One Woman's Treasure

on bringing a bit of nature indoors (& a poem)

I have a wooden bowl that sits in the front window of our living room. It holds an ever-evolving collection of treasures that I have found along my walks throughout the years. Sometimes I bring home things that will not last forever, like these two brilliant, glowing blossoms that pulled at my heart. I put them in my front window until they withered, but the lichen covered bark will stay there a while before it makes its way into the bowl.

There are all sorts of things in this wooden vessel: beach glass and metal worn smooth by time and water, tiny bits of driftwood, seashells, stones, domes of moss, shards of pottery that broke and I could not bear to part with, acorns, walnut shells, feathers, chestnuts and wee little pine cones, sycamore seeds, oak galls, dragonfly wings..you get the idea. When my children were little we would make tiny faeries and gnomes of wool and felt and appoint their homes with all the treasures we would find on our walks and in our back yard. I still have some of the little people we would make; many of them are quite beautiful. Oh the faery houses we appointed in the woods! My favourite was one we made in winter at the base of a maple tree with wonderful house-like roots. We made a pathway of icicles that grew taller as they reached the door, crossing over one another at the top like a Gothic cathedral window. What magic. Apologies for the reveries, but these treasure bowls bring back so much that is precious to me.

I believe it’s important to bring part of nature indoors. I’m not speaking of house plants or cut garden flowers, even though wonderful in their own way, as they lack the realness of what is found in nature. It’s also about the things that help us hold our memories of a special place or even time with someone we love: fragile robin’s egg shells and abandoned nests; tufts of moss that have come loose from the soil; tiny jars of seawater, sand or earth from a special place; heart-shaped stones that magically appeared when we needed to see them most; broken seashells and starfish from an early morning stroll on the shore; found feathers; driftwood. I have even brought home bones—some much too large to bring indoors so they live on my front porch. I should probably move them to the backyard, but the squirrels love to gnaw on them and this endlessly entertains me from my writing desk’s window perch.

In my home, in almost every room, these treasures dwell amidst the books and glass bottles, the tiny paintings and few knick-knacks that have followed me throughout my life. Each one holds a memory. Sometimes they even hold a bit of sand.

I have a few rules about bringing nature home. One is that if there are only a few of them I won’t take any, as in a wildflower. If it seems to be a vital part of the habitat, I leave it be. Once I saw an amazing patch of morel mushrooms, and knowing their rarity I didn’t want to disturb them so they could proliferate and the animals could enjoy them instead, but then saw one that had broken off and was starting to shrivel. It lives in my kitchen window bowl, still. I guess I just try to be mindful of how I disturb the natural habitats I visit, and only bring home what feels right, and not too often. I am hoping the benefits outweigh any harm.

These treasures are not only memory keepers, but also the daily subjects for my seeing/drawing practice and often appear as subjects in my lessons for others. The natural landscapes around us are so rich with inspiration, everywhere we might roam. I've even brought home pieces of old plaster or brick that had fallen from a building in a city that was special to me. The most important thing is that it speaks to me in a numinous way. In a way that will bring me many hours of pleausre and beauty and a chance to take an even closer look as I document them with tiny pencil marks in my sketchbooks.

I hope this inspires you to bring home the knick-knacks of nature, of memory, that can live in your own dwelling place. And I hope you will share them with me so I can see what you treasure, too.

And finally, a poem I wrote about the ephemeral and the lasting things. The tiny things we might notice when the intimate world around us is sometimes too beautiful for words, and sometimes too full of emotion, to pass by without putting it down on paper. Enjoy your week. Would love to hear from you. xo

Lichen

This morning I parted birch-white silk curtains,
looked to the woods at the mosses, maidenhair ferns,
rough bark of maple, that reassuring sky.
Why did I think of the grey-haired man
who sits alone at the diner, hands as big as dinner plates
that fumble through the daily news,
raise the sturdy white mug to his lips,
trembling?

Or the young mother who lives
only miles from my door, braving her last mornings,
not knowing if each detail of this ordinary day
should be met with gratitude
or goodbye?

Later, I walked with the man I love
through tall grasses and damp wooded paths.
We rested on a rock near the pond.
Two Canada geese serpentined
in the water thick with duckweed, leaving trails
like tire tracks in virgin snow. I traced my fingers lightly,
lightly through the hair on his forearm, while he spoke
and I listened for the unspoken.
It is more than enough, and yet never enough.

There is endless beauty in this world.
Just look at the hundreds of thin petals
on the bull thistle. How the minuscule gall fly climbs
and descends them, as if mountaineering
a steep wall of magenta rock.
Or, how each hull on the seed head of grass
glows in the early sunlight,
and the stately field mullein burn like vigil candles
until dusk blows them out.

My hand leaves him to touch the silver moss
blossoming at the edge of a stone.
I have read it grows one millimetre a year. . . that slow
patient lichen on the cool stone
seeming to thrive solely
on time and air.