Author Archives: Melissa Fischer

Yesterday some members of the Lower Hudson Valley Plein Air Painters joined my mother and me at my parents’ farm to spend a gorgeous day painting outdoors. The weather was wonderful, not getting too hot until mid-afternoon (and then still okay in the shade), with beautiful views in every direction. The hardest part was figuring out which of the many inspiring options to paint. One thing I like about painting with other artists is the opportunity to see through their eyes, sometimes discovering beauty in places I had overlooked it.

We painted all morning then gathered by the pool, surrounded by a stunning array of snapdragons, to have lunch and iced tea, while talking art and getting to know each other. Then we dispersed for an afternoon of painting, before picking peaches in the orchard and heading home. What a great day!

In the morning my mother and I painted a dead tree up by the tennis court. I find dead trees fascinating. They look dead, and indeed, the tree itself is no longer alive, but there is an abundance of insect life and subsequent bird life in the old wood. I also love the weathered grain that reflects light in so many shades.

After lunch, one of the other artists was painting the view between the barn and the tool shed, not a spot I would have thought of, but it was a nicely framed scene. A bonus was that the farmer was mowing the field we were painting, and we were entainted by the cows galloping after, and even in front of, his tractor.

Last month when I spent the night at Riga Farm, I did some painting and some writing while enjoying a quiet day alone.

Here are some bedtime musings from my time there:

I close my journal, lay down my pen and turn off the light. Bedtime after a full day. But… I cannot resist the call of the night, so I unlock the door, open it a bit, and look out cautiously from side to side. No black and white of skunk in sight, so I step out, quietly shut the door, and slip into another world.

The half moon shines bright over the heavy silhouettes of the maples flanking the orchard. The Evening Star—Venus—is still hanging above the western hills, brighter than any of the stars that shine through from unimaginable distances. I scan the sky until I come to the Big Dipper, a familiar friend I’ve known since childhood. Tracing a line through the two end stars of the dipper and beyond, I meet the North Star, and from there find the Little Dipper. Some of its stars are almost too faint to see; I can only discern them because I know by heart where they have to be.

I search the sky again and think that perhaps I’ve found Cygnus, the Swan, but I’m not sure. It’s odd how I barely remember the constellations I learned in more recent years but know well the ones Papa taught me so long ago. Thank you, Papa, for this, among many other things you taught me of the world of nature.

The nearby rushing of the creek draws my attention, and I listen—to the water running endlessly over smooth rocks between mossy banks (where I sat this afternoon on a pebbly spit reading, with my bare feet in the cool stream), to the crickets singing in the night, to the lack of traffic noise. This last pauses my mental meandering, and I savor the absence of noise and the clarity of the sounds of nature—the music of creation with my ears tuned to its subtle melody.

What a great day! I spent today painting at the Vanderbilt, an estate and mansion on the Hudson River, with fabulous views both up and down river. I met with some artist friends from the Lower Hudson Valley Plein Air Painters, and together we enjoyed the view, the bleating of goats nearby, and the time outdoors. At midday it started raining and I continued to paint under the shelter of a towering maple tree. We’ve had so little rain that I happily welcome the sound and feel of it at this point.

I enjoyed the time with fellow artists and the inspiration of seeing how they painted the same view as I and hearing people’s suggestions for each others’ paintings– always a learning experience. Rowan was with me and was delighted to meet so many friendly people, and he also met quite a few friendly dogs. And of course I loved the time spent painting beautiful scenery– one of my favorite ways to spend a day. All in all, a very good day.

I was aiming for an atmospheric feel to my landscapes, and am happy with how they turned out. I may do a little touching up on a couple of them, but this is what I did while out today. One of the challenges of plein air painting is the way the light changes, sometimes in a matter of minutes dramatically altering the scene. When it started to rain upriver, all was muted and monochromatic in that direction while still bright and sunny downriver.

Night air feels different. Alive with potential, still with meaning, it wraps around me like a shawl as I sit on a cool deck chair. Fireflies, stars, and the sickle moon draw my gaze, each hard to look away from, but, even so, my restless mind drives my eyes from scene to scene and back again, not pausing long enough to dwell on any one sight.

Still, the night draws me in. The stars, so far away, speak of immensity and power that inspire awe, causing me to pause in spite of my thoughts. The moon shines through the tall pines with a warm light, brightening the sky and making me smile. How could one not smile while looking at the moon? And fireflies– they dance over the stream and in the woods, each making a statement– a tiny statement, but one that fills me with wonder.

Something inside my chest softens, my shoulders drop, my jaw relaxes. Whirling thoughts and tensions slow a bit, then settle into a peaceful, quiet hum. They become a chapter in a book—-the pages of today; and now I’m ready to close my book until tomorrow, with the words of the night air still in my mind.

