wonder and amazement

There’s been a lot of wonder and amazement in the more negative, disbelieving sense lately… as in, I wonder how people can be so insensitive to the suffering of others, to the ongoing genocide in Gaza and continued targeting of immigrants and indigenous folks everywhere. And I wonder how anyone can be so selfish and short-sighted as to prioritize tax cuts for the insanely rich, at the expense of social programs that benefit everyone…. But this train of thought could lead to madness, given the amount of fodder being generated every day. Instead, I wanted to share some wonder and amazement of the more wide-eyed, receptive and enthralled variety, in part because I believe it’s what can ground us in the sanity and compassionate care that is needed, always.

These images are from a visit to the Painted Hills of Oregon, where the various mineral deposits and volcanic action of the land have left layers of unusual color, some of which are only exposed through erosion. The lavender in the next photo is true color - purple dirt!

Against the deep cinnamon hills, the delicate greens of sagebrush and juniper gained potency. And the sky seemed to intensify its blue.

Some of the rocks were also blue, or an interesting blue-green that almost matched some of the sage, and was close enough to my sweater color that I had to pick up a sample, just for a photo.

Amidst all this far-out color and trippy landscape, I was also entranced by the basic, gentle blooming of a cherry tree on the land where we stayed.

A large part of my amazement these days is simply that spring happens, that all these plants bubble over with life in the form of buds and leaves and blossoms and so much outreaching growth it’s almost hard to handle. The giddiness of perceiving what all is going on - especially when the birds are calling, chasing around, busily gathering nest materials. It’s so energetic and happening, and yet so peaceful. The waving of bright green fir tips and flitting of warblers carries deep peace because it’s just so right, so much the way things are.

I have very few words these days, to counter the deliberate destruction going on, but to be still and look and listen continues to feel like a crucial practice.

True emptiness is clear and always present
masked by delusions for reasons we don’t know
how could what is real and what is false exist apart
flowers bloom and flowers fall when the spring wind blows
- Mountain Poems of Stonehouse, 92 - Red Pine translation

PS - I do keep adding to my poetry page, this one posted as a typewritten image on instagram last fall. Still working on the weaving blog post, and the weaving as well.

PPS - I wrote some commentary, added to yet another page. My virtual house of words, it is sprawling. Also just read this please - Arwa Mahdawi telling it like it is.

uplifting play

Rattlesnake Creek in Missoula, Montana. A photo that looks like a painting, the texture of the water making brushstrokes somehow… not at all intentional on my part. I love the colors of the Rattlesnake’s rocks, and wanted to keep them with me.

Yes, the sky is falling, and also creative work is rising.

Creative, heart-based truth is leading the way I wish to follow. The performance of Les Arrivants in concert with the Glacier Symphony orchestra was a good example, a nourishing blast of brilliance that I’ve been cherishing and revisiting over the last month.

It’s hard to speak about the music, because it’s such a qualitative experience, so emotionally connected. Of course I have a Rilke quote for this. In a letter responding to someone asking about the influence of another poet on himself, Rilke says the influence is “dissolved in memory and experience… interwoven with it,” and that it mainly “consists in developing one’s capacity for wonder and for work and in compelling one back to nature.” That’s how art works: you can’t point at anything specific and say it did this to me, but it does something. It affirms something you already knew…. it motivates your own work.

Birch with pink inner bark and cool fungus, outside Kalispell, Montana

A bird’s nest with blue tarp strands and bits of my husband’s hair, which I cut out in the driveway and always hoped the birds would make use of it. This was in an Ocean Spray bush, found in winter - I don’t know whose nest it was.

Those of us who watch Les Arrivants perform live tend to overuse the word “amazing.” I say it myself, and I hear other audience members as they approach the musicians afterward or try to express their reactions. I think it’s because this group takes us somewhere new and unexpected, outside of any ready vocabulary we might have. Part of the mind is still chewing on the experience long after it’s over, and in the moment of greeting them it’s still just new and delightful and moving, and we haven’t had time to understand how we’ve been touched. It’s a powerful enough experience that it requires a time of processing, metabolizing new input that goes way beyond any form of mere entertainment or pleasure.

The first time I saw them, all this was true, and they were alone as a trio, in a relatively small venue. This time they collaborated with a symphony orchestra, playing five works in a row that were newly orchestrated, three of them world premieres of original compositions by each of the three musicians. It was like dwelling in a series of multidimensional worlds called up by these unique minds, one after another. Unbelievable.

