creativity

Rings upon rings and the spirit within

There it was, over 13 feet of stone rising from the floor to the ceiling, a sturdy mantel crossing it about two-thirds of the way up made from a large hand-wrought beam from the old 1840s farmhouse that used to be at this site. Visible signs remained of the making of this beam, from the chips of an adze and ax, to artifacts of its original use with mortise and tenons closed up but left visible, like scars of prior wounds that were necessary to hold the original home together built so long ago.

I can relate to that.

The iron brackets holding it steady to the limestone plinths had another life, too, starting out as bar stools too heavy and dangerous for young grandchildren who would play beside the countertop. Now cut apart and honed into a new life, with forged steel and cut stone, it would serve as support for the mantel.

One light, perfectly placed, made visible the large lathe-turned big leaf maple burl platter, carved, and reimagined as art, reflecting circles upon circles of inner burl knots. With rings upon rings reflecting outer universes to be admired from afar, you become awestruck if you dare to look too long. You won’t be able to look away, for you can’t help but see the spirit within the wood reaching back into your heart. It was the work of my husband Keith, a master woodturner, who left me this treasure, along with a promise not to sell this property.

You won’t be able to look away, for you can’t help but see the spirit within the wood reaching back into your heart.

You won’t be able to look away, for you can’t help but see the spirit within the wood reaching back into your heart.

Sitting on this mantel, now glowing with the light above, against the stone that carries your eyes so high, is a trefoil ceramic vase, three sided and glazed blue with a depth of tiny black speckles, and a silvery copper edging where each side meets. My husband Steven made this piece, along with the iron brackets that support the mantel that it sits upon. He was a master of his crafts, too. And he is also gone. But Steve gave me my next launch to dig deep for an inner strength that I would need to keep moving forward.

I had designed this home. A sketch on a napkin at first. A larger drawing later. It was a vision I’d seen in what seems like a lifetime ago sitting on the hillside with Keith when we first bought this property. Only the old farmhouse is gone now, except for the mantel on the fireplace.

I saw a treehouse view in my head, a house jutting out from the hill. I hoped to share it with my husband. I’d even made a drawing of this very fireplace, watercolors and pens – long before we’d ever broke ground.

I sit here in this room in my home, so hard-won, so many hardships, so much loss. And I acknowledge one truth… that to see the visions come to life and follow them through to completion required a strength of faith I didn’t really know I had within me.

The vision I’d painted on paper was a bittersweet reality now, turned to stone, and metal, and wood and glass. And I can share it with others here among the living. But perhaps not the ones who were either of my spiritual partners, the ones whose love helped stoke my courage to keep moving forward.

Looking up at the scene of the now completed monument to the dreams of my lovers, I wailed and my tears flowed. And then they stopped.

I think I can still do this.

Rediscovering the Magic of Portals

The image shows an old building at night with light streaming through windows covered by grapevines. It is the place where the author finds solace and magic in — *Late night conjurings in the studio. Photo by the author.*

I remember the first time I came to the realization that my excitement about “possibilities” had overpowered the young college student sitting in front of me. I could see their face and the look of distress and fear in their eyes. I was smiling, sure. And I thought that would be enough to express that my intentions were sincere and meant to be positive. But the energy that radiated from me was too much. The aura was too great, emitting from me like a large glowing globe. I realized that I had to reign it back inside or I would lose them completely.

Transported through stories

When I was a child, I would devour my books, kept orderly by author on my bookshelf. Much of it was science fiction, the classics from Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clark, the abc’s of scientific and human explorations of my childhood. I still carry inside me the stories from The Martian Chronicles, the last one whose story ended with the reflection beside the river bed of a family looking back and discovering the real identity of the Martians they were seeking.

I remember the power and spiritual awe I felt when the stars began to blink out in the evening sky when technology was meshed with ancient wisdoms of Tibetan monks, when the last of the Nine Billion Names of God was finally deciphered.

And I remember most dearly the power that women could hold in the retelling of the King Arthur legends when Marion Zimmer Bradley chose to put women at the center in the Mists of Avalon.

It was there where I truly connected with the potential portals offered by the mists that often delighted me in childhood.They still make my heart dance with excitement as they pull me to the edge of the earthly plain even now. Late night drives through thick fogs would completely envelope my car, reflecting my headlights back if I failed to turn them down. Only then, in the dark, could I find my way through to my destination.

The vaporous magic of air and water

Then there were the early mornings when I would awake to a see the mystical clouds through my treehouse bedroom view, blurring the trees to soft green silhouettes as if wrapped by the glowing heavens fallen to Earth.

*Ice and frost cover the grasses and trees at a nearby farm in Winter. Photo by author.*

I began to recognize the magic of the hoar frost on the cold snaps of a crisp fall morning, as the crystals emerged outward in the dawn light. The sun rays meeting frosty air would deposit this magic across the farmers fields, wrapping trees and tall grasses creating a sparkling bejeweled view to accompany my early morning travels.

I knew there was power and potential there for real magic to happen in moments like these. And I understood for certain that in these realms there was beauty to be created, mysteries to uncover, and power to be harnessed, if only we would allow ourselves to be open to its gifts.

It was there where I truly connected with the potential portals offered by the mists that often delighted me in childhood. They still make my heart dance with excitement as they pull me to the edge of the earthly plain even now.

Aging into possibilities

As I have grown older, I have come to fully embrace the mysteries of these liminal spaces, these places between worlds, as my portals for intense discovery, both human and spiritual. It was at the water’s edge as a child when I first realized that beneath the glassy surface reflecting my face back to me, I could reach down and, under the muddy banks, discover the crawfish hiding there… oh so many to be had!

The water and its vaporous cousins has become that place of poetry for me, an opening to another plane. Such as the pre-dawn light on the edge of the water in Fiji as I sat there on a patch of grass under the stars. The weighty blanket of stars was holding fast while the dawn light shifted the colors on the horizon. The birds just began their singing in the tropical trees that met the sand, accompanied by the lapping of the waves with the slow build of the morning’s orchestral melodies.

*Dawn emerges on a beach in Korolevu, Fiji. Photo by author.*

My other portals also depend upon these mystical elements of the atmosphere. A bridge of light extends from the full moon to my feet. The nighttime faeries flicker and twinkle in my path as I wander in the dark. I know well that bridge of spirit connections that these bring me. The hearts of those I’ve loved travel up and down that path leaving their mark on my soul, an all-encompassing spiritual embrace.

*The mists of dawn on a late winter’s morning. Photo by author.*

I’m older now, and the moonlight gets caught in the silver highlights of my greying hair. So I draw upon that magic now, growing into the expanding aura of an old crone. Tonight, on the latest full moon, I step across its path in the middle of the night and head into my studio, still wearing my nightgown.

From the outside, the shop lights splinter through the night from its many windows. The decades of this journey have led me to this time when I can fully commit to this creative portal. Its siren call pulls me in to explore the magic that can be created inside. And while I do, a curtain of grapevines partially obscures the view of any who wish to peek into my chamber of creativity as I work through my late night conjurings.

Woe to any who seek to enter there, for the aura I carry will not be dimmed here for their comfort.

Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog

The Universe of the Fireplace

Rings upon rings and the spirit within

Auras, Spirits, and Aging into Possible