I opened the steno pad that I used as a diary, scrawled the date in my irregular script, then wrote the words I wrote every night—“I sure miss Dis.” I set my pencil down when my desk blurred through my tears. As I squeezed my lips tight, my afternoon’s walk came into focus.

After getting off the school bus I had dawdled on the ¾ mile walk home, lost in a dream world as I was every day on the walk home. Every now and then I’d attempt to bring my mind to where I was, but I’d duck immediately back into the world in my mind, almost as if pulled by an irresistible force. More often than not I was surprised to eventually find myself at our door. I’d quickly made myself two Swiss cheese sandwiches, gobbled them down, then run into the woods, as I did nearly every afternoon.

Crisscrossing our ten acres, I had called Dis over and over, then crossed the low stone wall into Butler Sanctuary. Wandering aimlessly, yet purposefully, driven by grief and love, I kept calling Dis, willing my cat to come to me. Maybe, maybe if I called her enough and searched far enough, she would come back. When I stood still and closed my eyes, I could see her trotting calmly toward me, her long, black hair bouncing slightly with each stride, the small white comma beside her nose like a smile as she approached… I had been calling Dis most afternoons since the day Papa had driven me farther down Chestnut Ridge Road and we had found Dis beside the road, where she had died after being hit by a car.

As it did every day, my mind replayed that awful afternoon… I had asked Papa to take me out there, expecting to possibly see our somewhat feral cat Bilateral Symmetry, based on the neighbor boy’s description of the cat he had seen hit by a car that morning. As soon as I had gotten on the school bus he had told of the cat’s agonized struggles, of how he begged his mother to take the cat to a vet and how she refused, about how he had had to get on the bus seeing the cat still flipping by the side of the road. I thought of little else all day, and when I got home immediately asked Papa to drive me down the road. As we drove past, I saw the long hair and stiffened in the passenger seat, just managing to force the name “Dis” out of my dry, knotted throat.

Papa picked her stiff body up and placed her in the car. When we got home, we walked down into the woods, where Papa dug a hole by the Rhododendrons. I held Dis. Papa placed her in the hole and filled it in with dirt. I have forgotten most of the kind words Papa said to comfort me while we buried Dis, but the words I remember were him asking if I had noticed that he had placed Dis in the hole with her head uphill. That has always stuck in my mind as the kindest thing he could have done; he made sure she would not lie forever with her head downhill.

I spent almost a year trying to prove that I loved Dis, repeatedly calling her to come to me, writing of how I missed her, longing to somehow find the formula to turn back time and convince her not to leave me, but she never did come back.

It was frosty this morning, but I bundled up in several layers, including my winter jacket, and Rowan and I joined other artists on a plein air paintout at Boscobel on the Hudson River. We set up across from West Point– bluish mountains in the downriver distance, hills a bit closer, then extensive marsh lands just turning bluish-green spread out below us.

Red-wing Blackbirds darted over the reeds, flashing red and yellow epaulets as they described their territory in song. A Baltimore Oriole entertained us with glimpses of brilliant orange along with rich, liquid notes from surrounding treetops. Sparrows flitted among the shrubs on the slope in front of us, and I heard a warbler of some sort singing unseen.

Rowan lay contentedly, alternately watching me and turning to enjoy the view, especially when trains went by on the distant tracks. My dog at my feet and time to paint– a perfect day.

When I was in England last year I wasn’t at Stonehenge at dawn, but I’ve imagined what it might be like with early sunrise colors and with birds coming in for the day. I always love the magical feeling of being outside to welcome the day and I would think it would have an extra special feeling at such an ancient spot.

(If you click on the picture, you can see a larger version of it.)

One year ago today I visited Stonehenge, a place that had always intrigued me and that I had long wanted to see. I love the mystery surrounding ancient construction and like to learn about and ponder the possible theories behind such edifices. Mostly, though, I like the feeling of walking with some sense of awe where people so long ago also walked with awe.

I also have always liked stones and rocks and like to look at them, feel their textures, learn about them, and paint them. I’ve always enjoyed some aspects of rocks, but because of Jonathan’s fascination with rock collecting, I’ve learned more about them and my appreciation has grown.

When I was a child I would hide behind and under boulders, especially on a jumbled boulder field in Butler Sanctuary where I often climbed. The solidity and immensity of boulders always makes me stop and look in admiration, observing the surface, the colors, the edges, but mostly the immovability. I can’t not look at rock cuts, stone outcroppings and pebble fields.

So, visiting Stonehenge was special for many reasons, and I enjoyed just walking and gazing. I could have stayed for hours and hope to go there again someday and perhaps spend more time absorbing the feeling of antiquity and unrefined beauty.