Although they’ve coordinated with an entire symphony and have expanded the sound and texture and grandeur of each orchestrated piece, they retain the sense of intimate communication and responsiveness among themselves as a trio. Even with a full orchestra behind them, the three play for each other and include the audience in the warm-hearted way that defines their music. The more you know their music, the more you appreciate their sense of play and conversation, the way they explore and support each other.

The introduction to Bagelissimo, the Mile-End Tango, was a great example of this. Abdul-Wahab Kayyali and Amichai Ben Shalev indulged in a languid, almost teasing exploration, tickling and caressing all sorts of possibilities before giving the orchestra the gratification of the bright tango beat (which the orchestra clearly loved playing.) Ben, having done the orchestral arrangements for the five pieces being premiered, seemed to be on a justified high, judging by the look on his face as he sat surrounded by the sounds he had summoned from the instruments, and in his own solo work & virtuoso treatment of the bandaneon.

Wanting to say something about improvisation and weaving, as I attempt to learn double weave, copying motifs from Shahsevan tribal weavings (nomadic Iran). As with a musician’s skill, a weaver’s increased familiarity with a technique and the design possibilities gives more opportunity to improvise and be inventive within the format. I have my hand in too many different weaving techniques to master any one, probably, but I’m working on gaining some fluency in the design languages and the structural rules that inform them. Watch this space for more on weaving & improvisation.

I can’t remember much about the oud solos, except that I wanted them to go on forever. I’ve already been expressive about how much this musician’s work moves and inspires me, and this performance was further confirmation. The emotional intensity of the concert was front-loaded, since the first piece was played by Les Arrivants without orchestra, and the next piece was Shaymaa’s Dance, Abdul-Wahab Kayyali’s piece composed upon the death of Palestinian poet & academic Refaat Alareer’s eldest daughter, months after his own death. The music envisions the two of them dancing at her wedding.

The composition is an imaginary celebration of the simple continuation of life that will never happen for these two, who along with other members of their family, were killed in separate, targeted Israeli airstrikes in Gaza. The grief and infinite pain of this vision permeate the lilting melody and sweetness of this classic, lyrically moving waltz. (A brief excerpt is in the Glacier Symphony link above.)

This image is from the article linked above, from a protest in Cologne, Germany soon after Alareer’s death.

Unfortunately, the world premiere of this work was accompanied by a compromise of its power. Whoever finalized the program for the Glacier Symphony chose to edit the artist’s statement, without consulting or involving the artist/composer. As a result, the description of Shaymaa’s Dance was scrubbed of any reference to Palestine, Gaza, airstrikes, genocide, or even the violent and targeted death of these two individuals. While Refaat Alareer’s name is mentioned, the situation is glossed as “loss,” and thus impossible to interpret unless you already know who he is.

The composition and premiere of this piece is what motivated me to instantly seek tickets, bring my family to the concert, and tell others. To have it sanitized in the interest of genocide-denialist sensitivities seems counter to the purpose of playing it, and of inviting Les Arrivants to Kalispell. Fortunately, the music speaks for itself, and I know that Kayyali and Les Arrivants will have more occasions to highlight this work and reach ever wider audiences with their brilliance, now that they have taken this first step into orchestral collaboration.

I’ve been working with Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus lately, and the phrase that keeps cycling through my mind with regard to this music is from the final sonnet of Part 1, which talks about Orpheus’s dismemberment at the hands of the raging Maenads. The German is “aus den Zerstörenden stieg dein erbauendes Spiel”: From among those who would destroy you, your uplifting (edifying) play arose. The word Spiel, or play, is the playing of the instrument, and you could say ‘tune’ or ‘song’, but ‘play’ evokes the improvisation that is so integral to the work of these musicians. Each of them is raising something new and edifying each time they play. The premiered compositions of this concert were ‘erbauendes Spiel’ on a grand scale, but every performance involves this uplifting play, and among the forces of destruction that currently surround us, lifting up an edifying song feels like a sacred calling.

The tatreez-supporting jacket also had its debut at this performance. No photos allowed in the theater, but here’s Abdul-Wahab Kayyali wearing it, speaking with admirers from the audience after the show with Amichai Ben Shalev.

On the topic of censoring Palestinian voices, the response of universities is getting me down… (eta: understatement, and Rebecca Solnit says it way better than I can here. Read, follow, act on her encouragement.)

Despite their evident financial emphasis and power games, all of which was more than obvious to me as an Ivy League undergraduate thirty years ago, part of me still wants the university to be a bastion of clear thinking, a safe place for dangerous intellectual experiments and risky conversations. It must be the part of me that never gave up the dream that being a serious student and an intelligent person was the way to move forward, to achieve lofty aspirations and enhance the world.

