MINERALARTS: Iron and Thorn

Today I uploaded my webpages on Arizona’s xerophytic ferns.  There is an introductory page and a field guide.  It’s not finished, but comments and suggestions are welcome.

http://www.mineralarts.com/ferns/desertferns.html

I won’t be able to photograph more ferns until the winter rains bring them back to life, so the project will be on the shelf until after the Winter Solstice.  Meanwhile,  here’s a red-spotted toad contemplating Argyrochosma jonesii growing in a cool shady limestone hollow under saguaros.

I’ve chosen the 28 lichen samples for the Graphis oracle, developed a sequence of glyphs, and am now working on the ink drawings.  Meanwhile, here is a simple oracle that I developed a couple of years ago using double-terminated reverse-sceptred quartz crystals.  I have a large collection of these, and chose my favorites for the oracle.  They are similar to the famous Herkimer diamonds and formed in limestone of the same age, but are more complex in structure and have dark petroliferous cores.  I spent some time contemplating each crystal, writing down words or phrases that seemed to describe its intuitive significance to me.  After a few experimental throws, the meaning of each stone solidified and I kept only those that were consistently significant, weeding out the ones that only added “noise” to the reading.  I ended up with ten crystals:

TOP (left to right):

1.  ice - smoke - walking alone (note that this is a dipyramid, with no prism faces)

2.  teacher - sanctuary - purification

3.  converging - roots - stream confluence

4.  diverging - tree branches - fire

5.  whirling - creation - complexity

BOTTOM (left to right):

6.  water - healing mist - concealment (this is waterworn, frosted, with rounded edges)

7.  sky bridge - setting out

8.  underworld tunnel - return

9.  myriad - tower of light - sun

10.  twin, double or partner - subconscious - moon (two crystals intergrown)

To use the oracle, I roll or shake the crystals in my hand, throw them on the table, and read their orientations and positions relative to each other.  It’s surprisingly powerful for occasional use to get a sense of direction and atmosphere on large questions that will probably develop slowly.  It seems to be quite personal and I haven’t tried to use it for anyone else.  Unlike the Tarot or the I Ching, it isn’t suitable for everyday use or for situations that are changing quickly.  This oracle has a clarity and timeless feel that probably comes from the transparency of the crystals, their sharp-edged shapes, and their double points.  The dark cores add a sense of depth, movement, and mystery, like black water flowing under ice.  Pebbles and many other items could be used the same way, but the feel of the oracle would be different.

These are glyphs that I selected from photos of Graphis scripta, the Writing Lichen, one of a large group that grows on smooth bark of subtropical hardwoods.  Several Graphis and related species are common on American holly at Nags Head Woods and Buxton Woods, and last month I took photos as reference material for a lichen oracle (part of my Moon Oracle project).  The “glyphs” are the spore-bearing structures (apothecia), which are round in most lichens but in this group they are narrow and are called lirellae.  Depending on the species, the lirellae may be linear, branched, star-shaped, or labyrinth-like. 

Graphis scripta is one of the first lichens that I learned as a child.  I was fascinated with the rune-like designs, and wondered how to “read” them and what they would tell me.  But the idea of creating an oracle came much later.

A few years ago, I dreamed of a giant fossil tortoise shell with designs carved on the dome of the carapace.  I remembered and sketched some of them, and ultimately found them in a book on the I Ching - they were characters of the ancient script that is assigned to the 64 hexagrams.  I hadn’t studied the I Ching before, but I began to work with it a bit, and found that I was most fascinated with the characters and hexagrams - the commentary didn’t interest me as much.   I wanted a simpler, more intuitive oracle, and some of the characters reminded me of Graphis lichen figures…so the idea of a Lichen Oracle was born, and now I am beginning to develop it.  When choosing glyphs from lichen photos, I’ve found that symbols stand out in natural groups, and my mind assigns a preferred orientation - some of them don’t look right if they are “upside down”.  The panel above is a rough draft, one of several from which I’ll choose the final symbols and re-draw them in ink with more realistic detail.

This is the beginning of winter, when the creeks turn black and the ground - not just the air - begins to grow cold.  I’ve done elaborate rituals in some years, crossing a creek to journey into the Underworld.  Other years I’ve turned my desk into an altar to friends, teachers, and ancestors who have crossed over.  This year called merely for simple personal rituals for protection, and a noisy walk up the street with my bells during trick-or-treat time.  The real activity came later, as owls hooted, coyotes and dogs howled, my cats prowled, and I lay awake staring into the moonlight…until dawn brought calm silence and golden light, and the usual clear, empty feeling that this day always brings - that sense of suddenly being in a new place, a bit lonely but holding humble new possibilities.

The header photo for my blog shows the leaf rosette of Graptopetalum bartramii (Bartram’s Stonecrop), a rare succulent from the oak woodlands of southeastern Arizona’s “sky island” mountain ranges.  The plants are blooming now, with half-inch flowers scattered along a stalk that grows about a foot tall.  More photos of this and related plants can be found on my “Stonecrops and Rock Mat” page:

http://www.mineralarts.com/cactus/graptopetalum.html

“Graptopetalum” means “writing petal” and refers to the red spots and/or stripes that separate this genus from other stonecrops with similar-looking leaves.  The blooms are surprisingly subtle.  The beautiful leaf rosettes have a strong presence year-round, yet they are also quite fragile and the plants are extremely picky about growing conditions.

