Ferns and Leaves, The Forest Floor

There are some fabrics that are so beautiful and perfect just the way they are, I find it hard to work with them.

Until I started making this quilt I thought that might be the case with the leaf and twig fabric that I used in it.  But as often happens, cutting it up and focusing on small parts of it helped me to use it in a way that makes it mine.

Pairing the ferns and leaf fabric

After  I posted a photo of a fern that I took in the pasture, Vicki sent me a message identifying it as a Sensitive Fern.  It’s called that because the leaves of the fern die with the first frost, unlike so many other ferns that stay green throughout the winter. But the Sensitive Fern also has fronds that are reddish-brown and last throughout the winter which gives the fern its other name, Bead Fern.

It was the discovery of the name and nature of the Sensitive Fern that inspired me to use the fern fabric I had in my stash.  I’ve used it before and had just a small piece left.  After cutting the fern fabric into strips, it was easier to cut up the leaf fabric into small “scenes” that matched the size of the ferns.

As I worked on the quilt I kept thinking of the forest floor.  That was the feeling I wanted it to have.

But the big surprise came today when I was trying to figure out what to do next and I laid out the leaf fabric in large pieces around the whole quilt to that point.  It was so perfect, even beyond what I could have imagined.

I suppose in hindsight, it seems kind of obvious to use the leaf fabric to surround the quilt. But since I don’t plan my quilts, It didn’t occur to me till I got to the point where I could see how well it worked.

The last quilt I made, Shibori Hankie Quilt was all about ice, snow, and winter.  But this one is clearly all about the woods in summer.  I’m not sure how I skipped that far ahead in the seasons, but it somehow feels just right for now.

Some more  “scenes” from the quilt.

 

 

Ferns And Leaves…A New Quilt

My ferns and leaves came together pretty quickly today once I started sewing.  I found just the right fabric to fill in the spaces.  The batik fabric could almost be the leaves themselves under a microscope.

So now I have it, the beginning of another quilt.

 

Ferns And Leaves

I was straightening up my studio when I came up with the idea to put these two pieces of fabric together.

I had a two-foot piece of the fern material left. (I’ve used it on a few pieces already) and lots of the leaf and insect fabric. I immediately had a quilt in mind.

But once I got them all sewn together, I couldn’t figure out what to do next.  So I went for a walk in the woods hoping that would help. I came back with a few ideas, but none of them worked the way I imagined. 

At the end of the day, I was still playing around with them, trying them out with different fabrics and not knowing what to do.

Tonight when I go to bed, I’ll ask for a dream to help.  And maybe in the morning, when I get to my studio, I’ll know what to do next.

Walking In The Woods, Ticks and Skunk Cabbage

It was two days ago that I took my last walk, off the path, in the woods.  I came back crawling with ticks and know that this time of year the woods belongs to them, not me.

I did bring the owl eggs, that I found in our barn,  with me and left them at the roots of the giant Shag Bark Hickory that I always visit.  I’m sure they’ll be long gone by the time I get back to the tree in the fall.

On my walk I came across this seed pod, that had fallen from a tree and was stuck on a strand of spider web.  The way the wind was blowing it, circling around me, coming straight at me then jerking quickly away,  it almost felt like it knew I was there, knew I was paying attention to it.  Like it was teasing me.

The strength of the spider’s web astonished me.  At one point I held the seeds in my hand, but the web didn’t lose it grip or break.

I will miss walking off the trail in the woods, but am so fortunate to have those trails to walk on.

One of the paths borders a swamp for a bit.  It’s such a primal things, filled with peepers and skunk cabbage, ferns and mosses.  The mosquitos aren’t out yet, so I was able to find a dry place to stand and appreciate it for a while.

The Skunk Cabbage are sprouting leaves and flowers.  I got this photo of one today.

Skunk Cabbage flower in the swamp along the path in the woods.

The Bear In The Woods

Celandine Poppy growing under Ed Gulley’s windchime

I did not take a single picture in the woods.  Although I was tempted by the heart-shaped leaves growing close to the ground and the tiny but sturdy yellow flowers that looked like miniature orchids.

I went to empty my head, not fill it even more.

Last night Jon and I went out to dinner, something we haven’t done in so long I can’t remember where or when it was. It was such a welcomed break in our routine and helped to shatter the spell that had descended on us.

This morning I wanted to keep that feeling going.  Doing something different worked last night I decided that instead of going to my studio this morning, I’d go for a walk in the woods.

And not the woods I walk so often, but a different woods.  One close by that has trails I’ve never walked before. I couldn’t take the dogs, so I went alone.

Translucent beech leaves, waving in clusters, soft, sensitive green. 

Giant rock ledge piled up, falling down.   An avalanche caught in time, sprouting ferns and pines like hair. 

I walked up hills and down, over the same stream more than once.  I didn’t really lose my way.

