I was grabbing a coffee yesterday while in Twisp and wound up having a meaningful conversation about the Methow Valley, where it has come from, where it is headed to, and how forest fires play a roll in the going and coming of life here — and in all of the interior West, for that matter. Fires seem to be the way of the future.
This is the second year in a row that the Methow has burned and while the valley is home to a brilliant community of mountain folk, it is largely economically fueled by tourism. What will happen to this place when people stop coming because they think it’s no longer beautiful? What will happen in years to come when summer is literally burned out from under our feet and we are forced to spend August and September mopping up after loss of trees, homes, lives, crops, livestock? What will happen? How do we cope? How do we rebuild? What have we learned?
I looked out as the mountains were burning last week and I thought, “It’s a little worse for wear, but it’s still ruggedly beautiful. It will always be beautiful, bless it’s enduring, stony bones.”
————————————————-
On base, Dan built a swing. It’s a beautiful swing that hangs low and strong from a pair of locust trees. Swinging on it is a kind of bliss built of a long, graceful glide that seems like it may never change direction and head back to where it started. I was swinging on it late last night, searching the sky for stars, hoping their light might pierce through the smoke, and as I watched the trees shift and move beneath the weight of my movement I thought, “They like this. The trees like this. They like to have a job.” I was guilty of downright romantic anthropomorphism in my suspended state — sweeping through thin air like the goddess of wind and stardust. But it’s true, you know. We’re just like the trees; counting the years in rings, spending the seasons, eventually ashes to ashes.
It was beautiful last night, swinging. It was the first time I’ve felt moving air on my face, wind in my hair, in days. I felt alive and clean.
————————————————-
Yesterday, I missed a gathering for fire wives in the valley regarding dealing with stress levels and fear (I think that’s what it was about) because I was out fishing and because I didn’t know about it because no one told me about it. I wish I would have known about it.
Last night, when I found out about it, I told my friend, “Well, you know, I don’t really feel stressed. I feel sad right now. My lungs feel black because of this doggone smoke. But I’m not worried about Robert on the line. I trust that no news is good news. I know he’ll make good decisions out there and that he’ll take care of his brothers; that’s all I can ask him to do. In his absence, I simply have to live fully.”
I’m fishing most mornings, because I can, and because it’s a meditation (casting out over the water). It’s quiet. I do my thinking there, hip deep in a prolonged baptism. Each loop I throw out is a prayer, a forgiveness offered to myself for my own shortcomings, a hope for anger dissolved, gratitude for lessons learned, the stripping away of my fears. The river is the coolest, flowing-est, loveliest, most consistent thing in the valley and the fish give me something extra to tether my faith to.
———————————————–
On September 5th I have a group exhibit opening at the Confluence Gallery in Twisp. I’m delighted. This is the first exhibit opening I have ever been able to attend (I’ve had to miss everything in the past) wherein my work is part of the show. You are all invited to attend.
Additionally, on September 19th and 20th, I am happy to announce that I will FINALLY be a part of the Methow Valley open studio tour. I’ve wanted to be a part of this tour for years now but have never had a studio space that could be easily accessed by the public until this year. I’ll be opening up my doors to the public, sharing my space, and naturally, I’ve been working on inventory for this event. I should mention that the Methow Valley is home to an astounding array of incredible artists and it’s an honor to stand shoulder to shoulder with some of them for this studio tour.
Both the studio tour and exhibit opening come at a wonderful time when your support and visit to the Methow will mean the world to the community here. Please feel free to attend, if you’re in the neighborhood, or not in the neighborhood! I speak for the entire Methow when I say we’d love to see your shining faces.
you know i love you all sorts of ways, but it seems i love you most when you are fishing [those waders..!!] and when you jump and when you have a handful of berries.
wait a doggone minute..!!..that pooch has one brown eye and one blue eye! how handsome is that?!
good to see you here again….so very good….
xx
Lucky for you that this post has waders, jumping and berries!!! I FEEL THE LOVE!
XX
Gorgeous gorgeous post of both words and photos. Every time I read your writing and see your photos, I am moved. I admire you greatly for the way you are living your life and how you express your old soul. Hear that noise? It’s the sound of me quietly applauding.
Thank you, Sue. Thank you.
X
I adore this photo collection of your recent days and your persevering soul while you all quietly wait for rain.
The thing I remember about the aftermath of the Montana fires in the Bitterroot is that life went on. It was sad and fascinating for a couple of years to see the gray, sterile ground and the spikey black stubble on the face of the once lush mountain sides. The next spring some of the hills melted into the rivers and onto the valley floor with the rains and snow runoff – but soon perky little plants started cropping up and for a couple of years the valley was populated with dozens and dozens of people out gathering the morels that inevitably come up after fires. The economy took a hit, but it came back because not EVRYTHING burned. There are fires there every year. The cleansing is continuous. The smoke was the worst. We all suffered from some degree of carbon monoxide poisoning – but what was there to be done except wipe up the falling ash and pitch in to help where we could. We offered food and creature comforts to the firefighters when and where we could and went to work as usual.
