True Nature - a visual blog by Barbara Bash

New Season / New Strokes

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 21:14:00 +0000

Bringing what is inside - out . . .
onto the page -
through the screen -
into the world . . .

Summer Vacation

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 15:28:00 +0000

Taking a pause
on the slow blogging . . .

Getting ready for
HAIKU BRUSH SKETCH !
Consider joining me . . .

here is the link for more information -
http://www.barbarabash.com/workshops/workshops_haiku2011.html

Four days in July
exploring with brush, pencil, pen and voice
listening and speaking what's true. . .

A Walk in the Woods

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 19:00:00 +0000

I am in Holland again for
the Authentic Leadership in Action conference.

One afternoon, after so much talking,
I need to clear my mind and feel the "more-than-human" world.

I step outside and walk into the woods . . .

But this path goes on and on.

There is no right turn path to take me back.

Suddenly right to my side, standing in the dark woods,

I see a small herd - eight of them - all different sizes, bristled, tusked.

I stop. They stop. We watch each other.

After a long moment they all trot away.

I think, "Ah - this is why I came out here. It's all worth it now! "

I ask him where the conference center is.

He doesn't know, but tells me if I keep going I'll get to the village of Ellspeet.

I've been walking for an hour and a half.

I find my way to the village, comforted by the presence of houses.

I turn down the paved road. Four teenagers on bicycles pass by and assure me

the center is two kilometers ahead.

I begin to calm down . . .

I step into the building. It is buzzing with activity.

I appreciate each person in a whole new way.

Bones

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 21:27:00 +0000

On a gray afternoon
I see the shape
of the aspen tree
anew. . .

Bittersweet

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Sat, 08 Jan 2011 14:55:00 +0000

Sitting in this quiet studio

(husband and son off on their adventures in the world)

as snow falls steadily outside.

Hours spent this morning on the phone and computer,

attending to - caring for - relationships.

Now I turn to the strand of bittersweet,

clipped and unwound from the rose brambles,

waiting for me . . .

Found

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Mon, 06 Dec 2010 14:33:00 +0000

This cold morning

I glance out the door

and see the body of a blue jay

scattered on the stones.

At first - not wanting to look.

Then carrying the pieces into the studio

and silently attending with my eyes -

connected to my hand -

touching brush and paint and paper . . .

Late Autumn

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 16:35:00 +0000

After the maple leaves drop

I find glowing colors

in overlooked places . . .

Waking up early . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 08:44:00 +0000

In Istanbul

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 19:26:00 +0000

I spent ten days this month exploring and sketching in this alive city.

(We were there because my husband Steve Gorn was playing

in the Ismet Siral/Creative Music Studio festival.)

Here is what found its way into my sketchbook -

First, a tulip tile image (originally a Turkish word and flower

and also the root of the word "turban") with the cobblestone pattern

that was everywhere under our feet.

The first day out I decide to visit the Rustem Pasha mosque.

It's 1:00 pm on Friday and I am unaware that any Turkish man

with an ounce of devotion shows up to pray at that time.

Hordes of men are streaming in, but the policeman stops me at the door.

I am indignant !

I pull back, drop into the sketchbook,

and find my way through . . .

The city is hot and swarming with tourists from Europe and the Middle East -

women in miniskirts and tank tops - women in full length black burkas,

only their eyes showing.

We head underground to escape the heat and find another woman

in a puzzling position . . .

(more confusion for me around the feminine ! )

I head off by myself one afternoon, exploring the side lanes leading

down the hill. I get lost - and tired - and finally find a place to settle

and drink a tiny cup of strong Turkish coffee . . .

An excursion with musicians, students and friends . . .

Walking down the slope of a quiet street

the dark opening in an old fountain catches my eye . . .

Waiting in the mosque courtyard for a shower to pass

I have the time to notice . . .

On the last day I find myself drawing faster -

catching the moments, the cityscapes, the relationships . . .

At the end of the afternoon I walk slowly down the hill from the Grand Bazaar

and have an encounter with one of Istanbul's totem creatures.

Tired / complete / my line / my brush / loose and easy .

At the Monastery

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 22:19:00 +0000

Teaching Haiku/Brush/Sketch

at Zen Mountain Monastery this past weekend,

I encourage my students to step through

the doubt and hesitation and get something

down in the sketchbook.

At the end of the workshop

I walk up the wooded path to the cemetery

to visit my friend Richard Barsky.

It's been twelve years since he died.

I stand in front of the vertical grave marker,

looking down at the capstone that covers his ashes.

I hear Richard's voice inside me,

"Go ahead. Do it."

I open my sketchbook - and get something down . . .

Writing of the World

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 10:55:00 +0000

On a Nantucket beach . . .

Writing by Hand

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Tue, 11 May 2010 19:30:00 +0000

This ancient human experience

is washing away

in the rushing electronic river.

I touch back in -

with its power and beauty

and truth . . .

Seeds Sprouting

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 20:07:00 +0000

As the seasons shift

I struggle with sadness

while surrounded by beauty.

Then, in the midst of my Brush Book workshop,

the truth comes through again . . .

A Day at the Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 11:12:00 +0000

After a week of snowstorms

I head into New York City and the Metropolitan Museum

to see what draws me in and out . . .

I expect to feel my delight and curiosity.

Instead I stagger through the halls, overwhelmed and discouraged.

