Last December, I moved back to Taos, my hometown, along with my boyfriend, George. Since then we have been consistently working on building a home together. We live in what used to be my grandparents’ house. My father and grandfather built it together. The construction of the place is incredibly beautiful and quirky with keen attention to detail. Since my grandparents passed away, there have been many in-and-out inhabitants who never really established the place as a home. When I arrived, I felt like the furniture, objects, art, books and an assortment of artifacts from my grandparents had sunken into their places, too comfortable to move and too tired to shake off the dust. All the while, remnants from those who had drifted in and out had woven their way into cabinets, drawers and shelves. I found various documents, mail, CDs, romance novels and comedy DVDs not important enough to be brought along and too difficult to throw away—easier to leave behind. The house was a sort of limbo smashing together time and staying so still. Coincidentally (or perhaps not so much), when I decided to migrate north from Albuquerque, I was in a similar emotional state. I had just graduated from college that spring and was (and still am) in a place of purgatory. I felt frozen with questions: What should I do? Where should I go? What do I want? Why…everything? I was fearful of my life settling as it was, gathering time and dust like a slow and steady snowfall.
I decided I would try to sit with the discomfort of being uncertain about my future with an unclear path. I had to let go of the desire for steps to follow and productivity. I had to put faith in pursuing my interests while often questioning them. I felt, and still feel, hung-over from my 5 years in college. I have been feeling so uncomfortable and antsy, itching to move somewhere, do something. It has been hard to have the patience to wait and live a little—to figure myself out in the stillness instead of jumping into the next exciting thing. Slowly I have begun to reestablish a regular art practice. One that is much different from when I was in school. I have a few projects in the making and a few more ideas developing. I am discovering that having those pieces to work on and think about is stabilizing and grounding—even if sometimes I have to force myself to do it.
Over the winter, it was difficult for me to find the time and mind space to keep up with my artwork. George and I were quite busy working full time at my father’s hotel, and on our time off, the natural inclination was to get out and adventure. I did not exactly possess the discipline (or desire) to be at work in my studio. With the end of the ski season came the beginning of free time. We quickly filled that up with the many home improvement projects we had created for ourselves. Taking care of the yard was at the top of our list. Just as the abandoned items within the house had made themselves so comfortable, so too did the years of overgrowth, dead leaves, and brittle vines outside. After about thirty years (and bags) of leaves, George started pruning the trees. It had been quite some time since anyone had done it. Wild eyed, he marched around the property, saw in hand, doing away with all of the overgrown branches. When they fell, we would gather all the branches amassing them into a great pile behind the house. I wanted to save them because I knew I would use them for something. I found myself with an impressive amount of material at my disposal. Along with the springtime birds, as George and I continued to adapt my grandparents’ house into our home, we too were nesting. That was when the idea struck: I would build a nest. As beautiful as it is that George and I are building a home together, it occurred to me that ultimately, I must also create my own nest.
With the help of my good friend and fellow artist Lauren Kenward, very simply, starting from the ground up, we laid down branches in a circle and began to weave them together. The branches proved to be quite stubborn. Sometimes I would feel like I was fighting with them. Each time we worked on the nest, I would leave with scrapes up and down my legs and arms. The process was quite physical. I began to understand that I only had so much control over the outcome. The branches, rain, and wind had their respective input. Nevertheless, a nest slowly emerged.
My initial intention with creating this structure was that somewhere along the way, as part of the construction process, I would hold some form of gathering or ceremony within the nest to bring life to the work. The piece would develop a history and be a part of lives outside of mine. I really believe in the practice of gathering and ceremony. It is something that has become an increasingly important part of my life for the past couple of years. I think it is important to gather with others and acknowledge our thoughts, hopes, feelings, struggles, and accomplishments. I think it reminds us all of our humanness, and that everyone is working on something. I felt compelled to gather with my new community in Taos as part of the course of creating my own nest.
Last Sunday, serendipitously landing on the new moon, I held a nesting ceremony. I invited women in Taos to join me in the nest and speak from the heart. Another good friend of mine, Becky Sterpka, expressed that she had participated in similar ceremonies that were referred to as Heart Club. I loved the name and adopted it. Our small gathering consisted of different generations of women each contributing individual intentions and support for the nest. Some of the women I knew. Some were new to me. Regardless, we gathered in the nest to speak, listen, and reestablish our connections as humans, sisters, mothers, and daughters. I had asked them to bring something to contribute to the nest if they could. At the end of our gathering we took the objects people had brought as well as some sticks we had each specifically chosen and wove them into the nest. We closed the ceremony by sharing a meal around my dining table. It was a potluck, so everyone had contributed something to eat. Out of the space of ceremony, we remained connected and engaged with one another in a joyful celebration of our common ground and individuality. Remnants of the souls from the women in the ceremony remain vibrating throughout the structure of the nest. I feel now that it is firmly rooted and supported, which gives me the freedom to make change, for there is much more work to do.