Twice I turned around and retraced my steps.  One path parallel to Route 22, the sound of traffic a constant.  The other took me further into the sun, till I saw signs for snowmobiles and knew the path could go on for many more miles than I wanted to walk.

On the way back, down a hill, about fifty feet from me, a very big black bear walked from the woods onto the path.

I stopped.  I put my hand on my heart, (I don’t know why) and I looked at the bear.

He stopped too, either smelling or hearing me, and turned his head to face me.  Shiny thick black fur, and a soft tan conical nose.  He lifted his head and we stared at each other for a moment or two.  Then the bear turned his head, lifted his padded feet, and ran silently into the woods.

Now my walk was complete.

Tired and sweaty, somehow even after seeing the bear, my head was clearer than it had been in weeks.  Yet I felt filled with warmth and excitement, it still sits in my chest as I write this,  as if something special had happened.

I’ll probably look up the meaning of a bear crossing my path at some point.  But for now, the experience of the meeting, quick as it was, is enough. I’m still smiling from it.

I can see that so black and glistening, shiny, long, soft fur.  I can feel the mass of the bear, heavy, lumbering yet graceful at the same time. And that nose,  the only other color, and texture in a bulk of smooth, rounded curves.

I went to the woods for cleansing and renewing.  Forest bathing it’s been called.  I went to shake up my routine to pull me from myself.

Thanks to the hills and the wandering paths and thanks to the black bear,  I received it.

Another Visit With The Barred Owl

Now the path was covered in leaves.  Mostly a mottled yellow and pink but depending on the trees it might turn a rich reddish-orange almost as if someone had covered the ground with a throw rug.

Yesterday’s rain brought down a lot of the leaves.  But it must be too cold for most mushrooms. We didn’t see any orange newts either.

But we did see the Barred Owl.

The afternoon sun specked the woods with bright yellow light,  the shadows were a dark contrast, until I came to the part of the path that curved sharply to the left.

The woods around me had not changed, but further ahead the trees seemed to create an archway and beyond it, the forest looked like it was shrouded in a soft yellow haze.

I thought of how painters soften their colors as a way of creating perspective.  All those foggy landscapes behind the portraits of wealthy patrons or mystical beings.

I wanted to be in that soft glowing place.

But I stood looking at it a while longer, not wanting to hurry. I was afraid it would be like the mist on the farm in the mornings.  How it seems to dissipate when I walk into it. Yet at a distance, it’s so thick the trees are ghosts.

So I walked slowly, thinking that even if it faded as I got closer, I’d try to hold onto the feeling it evoked in me. That desire to dull my senses, to soften like the light.

When I finally did step over the threshold into that magical space I realized it was as much the yellowing ferns on the ground and the smooth gray bark of the beech trees as the light.

I walked the deer trail through the ferns that reminded me of faded paper,  my gaze gentle, the muscles in my face relaxing, my footfalls purposeful.

I was in the distance, in the background of the painting.  The part painted by the student of the master painter, whose name would never be known. A peaceful place to be.

But it didn’t last long.  Soon I was around the bend and up the hill.  That’s when the owl came again.

Fate and Zinnia were ahead of me and she flew between us across the path.  She landed close enough so I could see her eyes, and the lighter markings on her feathers.  Once again I said hello.

Soon she flew to a tree further away but still in sight.  I watched her until she swooped down from the branch in the opposite direction and disappeared into the woods.

I’m no longer surprised to see the owl.  I almost expect it. But, still,  I’m delighted and curious about how she keeps showing up.

The only mushrooms I saw. They were about an inch tall and growing on a moss-covered tree trunk.

Gray Day, Soft Light , A Walk In The Woods

Minnie and Ed Gulley’s wind chime

I went for a walk in my neighbor’s woods.  I got out of the habit of walking there.  Going back was like meeting an old friend.

Because it’s raining the orange salamanders are out.  They almost glow against the ground of graying leaves. I try to “see wide” but my eye is drawn to where I step, so I don’t step on them.

I think of adding specks of orange to my quilt.  The woods are so green they seem to have little to do with my quilt which is all about red.  Green seems like air in comparison.  But I can feel those warm grounding colors under my feet as I walk.

The sun is resting behind a thick of cover of clouds today, and the woods are dark.  But we get to the place where small blocks of yellow from the distant hay field are visible between the trunks of the trees.

Again I think of my quilt.  Of the light in the printed batik image of the sky above the crows. It’s the same pale yellow.

As we walk through the ferns, my wet sneakers cool my feet,  I forget about “seeing wide” and remember my dream from last night.

The giant python was wrapped around the man’s neck and arms as if it were a shawl. There was nothing scary about the snake, even though I was aware it could easily squeeze the man to death in a moment. He told me that his girlfriend wouldn’t live with the snake if she didn’t know what it tasted like.  Horrified I asked if he would kill the snake so she could eat it.  He said he wouldn’t.  And I knew he’d find her some snake to taste from the grocery store. 

