"To the Choirmaster - for the Periodical Cicada", a poem and mixed media collage art

and three other narrative mixed media collages with accompanying poems in my paper bag series

“To the Choirmaster - For the Periodical Cicada”, mixed media collage

“To the Choirmaster - For the Periodical Cicada” close up, with pinned cicada from my personal insect specimen collection

“To the Choirmaster - For the Periodical Cicada” close up

To The Choirmaster

- For the Periodical Cicada

Of course you emerge

Lifting your voice over

The earth you’ve been under

For more than a decade.

Joining  the chorus,

Of all the voices

in the land of the living -

The mountains,

The sea,

The trees,

The birds.

Out of darkness,

Your wings are freed.

Yet, you don’t take flight,

In your freedom,

those short months

you live in the light -

You sing.

What a surrender.

What a perfect creation.

God of Creation gave you a voice,

And you sing.

Selah.

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About this series

This collection began with the poem, “Our Stories are Held” (below), which inspired the first collage after I knew I wanted to somehow use a brown paper bag with a handle.

I have been collecting brown paper grocery bags for some time now, because I find them beautiful, and finally, this became the perfect opportunity to use them.

As I have continued to create these pieces, the storytelling part of the process has allowed many of my interests to come together: poetry, nature, and scrappy, torn bits and pieces, all coming together for a work of art that feels completely authentic.

I have enjoyed creating this collection thoroughly and look forward to creating more. I hope you will be blessed by them.

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“God Speaks Through the Forest”, mixed media collage

God Speaks Through the Forest

I was 45 when I first laid down in a carpet of cushiony, bright green moss under a towering oak in the middle of the forest.

Before that, I cared too much about tardigrades and other tiny bugs that would crawl into my hair or on my skin, but this time, I didn’t, because I couldn’t.

I was carrying heavy cartoon-anvils on my shoulders and chest, forcing any remaining shallow breath in my lungs to come out.

With nothing left in me, I looked down at my feet through watery wells of anguish, and I heard the moss say, “Look out!”

I looked out and there, beyond my feet, the brightest moss bed invitingly beckoned me to rest – right there, on the ground! I scanned my body and could feel the exhaustion down to my bones. I accepted what I felt was an invitation to lie down.

It was then I heard the oak tree say, “Look up!”

I looked up and above me stood this majestic oak tree with leaves the size of giant’s hands, and I noticed they were casting the most perfectly shaped-around-my-body shade, blocking the sun’s rays from spoiling this rest I was taking.

I next heard the forest floor say, “Breathe!”

I breathed – inhaling the dried lichen and earthy dirt, the faint smell of pine and the musty, cool smell of ‘under a rock’ and exhaling over the sounds of the nearby trickling creek .

I heard the entire forest say, “Give thanks!”

I gave thanks: for the soft place for my head, for the perfect tree and shade, for the smells of summer afternoons playing in the woods as a child, for this magical spot I’d found that seemed to be placed here just for me. And I rested.

 Before long, I heard the dirt under my body say, “Get up!”

I got up. I shook the tardigrades off and laughed because I was shaking off tardigrades. I laughed because the imprint my head left in the moss made the shape of a misshapen heart. I kept laughing because it felt better to laugh than cry.

I heard the entire forest, “You are going to be alright!”

I was going to be alright, I knew I was.

I was 45 when God made me lie down in green patches of moss, by the trickling waters. He restored my soul. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

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“You Call Me to Wild Places”, mixed media collage

“You Call Me to Wild Places” mixed media collage close up with pinned dragonfly specimen from my personal collection

You Call Me To Wild Places

You call me to wild places, 
of gnarly, twisted roots,
where curly telephone-wire vines reach and grab a neighboring trunk;
And so much life is found in a crag.

You call me to wild places,
where only the smallest creatures see the ripples they cause 
from under the surface of hidden bodies of ethereal, blue-green water 
reflecting off the brightest chartreuse moss banks I’ve ever seen.

You call me to wild places,
of displays of glorious velvety petals, 
adorned with sparkling water-diamonds 
that only the resident dragonflies will ever see and taste,
as they buzz wide-eyed and free among this living masterpiece -
this wild and familiar place they call home.

You call me to wild places
where no path exists besides the meandering ones
from the leaf cutters who always know their way,
and no feet have padded through this forest floor,
except those who know this place as home.

You call me to wild places,
where over the hollowed bamboo, 
wind passes and whistles a melody,
and my senses are never more alive and alert,
and the one thing I am sure of is that only more wild exists right around the corner,
as my mind sees chaos and tries to make sense of it all.

You call me to wild places,
in unfamiliar spaces my mind can’t quell,
because you know it’s where and when I can receive
mysteries you are ready to reveal to me.

You call me to wild places, 
to remind me that as unruly, untamed and filled with chaos as it all appears to me,
this is perfect order and perfect beauty to you;
And everything here is perfectly yours
and every living creature is perfectly cared for.

You call me to wild places
because here, 
I am aware that as alone and unprepared as I feel, 
I am far from being alone
and all I need, you have already given me.

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“Our Stories are Held”, mixed media collage

Our Stories are Held

Our stories are held

and carried close to our body,

pressed into our chest

like a heavy, brown paper bag.

We hold the handle,

and the bottom,

taking care not to spill out its contents;

not until it’s time.

Yet with time,

the bag becomes heavy.

Sometimes, the bag begins to break down,

wearing thin and ripping at the edges.

The handle starts to fall apart;

the bottom unglues.

It’s time to set it down –

the bag; the story.

Maybe it’s time to throw it away.

Maybe it’s time for a new one.

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