I was raised with this implicit ideal: the university was the place to go to exchange thought, to further ideas and creative growth. There was no doubt in my mind about this. And of course, this led to repeated disappointment. I perceived things clearly enough to dissuade me from pursuing academia as a professional. And yet, I see now in my current bafflement, there was lingering faith somewhere in my mind, that universities were the stage where things could happen that would expand and change our society.

And I don’t know why I feel closer to universities, or expect more of them, except that academia is where you’d typically belong if your primary activities are writing, thinking, and comparative study. Doing these things has made me feel close to academia and pay attention to how it works, even though it’s never been my job. My independent study of poetry and textile research also keeps me in the scholarly milieu, so it just feels like the portion of society where I should be most at home, although I haven’t associated with a US university in decades, really.

To see the universities motivating against their own students and faculty, in the service of ideologues, deflates the residual hope. It’s not all universities, of course, but I’m not going to dig through the newsfeeds pulling out names of who is punishing, expelling, and allowing doxxing of pro-Palestinian activists and who is being more supportive of freedom of thought and expression. At the moment Columbia is in the spotlight for the former, and what matters is the general trend.

Here’s a thoughtful conversation about it, at least. And here is a written statement from Mahmoud Khalil, from his unlawful detention, including the sentence, “I have always believed that my duty is not only to liberate myself from the oppressor, but also to liberate my oppressors from their hatred and fear.”

Clouds, from where I live, telling me about ‘erbauendes Spiel.’

May we keep expanding our minds and hearts, and keep developing the skill and fluency to allow our improvisations to rise up and edify one another.

what I'm doing now

Where the liberated, undammed Elwha River meets the sea.

November, 2024:
Of course I think about leaving the country - I spent nearly 20 years living outside the US prior to 2015, so the possibility of doing so again is never far from my mind. I think about Jordan, which I wrote about after a very short visit, where there could be excellent cultural and relief/volunteer opportunities, as well as a chance to immerse in Arabic and really learn. I’ve been plugging away at Duolingo and some old Teach Yourself recordings, in an effort to improve and also just to hear and affirm this language with a depth and intricate wisdom that has so many iterations across the globe, and which has been relegated in the US mindset to negative associations. I won’t write the negative, misleading words, because repetition gives them weight. Instead, I listen to music and poetry from the Levant, and explore the small ways I can discover what Arabic has to teach me now, with my limited capacity.

Sunrise at Salt Creek Campground - S’Klallam and Chimacum and Coast Salish ancestral lands.

And elsewhere there are several weavers I would love to sit near and learn from for weeks or months, in Laos, in Mexico, in Japan…

Japanese maple in my friend and neighbor’s garden.

And I understand the outrageous privilege and freedom of movement these possibilities attest to, which is another aspect of my reluctance to just go somewhere else. I found a piece I wrote in 2020 about travel, and have added it here because the reflections are still true.

Heart of the Hills Campground, Olympic National Park

The main thing is though - all the images here are things I’ve seen during the second week of November, when I took off camping alone - here with my own senses, not far from where I’m actually permitted to live, to own a house that is not currently being bombed or flooded or set aflame…. I have the grace of this natural world around me, willing at every moment to interact and teach, and so I only need to remember to listen and be available to it, and since this is my greatest benefit in life right now, it feels like a responsibility, one that I take seriously and with joy and gratitude.

(you can stop reading here if you’d like to end on that note)

Now: All of that was written in November, soon after the photos were taken, and it has taken me a while to catch up. In the meantime, I self-published a book of poems whose title conveys the topic: Breathing Rubble Dust. Some of these poems have been published on this blog or the poetry page already, all of them written between October 2023 and February 2024, which is already so long ago.

Book cover: Breathing Rubble Dust, Tracy Hudson

Back cover: Poems for and from occupied lands

I know the poems are heavy and hard to read. They are for me, too. Because they reflect my waking awareness that a rogue nation is slaughtering innocents on a daily basis with the full support of my own country and an utter lack of impunity, despite worldwide efforts at condemnation.

How can this not be heavy? Given that my experience as mere helpless observer pales in comparison with anyone who lives there or has family being relentlessly and unpredictably targeted and bombed, their lives set aflame….. this reality is my breath, blood and bones, it’s part of my own body and yours as well, whether you realize it or not. This human collective, this earth’s skin in which we live together - each drop of poison affects the whole.

The gap between my posts is me trying to summon the sense that it is worth it, that I have anything to say that can matter. At the same time, the message and purpose of printing these poems is that our individual and collective creative voices matter, that we mustn’t stop speaking about how we are all affected by the reverberations of what happens in the world.

At the moment, I’m distributing these chapbooks personally. Contact me or comment if you’d like to know more, acquire a copy, or help spread them around.

