the way, wondering if I would land on the trail.

On the back ridge, looking at the romantic lonely Timpanogos and her snowy ridge outline, studying the fairy land that must be Lone Peak, I decided: Sometimes, maybe we are afraid of what we want most because it is what we want most. Nothing is as disappointing as hope unrealized; so the more we want and hope for something, the more we are guarded against it.

I told my Wind Woman my conclusion. In answer she shook out my fear like dust from an over trodden door way rug and told me ‘Just fly.