I painted this today as I remembered my time there, and I’m painting another one with different lighting that I hope to finish tonight or tomorrow.

The soft sound of the rain lures me from my bed. Never mind that it’s 2:53 AM, or perhaps because it is, I’m drawn outside. With my dark pajama bottoms, raincoat and brown Muck shoes, I’ll be pretty much invisible in the warm, wet night. Petra is the obvious choice of a walking companion. The quietest of my dogs and with almost no white on her, she also will be invisible and unobtrusive.

I flip off the motion sensitive outdoor lights so they won’t intrude on the darkness, slip into the night and look around, Petra quietly by my side. Fireflies twinkle over the swamp… not many– they’re just getting started for the season, but a sight that always fills me with wonder and that I can’t bear to miss. A pinprick glows in the grass at my feet – glowworm?

I walk slowly, Petra padding by my side with an occasional foray to sniff where some animal has crossed. A Grey Tree Frog trills as I walk by the maple and another answers from across the stream. Then another, from farther back in the woods and yet another from the lilac. I’m surrounded by animal life, mostly hidden from my sight, but going about their lives on their land. The night is theirs; I am just a visitor to their world.

In our online community at My Smart Puppy, we’ve been writing speed drabbles recently. Drabbles are short pieces of writing that are exactly 100 words, and we’ve been starting with a given word for inspiration and writing our drabbles in 15 minutes or less. This is a great warm-up and confidence building exercise and is lots of fun, especially seeing how we all write such different selection from the same starting word.

The starting word for this drabble was Wig.

I had no talent for either, but music would be far worse than art. If I took art, only the teacher would see my failed attempts. With music, other students would hear me. The very thought made me squirm with premature mortification, so, with a sigh, I signed up for drawing.

The teacher set a stuffed owl on the table. After a panicked, “I can’t draw that!” I soon got lost in a world of the owl, my paper and my pencil. Forgetting my lack of talent, I contemplated and drew… and discovered a new love.

Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins!

Here is my owl drawing, done when I was a senior in high school. I wish I could find Mrs. Wiggins to thank her for the inspiration she passed on to me.

The word for these two drabbles was Alone.

Alone drabble #1

It’s one of those sometimes difficult relationships. With quality time, there’s respect and even love; without it, things deteriorate quickly into annoyance and judgment. It’s not like those friendships that seem to remain strong even when years go by without close contact. This one needs attention and nurturing—which is easy to overlook until the tension level has risen.

With time to connect, though, there’s fun, enjoyment, laughter, a ready smile. Joy in the little things, a feeling of peace in the quiet moments, spontaneous fun.

It’s time for me to get reacquainted with myself, to spend some time alone.

Alone drabble #2

The hurry slows, the nagging feeling of “ought” diminishes, time spreads large and wide ahead of me, full of potential without pressure. Raindrops patter on the windows, gentle notes of a wordless lullaby, not lulling me to sleep but calming the frenzied swirling of my thoughts, washing tension away. My senses seem clearer, like the freshly washed air; my mind is both quiet and poised with anticipation, savoring this time, ready to either dance with birdsong or to quietly contemplate. As the oughts fall away, the possibilities gain substance and beckon me forward to step into my life with delight.

This drabble was inspired by Power. I spent more like twenty minutes on this one.

It creates or destroys. Builds up or tears down. Reveals truth or spins lies. Heals or hurts.

To keep from damaging, diminishing or desecrating. To stop that gossip or barbed comment before it slips out. Is there anything harder?

To encourage, comfort, make a difference for one life that ripples outward for years, for a lifetime…

To build connection rather than distance, bridges rather than walls, love rather than hate… this is all the realm of a small yet powerful part.

To tame the tongue and to use it well… that is power – the sort of power I’d like.

Two days ago I woke up early and went right out for a walk, then wrote this– over 100 words, so not a drabble.

I pull a heavy sweater over my pajamas , slip my feet into my Crocs, and step out into birdsong—Cardinals, Robins, Titmice, Chickadees awakening the day. Heading up my driveway in soft-soled stealth-mode, scanning the still dark woods, I spot three sleepy does just as they spot me- and leap to their feet, causing me to startle momentarily.

I continue, Canada Geese and Chipping Sparrows now adding their calls to the growing concert. A Spruce stands tall and black against the glow in the Eastern sky as a Red-bellied Woodpecker lilts past. I pad silently, drinking in the dawn.

The crown of a Maple turns green, then suddenly all the gray gives way to shades of abundant life, and more birds merge their voices with the joyful announcement of morning. I turn homeward, surrounded by the songs of Phoebes, White-throated Sparrows, Bluebirds and more. The day has begun, and I am ready to join it.