Update: the books are also available through this site, as a fundraiser, and through Camas Books & Infoshop.

moss energy

What I love about the picture above is that I really can’t tell you what is going on there. I still don’t know yet. But the alchemical invitation of combined elements feels activated, there is potential for an emergence of some kind, however small and searching. That’s the nature of my studio space these days. It holds and pools and mixes together images, textures, acts of mark making and folding and tying - possibly generating amulets, or maybe the assemblage itself is the amulet, a protected and protective space to hold thoughts that wish to heal and halt destruction.

This rock also felt strongly of healing and wholeness. Such a wise and soothing design, so smooth and comfortable in the hand. I carried it along the beach, my first time back since an incident of local violence, and I left it there to mark the site with its calm assurance, another hope for healing and reparation.

I only feel capable of temporary offerings these days, momentary indications of care and tentative hope. I gain reassurance from these ancient forms that don’t need us humans, really.

A cedar showing me the beauty of a difficult life.

In preparation for a moss walk with the land trust study group, I was thinking about two aspects of mosses’ being. First, their extreme delicacy and sensitivity: with leaves only one cell thick, mosses have no protective layer filtering the outside world. The environment permeates their cells, making them highly susceptible to toxicity and air pollution. At the same time, many mosses are drought tolerant, can essentially go dormant until conditions are suitable to flourish, and when land has been depleted through mining or deforestation, they are often the first to come in and begin to find ways to grow. As some of the oldest plants on the planet, mosses have an ability to make soil habitable for other organisms. So they are simultaneously more sensitive, and more likely to create the conditions for communal thriving. These sound like the kind of characteristics the world needs, and it’s encouraging for those of us who have the experience of being too sensitive, feeling too much and too easily, to recognize that we also may have the capacity for encouraging better conditions for everyone, for starting over with small-scale care and attentiveness.

I roll it around in my mind as I visit the mosses and watch the birds and handle fiber: slow, gentle delicacy as teaching and strength.

Cotton from Traditions in Cloth, leather-whorl spindle by Allen Berry

Recycled paper stitched together and dyed with onion skins.

Maybe that’s where hope resides - with those of us who are unable to tolerate bombing of children, hospitals, libraries. Maybe our very intolerance, our inability to harden against this unacceptable reality, is what will create conditions where more of us can grow together.

A Bigleaf Maple offering shelter & embrace.

Small, persistent offerings feel small, but also crucial, as so much is being wantonly destroyed. Like the stitches in this Palestinian embroidery, creating meaning and preserving an attentiveness to life, to identity and place.

Palestinian cross stitch, found by chance in a local consignment shop. Someone tells me it has West Bank motifs from the Bethlehem area (thank you, Dot Ranch!) Along the right side are cedar/cypress trees of life.

more listening

I find myself again listening to the beach, and as with the previous time, I feel like letting the place speak for itself. Only now more so.

Words seem frail, as do individual humans.

Often, my photos follow a stem thought, a particular noticing that compounds on itself, in the form of a series. The thought on Rialto Beach, which is an astounding place to beach-listen, came after attempts to transcribe the waves….

shoo-aaah …. hmmmm-wah …..

ooooorr - rehhh …. brrrr-oh…wa …

prrrr-woh ….. sheeeeeeeeee ….

kraaaah …. kssshhh …. kraaaaaw

And the thought was, that all my countless written syllables, in all my notebooks, in English, German, French, or attempted bird-tree-sea-wind-wave languages, are nothing to the simplicity of stones in sand, the sea’s soft drag ever again recurring, whose writing was expressed all over this wide morning beach with an aching delicacy of line.

My wish is only to make/craft a response that says I am listening. This may be the whole point of all my writing and making: to say I’m listening, to immerse in the learning that is available to me, surrounding me in nature and textiles and all these living beings.

And P.S. - the sinuous lines of trees, also taking my breath and words away…

simmering

And is this quiet life a way of hiding?

I tell myself that this is service, too –

to learn, to see, to read and hear and know

to bring to light my own awareness

and dwell within that knowing,

simmer as others have simmered,

become tender –

this shared tenderness, having

weathered the impact of truth.

This is what joins us, as undercurrent

- it does not flow with words, so

much as tacit understanding, that we

cannot afford to ignore what has

been done and how that formed what

still is done and shapes us now.

trees

All I have today is a poem, because finding words is hard.

My hope is for transformation… for new and DIFFERENT ways of being American.

Not just because of a change in administration, but because we see the truth and act to do things differently.