I still don’t know what the dream means, but it keeps coming back to me.

I’m brought back into the woods when I see Zinnia waiting for me at the bottom of the hill.   As we approach the pond I hold my hands out on either side of my body and say her and Fate, “let’s walk”.  The dogs drop back behind me.   Fluffy white cottonwood seeds, pummeled by the rain, spot the ground like mold, as we get closer to the pond.

I keep the dogs close so they don’t go in the pond which is mostly mud covered in green algae.    Fate isn’t interested but when Zinnia sees an opening in the tall grasses she heads towards it.  “Eh, Eh,” is all I need to say to get her attention.  I’d already asked her not to go in the pond and I think she understands, but just can’t help herself.

The mud is too enticing.

The tree cover is so thick in the woods we’re only damp from the walk. The dogs hop into my car and we drive, windows down, the minute or so back to the farm.

The woods were welcoming and the rain cleansing.  The gray skies mirror my mood.

For a while last week I couldn’t feel anything, so being a little low is fine.  It actually makes me soft like the light and connected to the gray day around me.

Moth Wing Potholders For Sale

Moth Wing and Crane Potholders for sale in my Etsy Shop. 

I decided to call these my Moth Wing Potholders because I made them with a lot of the scraps from my Moth quilt. But there’s a couple of Cranes, and an acorn too.

The crane fabric comes from Africa and the acorn was a scrap from my Forest Floor quilt. They also have those slivers of circles that Karen sent me. So they are a mix of scraps as usual.

My Moth Wing Potholders are $20 each and $5 shipping for one or more.  You can see them all close-up and buy them here. 

I did finish making my Hot Pads today, but it’s late and I’m tired so I’ll put them up for sale on Sunday.

Moth Wing Potholder I
Crane II Potholder

“Moth” Quilt, Going Home

I finished tacking my Moth quilt today. Tomorrow I’ll put it in the mail and it will be on its way to its new home.

Looking at the quilt now that it’s all done, I feel like breaking up the regimented squares of the old quilt gave it more of an organic feeling.  It’s one of the parts of the quilt that make me think of looking at nature under a microscope. It’s filled with layers, like those in the earth.  And also moves back and forth in scale.

I’ll remember the discovery I made using the old quilt top.

I’m thinking of choosing another old quilt top and cutting it apart in the same way. That is, cutting off the torn and stained pieces and sewing the good pieces back together.  I’m not sure what that will lead to if anything, (maybe the start of another quilt) but it seems like something I’d like to explore.

It often happens as it did with this quilt my Forest Floor quilt before it, that one creation leads to another.

The back of Moth

 

The Orphaned Woods: Winter Woods

Always in late February, I begin to think of spring.

When there’s an unusually warm day, I trick myself into believing that it won’t snow or get cold again.  March is so close and with it the first day of spring, but someplace inside of me I know the truth.

It will continue to be cold and it will snow even in April.

But as much as I fantasize about spring, it’s in the winter when there’s snow on the ground that I have the most freedom in the Orphaned Woods.

Once the leaves start sprouting the understory fills in, brambles and thick bushes make passage into certain parts of the woods almost impossible.  And even if I could get through them, these are the places where ticks seem to wait to attach themselves to any live host that brushes up against them.

Gulley Bridge

The path that I know so well, vanishes in the deep snow.  And new ones emerge because what’s underfoot is no longer an obstacle to where I can go.

I wind my way through trees like walking an obstacle course. I stand in the middle of one of the small frozen ponds that are sprinkled throughout the surrounding woods, seeing the other side of the trees that grow along the edges. I follow a deer trail through the swamp on the neighbor’s property where tall ferns grow and mosquitos swarm most of the year.

There are no bugs, flying in my eyes, buzzing around my head, and biting the backs of my arms in the winter.

The truth is, as much as I crave spring at the end of the winter, the winter woods welcome me like no other season. They entice me to explore.  They present a woods so stark and bare, I can’t help but notice what I might easily overlook with all the dramatic changes that constantly occur during the other seasons.

The snow began melting yesterday.  Today I walked in the woods without my snowshoes.  I followed my tracks from the past week, the snow  packed down so I didn’t sink in too deep.

I pause to look at the Cottonwood growing in the swampy area just off the path.  Now that I know what Cottonwoods look like, I realized I’ve passed one on the way to the little waterfall for the years.

I’m looking forward to seeing the cottony blossoms the tree will shed in the spring.

But until then, when I begin to complain about the snow and cold in March I’m going to try to remember,  that it’s just those things that help reveal the Orphaned Woods to me in a way that doesn’t happen any other time of year.

Full Moon Fiber Art