The fishing is a gift and the gift you give us out here on the edge is the fact that you actually go and then share a glimpse with us. Thank You!
HOORAAAAAAY for the gallery exhibit and the studio tour! Sure wish I could be there!
(BTW: Missing you in Bella Grace this time around! 🙂 )
“The cleansing is continuous.” Spot on!!!
And yes, yes. The carbon monoxide poisoning. It’s real. Very real.
We’re supposed to have rain tomorrow and Sunday. It rained a bit this morning, too…and it was a relief. It filled me with hope.
Hello Jillian,
I think we will finally be getting rain, for all us in the western part of NA.I love that you find time to keep yourself happy and grounded with all that surrounds you. Our Okanagan valley continues to be surrounded in smoke, but we know there will be sunshine again. I wish I was free to come to Twisp and see you in your valley. Wishing that Robbie and his crew will soon be back home to you and the dogs.
Thank you for your beautiful post and photos. I am so glad to see you back as well.
Xo
Dagmar
Get a plane ticket!!! Zip on over! 🙂
I wish each and everyone of you could be here for my opening and my open studio. It would be such a lovely jamboree!
Robbie gets home tonight from his latest fire (up in the Northeast corner of the state WA). I’m working late at the studio. We’ll joyfully collide when we wind up in the same place at the same time. 🙂
X
Hi Jillian, I wanted to say thank you for commenting back to everyone who posted to you on your last post. Thank you for comforting us. I have to say, we are dopplegangers. It’s so strange, but, you and I look almost exactly alike. My Mom came here to see, and she was like “whoa Lindy, she looks just like you.” I live alone, in a country town in Yelm Washington. I am 37, I live on 5 acres with 2 quarter horses, a cat, and 2 old black labs. I too have a swing. A sturdy swing roped into my trees by my bonfire pit. I also swing at night, swooshing through the air in my middle of nowhere. There’s an eerie, beautiful solitude about living, being alone at my age, in the country. No husband, no boyfriend, (and I look like you), but it’s ok. I’m ok with it. I have my garden, my animals. I find so much comfort in your blog. I know you spend a lot of time alone also. You inspire me, and so many others. I see a bit of myself in you. I just wanted to tell you, there’s a girl in little Yelm Washington, who looks a lot like you, and truly admires your work, your soul. Jillian, I love your soul! Thank you for sharing your world with us. I also love your little wood house! Stay strong, the smoke has been covering my Yelm sky. But today we have rain. I will do a rain dance tomorrow morning, and pull myself away from my garden, to the indoors that have been so neglected this summer. Enjoy you days, and thank you again Jillian.
Thanks for saying thanks, Lindy!
I don’t always have time…and I only have a WIFI connection when I am in the studio, in town (I loathe using my phone for computer work). Sometimes I close comments on posts simply because I feel guilty when I can’t respond to the comments that come in! I never want you folks to think I don’t appreciate you! I do. So much.
Believe it or not, I have a few doppelgängers in the world. I don’t know what it is about my face and hair and general look but complete strangers always mistake me for people they know, or think we’ve met before!
Anyway, happy to know you are out there taking great joy in your aloneness. If you ever make it up to the Methow I would love to meet you or have you in for a cup of tea.
Sending love,
J
Beautiful post as always. When our town was destroyed by an EF5 tornado and people asked us why we stayed… we answered because we won’t let a storm drive us out of our home, and because the land is still here. My family has been here 6 generations, and the land itself is part of our family.
I watched “A River Runs Through It” again yesterday, and it reminded me of you and your beautiful fishing photos. I fish a lot, but I’ve never had anyone who could teach me to fly fish. Hopefully someday.
I wish I could plug that movie in tonight and watch it while beading…
And you are spot on — the land is still here. Everything is just rearranged a little…
X
I wish I could come to your events!! Especially your studio tour!! I’m so excited for you!! Living right by the New River, I want to learn how to fly fish as well. I rarely fish it, but I bask in it’s loveliness on daily walks out here and my dog and I love it. I have lived in places where tourism is king and it is a pressure for communities that others may never feel. Your images are all so beautiful, Jillian- yours is the blog I always read right away, the minute you post. Still thinking of you, Robert and your community. xoxo
Congratulations on the group exhibit and studio tour…as synchronicity would have it, I also have a September exhibit…one of these months, I’m going to wander up there to the Methow and have a look-see.
Waiting for rain and for the burning cycle to again end. We have had a lot of fire this year in Montana, not as much as Washington but have shared in the smoke. It would be nice if humans would be more careful with fire. We have had a whole month of smoke ( I am thinking 3 packs per day) during August and finally we had a cold front come through and blessed rain. Clean air for two days. Sending safety for you and yours.
I woke up this morning thinking about you, dear Jillian. I can’t get my words together to say what’s in my heart, but I’m just thinking about you, and your wild, fiery life, and sending you love and thanks.
Your words are always so inspiring. I’ve been visiting your blog (quietly) for a while and rarely comment, but I think about you having to be apart from your husband while the fires burn. I so wish I could visit your gallery show and studio – I’m sure it will be amazing!
I have those same exact waders and boots!! Love your jewelry, photography, and words.