The Trees Around Me

Calling this family

because

every day you see them

in different light

and the small ways in which they change

and the big ways in which they don’t change

and you slowly, imperceptibly

come to know

that they are supporting your life.

T. Hudson, 2021

thoughts, revisited

Rolled up backstrap weaving, with handwoven backstrap, on top of a Katu beaded weaving, on top of a Bedouin rug from Syria. More on this weaving here.

A bit of context: I write in my journal a lot, and have since I was 10. I often like to go back and re-read past journals to see if I said anything personally noteworthy. Sometimes I tap back into ways of thinking that were helpful, and that I want to revisit and continue. The excerpt I’m posting today was written the end of March, when the pandemic experience was still relatively new. It was also prior to the sudden death of a very dear relative, which changed my outlook dramatically at the beginning of June. I developed a second layer of “before and after”, so it’s interesting to go back into that first layer and see how I was thinking.

3/31/20: Already, for the last few years, I’d been trying to examine the system of valuation I was raised into, and this process continues in the midst of, and highlighted from various angles by, the pandemic. (Everything is now framed in terms of “before this”, and whether certain lifestyles pre-existed this situation or not. This is another reason writing has been difficult: everyone’s lens on oneself is now distorted in some way by the current, somewhat inconceivable, reality. And so to continue any prior current of self-examination, we have to make adjustments, calibrations to account for slippage of reality.) However, the pandemic seems to be mainly exaggerating things I was previously aware of and questioning. All the more reason to continue.

So, walking around outside my house spinning, I was thinking about the innumerable forms of valuation that come into our daily lives, and to what extent this grows out of a culture of measuring, comparing, competing, seeking productivity. Now, possibly more than before, there is a sense of needing to account for our time, to give evidence (on social media especially) of the things we are doing, which have accompanying valuations of healthy/not healthy, active/lazy, stressful/relaxing - along with the subtler nuance that distinguishes between indulgence and “self care.” It’s as if there is a spreadsheet (some actually have them, or bullet journals) that list and account the actions and inactions and where they fall within the overall plan for how to live. What I’m noticing is that while I can see this to some extent objectively, I have also internalized it, and part of my mind is weighing and valuing in spite of my resistance to it.

Spider web sparkling with dew, spindly cherry branches and leaves behind, my house in the background.

There must be a term for this in the context of feminism or other struggles - the attempt to resist the system from within it, which is ultimately ineffective because the system itself has to be exited. One has to step out of the self-perpetuating cycle, and to extract its residue from one’s own way of thinking….

Winding sunlit yellow handspun yarn off a spindle onto a reel, Afghani and Bedouin rugs in the background.

In concrete terms, I was thinking that if someone can report, “I went for a walk,” it carries more value than to say I was wandering around my yard spinning and standing there looking at things. But what this means is we have, in focusing on currency and valuation, we have taken away the value of that which cannot be valued. I already knew this, I’ve thought about it for ages re: textiles - the inherent benefits in an activity are diminished as soon as one tries to commodify them. And it’s this very effort, this idea that it even needs to be measured, valued, etc, that eats away like acid at people’s capacity to engage with the immeasurable.

(weaving content also posted, on this page)

awe

Somehow, reading about Chinese Internet celebrities who spend hours editing selfies and make millions by attracting followers to look at the selfies made it seem urgent to post about a few things I've seen and photographed lately. (None of which will be edited, except to resize.)

The mushroom above was growing by the road near my house, in the ditch. The ground would have been completely closed over it, but for the strength of the mushroom's growing, which pushed up a thick pile of mulch, leaves, and vines. It created its own cave as it grew, making space by spreading and pushing up, and I could see how fairy tales imagine entire worlds taking place underneath mushrooms just like this.

And this is the mouth of the Elwha, which I've visited several times now. It changes dramatically every season, reshaping the beach. At this time it was running high and muddy, about twice as wide as it was last time I was here. The river is carving out the shore so that the stones on the surface go right up to the edge of the water and stop abruptly - the shore is being scooped out beneath them where the sand is soft.

There are so many sights and experiences around here to incite awe, wonder, astonishment. And they are happening all the time. All I have to do is be there and keep noticing. The sharing of it feels urgent, though, especially while the 'attention economy' thrives on the sharing of drivel. As a counterbalance, just consider the mushroom, the mouth of the Elwha, and the last images for which I have very few words.

I recently saw that Annie Dillard and Mary Oliver say much the same thing about this type of experience and its value:

You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment. - A. Dillard

Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. - M. Oliver

And in describing Denis Johnson's books, Will Blythe says that they "embodied an astonishment at the very nature of life, an attitude that is in itself sacred."

Light and the surface of water.... it transfixes me.