While walking on the beach at Cape Hatteras Point - our pilgrimage to the “utter East” or the “end of the world” - I found two large whelk shells.  Three species of whelks are commonly found as broken beach shells on the Outer Banks.  The Point is one of the best places to find whole shells.  Shown on the left is the Lightning Whelk (Busycon contrarium) which is unusual in having a sinistral spiral - a left-handed opening.  Most snails are “right handed”.  This particular shell retains some of its natural colors.  On the right is its heavier cousin, the Knobbed Whelk (Busycon carica).  This shell is more wave-battered and is stained brown with iron oxide and gray with iron sulfide.

As soon as I picked it up and shook the sand out in the surf, I saw that the larger shell would make a good trumpet, as is done with conch shells.  I didn’t want to saw off the beautiful terminal spiral, but one of the knobs on the shell had several small wormholes in it, so I drilled that out and flared a piece of copper tubing for the mouthpiece.  The fringe is white silk, and the bead is a rusty iron beach pebble.

I’ve just returned from vacation, including two weeks on North Carolina’s Outer Banks - swimming in the ocean, birdwatching, walking in the woods, and exploring the mainland swamps.  Each morning we walked down to the beach to greet the sun:

We walked in the complex old-growth maritime deciduous forest at Nags Head Woods, and wandered in the younger, denser, and more tropical palmetto forest at Buxton Woods:

On the mainland, we explored pocosins (pond pines, sphagnum moss, pitcher plants) and cypress groves draped with Spanish moss.  At Merchants Millpond State Park, we rented a canoe for a dreamy paddle around a lake filled with groves of bald cypress and tupelos:

These are Water Tupelos (Nyssa aquatica), which are more common in the Mississippi Valley.  They have large purple berries and their big leaves turn bright yellow before falling.  The Swamp Tupelo (N. biflora) is more common in the N.C. coastal plain swamps.  It likes slightly drier environments but still needs to have wet feet.  It has small blue berries and its leaves turn bright red.  Like the swamp-loving bald cypress, both species have swollen trunks.  But instead of “knees” like the cypress, tupelos a serpentine network of surface roots.

I have many more photos, notes, and memories to incorporate into new art projects, but for now I’m still sorting them out - and catching up with yardwork!

My backyard pomegranates are ripe and many are splitting open.  I ate the first one in celebration of the New Moon.  This year, the seeds are cranberry pink, not dark red, and are very sweet.  Desert pomegranates often ripen while the skins are salmon pink.  By the time the skin turns deep, bright red, the fruit has usually split open and a variety of birds and insects have made off with the seeds.  Unpicked fruits will dry on the tree and are very decorative in winter.

The pomegranate originally grew wild in the dryland forests of Afghanistan, Persia, and north India.  It has long held special status as a medicinal and mythological plant throughout the Mediterranean, where it has been cultivated for longer than almost any other fruit.  The Spanish brought it to the New World and it is still popular in barrio gardens.  I have loved them since I was a small child.  My grandmother had an old tree in her yard in central Virginia.  It had abundant double blossoms and large glossy leaves, but in that climate the plants do not set fruit.  When I moved to Arizona, I was delighted to find “real” pomegranate trees that have delicious fruit and look much like their wild ancestors if they are allowed to grow without pruning, as mine has been.

Although they aren’t native here, our climate and the oak forest are similar to those of their land, and they hold the essence of autumn in the desert.  The fruit tastes strong and alive, like blood would taste if it were made of sunlight on pink earth rather than rust in seawater.

Above is an egg tempera sketch of a 3″ offset (or “pup”) from the agave plant in my front yard.  I nicknamed her “Mother of Thousands” but she actually has about a hundred offsets - which is still amazing since this small variety of Agave palmeri usually has no more than a dozen.  The primary leaf rosette was killed by weevils in 2002, but most of the offsets surved and the largest one is about two feet tall and blooming. The flower spike is over 15 feet tall, and hummingbirds are enjoying the pink and green flowers.  There is a photo on my AGAVE NOTES page (on the cactus homepage).  This particular plant is special because it’s the only wild native agave in my yard.  The other eight species that I planted are native to southern AZ or northern Mexico, but they are nursery plants or gifts from friends.  Weevils attack the Mother every summer but she seems to produce new plants faster than the weevils can breed their creepy, crunching, armored-tank larvae.  As with all agave species, the main rosette dies shortly after the plant blooms, but the offsets survive and the dry stalk (hopefully with a few seedpods) persists for a couple of years to provide high-rise apartments for friendly carpenter bees. 

Here’s part of my shaman’s belt - well, it’s more for maze dancing than anything else.  It’s finished enough to wear, though I’ll probably add more things to it.  There are twelve triangular bells with cone clappers, two small chains of flared cones, and (not shown) a set of five curly cones and some iron fringe.  The belt itself is an undyed Guatemalan cotton sash.  Heavy but nice and jingly!  There is a picture of the whole thing on the BELLS page of my website.  I’ve updated the site with a few new iron things - a bell, knife earrings, and photo of eight wands.

A couple of days ago, I walked past the hole in the dirt bank where the great horned owl nested earlier this year.  The birds are still around - I sometimes see them perched in a tree or flying up the wash on my morning walk.  This time, in the grass below the empty hollow, I found an egg.  It was cracked but still whole.  A bit larger than a chicken egg, and more round, with a much thicker shell.  It smelled like limestone and appeared to be nearly empty - it was probably infertile and had simply dried out.  I’m still pondering its meaning - a dried-out cracked owl egg, rolling into my path so close to the Full Moon, an object that I’ve been unknowingly walking past every day since the bird nested.  Is there something in my own life that should have hatched this summer, but didn’t?  Or is there something that I had been ready to throw away that should be treasured and given more time?  Might be a good time for a “moon pebble” reading.