a mooring plan

1/23/'10
2130 hours Eagle Harbor

All's quiet but for the sound of cars debarking the ferry. An otter splashes around the deck, trying to climb aboard and poop on the houseboat.
I worked on color studies for my painting of Wicca. After laying down a blue/violet ground it's time to consult the color wheel oracle. This magic talisman is a guide through the dizzying maze of color relationships in my attempt to capture Wicca's silhouette against the high drama of a Winter sunset. A perpetual circle dance, color harmony is a dynamic movement around the wheel and back to the opening theme-- the key color. In this case, it is blue/violet (Viadurya blue in Sanskrit) the color of open sky and healing.
It's a circle dance, like Wicca turning with the tides ebb and flow around the still point buried deep in DNR bottom land. It's all a vast mooring plan that extends far beyond the microcosm of the harbor to the infinite reaches of space and back again--back to meetings, networking, this blue canvas and the still point of it all.
Symbols are not invented but grow from the collective consciousness, from lived experience. For mariners, the anchor has long been an image tattooed on the psyche by centuries of storm-tossed sleep and dreams disturbed by the grind of shifting chain in the murky depths. Arms emblazoned with the fouled anchor express something deep in our collective memory and cherished cultural inheritance about the need for solidity in a changing universe. But faith in the almighty or faith in the holding power of a CQR, it all comes down to the same need.
A good model for a mooring plan would be the mandala of the Medicine Buddha. This is grounded in the fundamental principles that honor the interdependance of all beings, tolerance and compassion. He is firmly anchored in this bottom land no one owns yet open to the vast, open Viadurya blue sky.

Fog

1/26/10
1000 hrs Patchy fog, wind S.W. @6kts.
The fog lifts to reveal a blue heron ornamenting a cluttered raft while grebes swim past. After catching a fish, they surface with it wiggling in their beaks and, giving their heads a vigorous shake, down it goes.

1045 hrs.
Like some phantom ship from bygone days, Ocean emerges from the haze revealing her rugged work boat lines and fishing rig to give our fair harbor some funky class. Paul built this beauty years ago and Dave had a hand in her construction.
It's odd. Even as we celebrate Bainbridge Island's rich maritime heritage the forces gather to destroy it.

1200 hrs.
Wicca and her neighbors turn to face West when the ebb sets in.
Where do we find the myths and stories that speak to our present condition? The story of Noah tells of our persistence in the face of God's judgment, but the myth of the flood predates the good book by many centuries. The spiritual history which the early church designates by the word Noah discloses a profound truth that eludes a mere literal reading. Although the story relates events that transpire in the unseen realm, they interweave with the world of practicality and politics.
The skeptics of global warming may have their reasons, but try telling them to a South Sea Islander wading through his hut and watching his precious pig go down in the Briney deep.
There is William Blake's print showing Urizen, symbol of rationality cut adrift from the mooring of deep feeling and charity, sinking in the abysmal waters of materialism. Could this be the same sea Noah so wisely navigated? It's the same ocean threatening to inundate us all: Corporate takeover of politics, consumerism, and a few wealthy individuals funding lobbyists to displace a poor and long established liveaboard community.

Log of the Wicca

1/25/'10
2020 hours
47 37.35 N
122 30.25 W
Wind westerly at 5 knots
I set the easel on Wicca's foredeck on the warm, sunny January day. After laying down broad swaths of wet on wet color, it's a chore to corral these hues as the paint ebbs and flows across the canvas. Most people think painting is only a mere pleasant pastime but wrestling this messy, recalcitrant material into shape seems more like work. Purposeful work, as Dave calls it, though I doubt he would use that phrase to describe my humble efforts. We all contribute to the cause in our own way and Dave's approach is as artistic as Henry Moore's in his sensitivity to natural form and organic beauty.

2100 hrs.
Beneath the shimmering Seattle lights reflecting on Elliot Bay some eight miles East lurk huge octopus and sharks in depths over 100 fathoms.
I've seen the city ramparts rising above the haze of a Summer dawn and fancied it some fabled Shangrila, locus of all that's desirable to gods and men. Less and less I succumb to it's allure as ferry fares and traffic discourage voyaging beyond shipping lanes to seek misfortune. I have my own inner city of misconceptions where I am lost nightly amid dark alleys and shady types who leer suggestively at my cluelessness: "Hey sailor! Want a good time?" Er... no thanks.
A sparkling, old Taoist sage wearing only a funny hat once told me: " There is no desire". I didn't know what to make of his laconic pronouncement as I am so ensnared in that particular aspect of samsaric existence myself.