The buddhas and bodhisattvas do not comfort me.

The Egyptians seem preoccupied with death.

All the people wandering around appear to have attention deficit disorder -

but it's really me that has it !

Finally I get to the "primitives" - Oceania, Africa, Pre-Colombian -

and I painfully coax my pencil to the page . . .

In Holland

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 17:02:00 +0000

Another intense and nourishing time

at the first European ALIA conference

(Authentic Leadership in Action).

Before flying home I touch the paper -

catching some traces and patterns of this land -

a different continent and perspective . . .

New Year's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 15:33:00 +0000

Walked out into the woods to draw.

Wanting this to be fun and restorative.

(What was I thinking ?)

The winter woods are so silent, so cold, so stark . . .

Now back in the house -

cat purring and stretched out next to me - fire crackling -

I relax into indoor comfort.

But just staying in can get insular and closed.

Going out into winter woods is a touching - a gazing -

upon the loneliness of life -

and I feel stronger for it.

Looking Out on First Snow

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 14:18:00 +0000

Feeling the pulling in of winter -

of the light - of my heart . . .

End of the Season

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:29:00 +0000

Most of the leaves have fallen down -

or been pushed off as one scientist put it recently,

by the chemical coursing through the branches.

Fallen down feels gentler.

I pause -

step away from my windy life,

unplug the phone,

to paint these dying leaves. . .

Still Standing

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 13:54:00 +0000

A single line of corn

stands in the middle of the field along the highway.

I pull my car over and walk past the cut stalks.

It's a sunny October morning -

a brisk wind blowing . . .

The Last Stroke

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 22:56:00 +0000

At the Authentic Leadership conference in Halifax this past June

I was asked to do a final brushstroke for the closing ceremony.

Here is the inner and outer story . . .

I stand on the huge sheet of paper, my heart pounding.

In the big room it is silent, all two hundred pairs of eyes watching.

I feel a stroke emerging inside me. It is just a blurred image,

but it draws me forward. I bow to the space, the fullness

of the moment, and walk over to the big horsehair brush

soaking in the bucket of ink, take hold of the bamboo handle,

pressing the hairs down into the ink, lift up, look back at the whiteness,

my legs planted wide, knees bent. I press the brush down again

into the shimmering blackness, lift the dripping hairs,

down again, up, then I can't hold back anymore . . .

The brush comes up and over and lands on the page,

like a hawk, talons extended, landing on prey, wings pulled back,

then lifting up to fly away, but the intention and the weight is too strong,

can't pull away from the page now, connected by a powerful gravity.

The brush moves up to the right, drops down to the left,

pushes through, curves around. This is all heaven,

descending from above, arriving - the first mark.

The brush pauses. Now there is a turning towards earth,

the natural counterbalancing energy of ground.

Mysteriously, at this moment of stillness and transition,

the brush releases ink onto the paper (and the floor) in a fan of splatters.

No time to wonder why . . .

Now the earth voice is moving, speaking, slowing, steadying,

drawing the brush down and side to side,

until it arrives at the bottom right corner of the big page.

This is the destination, a simple stop,

a quiet ending - humble earth.

I place the brush back in the bucket and pick up the red paint

and smaller brush. The pigment is thick like blood, like plasma.

The smaller brush is thick too, and moist, and heavy.

Scanning the big glistening stroke now -

where is the spot for the human mark?

Where is this human energy needed that will join and complete the act?

I squint my eyes, narrowing the visuals so I can feel my body pull me -

right into the center of the stroke -

the space between heaven and earth.

I step back onto the page and gently, directly, strike the heart mark -

wet and juicy at the core. It is another sudden landing, but this time

the bird lifts off, leaving its brilliant color behind.

I place the red brush and bucket on the side,

stand at the bottom of the sheet, cool floor under my feet.

I bow to the stroke, turn and walk away.

For a moment I am caught off balance, stepping awkwardly.

As the gong strikes three times my steadiness returns

and the sound dissolves , slowly, in the big space.

This Moist Night

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 15:51:00 +0000

I come downstairs

to turn off the lights

and discover a gray tree frog

attached to the outside of the glass

halfway up the door !

Deep Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 12:36:00 +0000

Returning home after a month

of engaged conversations.

Trying to find my way back to the studio

and the solo voice.

Drawn to the beauty of the tight and closed in -

and then the beauty of opening . . .

June on Nantucket

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 13:40:00 +0000

Opening up the family cottage,
surrounded by memories of my parents.

In the midst of all the tasks
I make it to the sketchbook
only for moments.

Back home in the rush of my life,
I slow down -
painting these pages.

Garden Networks

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Fri, 29 May 2009 11:24:00 +0000

Back from the Authentic Leadership in Action (ALIA)

conference in Victoria, B.C.

Spent time there with Tom Hurley and Keith Webb

thinking about patterns - in organizations - and nature.

Now getting grounded back home,

I wander into the garden,

looking for patterns . . .

Disappearing Words

noreply@blogger.com (Barbara Bash) — Mon, 04 May 2009 18:22:00 +0000

I recently heard that the Oxford Junior Dictionary

has removed a number of words from its new edition,

replacing them with words they feel our technology-driven children

need more - like database, chatroom, analogue, broadband, bullet point, etc.

Here is a sampling of what has been left behind.

I write them out to hold them near, alive and singing,

resonant names of our natural world . . .