The Doors of Reflection

The Doors of Reflection

or

Bonsai, as a possible indicator of a persons conceived, pre-conceived, or ill-conceived perceptions.

After too many knee-bruising, back-straining hours in the garden I eventually forced my body to the back porch where I shed my tool belt and opened a fresh bottle of cabernet. I sat down, weary beyond belief. Perhaps I really am approaching eighty.

But, unable to sit and relax for more than twenty-four seconds (I’ve timed it, several times) I decided to trim/clean/evaluate the few bonsai plants I still have. (I lost most of them a few years ago in an unpredictable, unseasonal freeze and vowed never to stroll that path again.) But, habits, good or bad, don’t fade easily.

So, what about the bonsai plants, and the doors of reflection?

As I sat, nipping a branch here; pinching a leaf tip there, my thoughts drifted to something I have thought about for many years. Not compulsively of course, but just one of the occasional random thought that worm their way, uninvited, into ones consciousness at odd moments when the world has nothing better to offer.

I’m not an artist, but have, over my lifetime, sketched a number of ‘portraits’ of friends and personal heroes. For the most part they eventually resembled no one I would recognize. All became generic characters despite my effort. But, that is irrelevant. The thing I did notice about all of them was that I drew them either face-on, or with their heads facing to the left. Not one among them ever faced to the right,

Why? I questioned. Is it the result of being right handed? Do left-handed artists sketch, paint, render their human, or animal subjects facing right? Or is it purely happenstance?

Or, is my conception pre-conceived, ill-conceived? Perhaps there is no pattern to be determined. All is arbitrary.

When I find a morsel  of undigested time I might go through my art library, especially the various auction catalogues which condense a lot of art over the centuries into a manageable form, and see, as regards portraits, which profile is most common.

Then, as a follow up, try to determine which artists were considered left or right handed and compare the results.

All my bonsai plants are pruned with a left leaning inclination.

Off to look at catalogues.

Nature Bats Last

Nature Bats Last

Ever so often you encounter a book that is not only a pleasure to read but one that resonates within your mental framework. And how much better it is when you discover the author has written over a dozen books in a similar vein. My attraction to the writings of Mr. Pyle began with the purchase at a thrift store of Mariposa Road: The First Butterfly Big Year, a book documenting his quest to locate as many of the 800 or so butterflies found in the United States in one calendar year. His entertaining, fluid prose about a pursuit that could easily become mundane, guaranteed it didn’t. I was hooked.

Robert Michael Pyle resides in the Willapa Hills of southwest Washington where he has lived since the seventies, I think, anyway, a considerable length of time. During those years he has written effusively about the natural environment and history of this much overlooked section of the state. He is best known for his study and work with lepidoptera, and is indeed the author, or co-author, of several butterfly guides. He is also a poet, and this sensitivity is reflected in his prose. I could go on and on but, for a change, won’t.

The primary reason for this post is to encourage those of you with a passionate attraction and appreciation of the natural world, especially the northwest, to take a look. I’m not sure which book to recommend, but if your interests tend toward forests, logging, and forest management, or lack thereof, then perhaps Wintergreen: Rambles in a Ravaged Land might be the place to start. The book is a little dated, not in spirit, but in time. It was written in 1986, and I like to think many things have improved since then. If nothing else, the next time you are in a library or bookstore take a few minutes to read the next to last chapter, And the Coyotes Will Lift a Leg.