#thednaarts

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The forest ahead. The path awaits. We plod along as we do in grief. Henry's Ridge, Maple Valley, WA. Photo by Carrie Redway.

[carrieredway]

Working on a new collection of poems with 1911 as the backdrop-- incorporating my great grandmothers during their early adult lives, a specific road in my hometown, generational trauma and snake handling.

[carrieredway]

Epoch Writing Prompt

December: Holly leaves

Holly leaves for the winter season foraged from my yard. The pointed and prickly leaves poke my hands as I carry them inside, and arrange them in jars and goblets. It reminds me of grief. When my father died, my grief sometimes physically felt like a thousand tiny pin pricks at any time.

How does the prickly nature of holly leaves feel on the body? The rough scratch across skin? How could it relate to how grief feels?

Writing prompt: The winter holly leaves scratch thin skin.

[carrieredway]

Epoch Writing Prompts- February in Seattle, WA

Snow fell heavily for a few days in February. Spring had already shown a bit of herself but the snow blanketed any new growth. Except for this one leaf of a sprouting daffodil stem in my yard. She grew tall and has one blade out in defiance of winter.

For February, consider the end of this daffodil leaf and how it pokes up out from a foot of snow. Imagine how the leaf is bearing the weight of snow. Is it smashed down, or does it find a place for both the snow and itself? If snow could be grief, how does the daffodil, who thought spring was coming, wear the burden? Does the daffodil think it's a burden, or a temporary part of time?

Writing prompt: The daffodil wore snow like a cloak.

[carrieredway]

The things we keep that belonged to those we love.

This music box was my paternal grandmother's, "Grandma B". The music box sat on her dresser and she kept in it her rings, her watch, the jewelry she wore daily. I do the same now. It plays a tune when you turn the dancer. I remember playing with this as a child while I watched her get ready for the day.

After she died, I chose to keep the music box. When I first opened it, I noticed a note on a small scrap of paper. It read: "Red gave me this music box." As she got older, she wrote notes that she kept in or under many of her possessions to remind herself the occasion or who gave her certain things. I keep this note still in the music box as well. Photo by Carrie Redway.

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Winter Solstice Ritual Art Project

Winter Solstice is an important time for me. In early 2020, I took an old peanut butter jar and designated it my grief jar. Over the year, I put in notes of grief and the names of people who died with whom I had a connection. On Winter Solstice night 2020, I took the names and notes, read them out loud in my own personal ritual and put the papers in a bowl with the snow from that night's new fall, and the incense ash I burned during the reading. I created a paper sludge, and in the next few days I worked that sludge daily into a paper sheet. I let it dry under weights for several days more to make a hard paper sheet that I plan to use further in art.

For 2021, I decorated my grief jar with thread, pine sprigs and a dried carnation from a bouquet sent to my family when my father died. I write my father notes. I write my grandparents. Short prayers. It's my ritual for the year, and for Winter Solstice 2021, I'll do the same burn and water ritual to lay these things to rest.

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Epoch Writing Prompts- January at Taylor Creek

I will routinely post a few guided writing prompts for the Epoch writing circle here. In 2019/2020, I hosted a couple of writing circles that explored death and cycles through nature. Since we cannot meet in person, it is my hope to share these prompts through the blog here and continue the writing circle in this way.

For January, we will look at natural elements found near Taylor Creek in Seattle. Photo by Carrie Redway.

Moss growing on a tree. Imagine how the moss feels to touch. Is it wet, soft like velvet, cold? Is the moss part of the tree, or separate?

Consider grief as a plant.

Imagine what grief would feel like if you could hold it, or touch it like you can moss on a tree. Think about how it would smell. How does it change and spread like moss on a tree, if it does?

Consider how this moss started. Did it grow a little at a time? Did it extend slowly around the tree, or rapidly, or all at once?

Writing Prompt: Grief is a plant. The moss told me its origin story.

[carrieredway]

More cemetery foliage and overgrowth on stone markers. Visiting Mt. Olivet Cemetery, also the resting place for Seattle indigent burials.