musings from the studio and beyond ~
dawn chandler’s reflections on art and life. . . .
five years ago today I set out to walk across vermont
Vermont’s Long Trail:
It was grueling.
It was anxiety-riddled.
It was way, way, way harder than I ever imagined.
I’d give anything to go back and do it again.
My goal was to solo backpack the 273 miles of Vermont’s Long Trail. Though over the years I’ve shared some of my photos and story of why I was inspired to hike the trail, I’ve never shared pages from my private journal.
So honor this important anniversary, I thought I’d share some of my private musings from my journal pages.
First, a few clarifications:
— Though I’d been backpacking before, I’d never done it alone, nor had I ever attempted such a long distance.
— To get to the southernmost trailhead of the Long Trail (LT), I started in Massachusetts on the Pine Cobble Trail. After 3.3 miles the Pine Cobble meets the Vermont border at the junction with the Long Trail — as well as the Appalachian Trail (AT).
— At the Massachusetts/Vermont border, the AT merges with the LT, and they are the same trail for 105 miles. After 105 miles, at Maine Junction, the Long Trail continues north through Vermont to Canada, and the Appalachian Trail turns eastward to New Hampshire and Maine.
— A thru-hiker is someone who is hiking the whole trail — the full length of it — in one long hike; a section hiker is one who, rather than hiking a long-distance trail in one fell swoop, does a section at a time.
— NOBO = northbound; SOBO = southbound; I was a NOBO LT thru-hiker.
— Both the LT and the AT are marked with white blazes painted along the path. Side trails (like the Pine Cobble) are marked with blue blazes.
— GMC = Green Mountain Club is the terrific organization that protects and maintains the Long Trail and other Vermont trails.
— There are about sixty shelters along the LT, some of which are simple three-sided lean-tos, while others are more elaborate enclosed cabins. Although I carried a tent, my plan was to stay in a shelter whenever I could. Even hikers with tents though often camped near the shelters, as there was almost always a water source nearby, as well as the comradery of other hikers.
— Each shelter has a log book, where hikers share their reflections, trail conditions, and often notes to each other. In each book that I logged into, I left a tiny colorful card (1.5″ x 1.5″) with a detail of one of my paintings and a quote by Rumi.
— Nearly every thru-hiker and section-hiker adopts a trail name. Mine was (surprise!) TaosDawn.
Now then…. Come, hike with me across Vermont:
Study nature, love nature, stay close to nature. It will never fail you.
— Frank Lloyd Wright
Knowledge is only a rumor until it lives in the muscle.
— Brene Brown (quoting a saying of the Asaro tribe of Indonesia)
September 9, 2015 — Day One of The Long Trail — Wednesday
3:00 and I am alone in my first home on the LT. Heather dropped me off at Pine Cobble trailhead at 7:45.
I think we were both trying hard not to cry. Six miles into this and it is exactly as I expected it: Hard. I don’t care how far above sea level I am, uphill with a pack is uphill with a pack! It seems to me any gain from hiking at altitude is completely trumped by humidity, which today — at 90° — has been utterly wilting, the sweat gushing from my brow and neck. These first few days are going to be a serious test.
Today, sunny, hot and very humid; tomorrow heavy rain — on one of my longest days. Trying to keep a positive attitude and not fret about tomorrow: just focus on today and be in the moment. But the truth is I’m scared about tomorrow.
Deep breath.
One day at a time.
Last night when I checked the weather and looked at the map I thought of bumping up my hike today and aiming for Congdon Shelter rather than Seth Warner, which would have made for a 13 mile hike today rather than tomorrow. But everyone I’ve seen hiking today seems younger, faster and with a lighter pack. And the heat is debilitating, My concern is that I would have gotten into camp so late, that there would be no room for me. So better, I think, to stick to my original plan. I’m concerned, too, by the fact that today, at least, I was slower than the GMC estimates. They had 4 hours from Pine Cobble to SW, and it took me almost 5. I don’t want to obsess about my speed…BUT… a 13-mile day tomorrow with a couple of SERIOUS ascents in HEAVY RAIN has me concerned.
Would do well to keep in mind Rumi:
To be self-conscious is to worry about everything but . . .
What will be will be.
~ Rumi
Just after 7:00… The rain started about 10 or 15 minutes ago … lounging in the shelter with a young couple from WI — Bear Hookah & Lovel — and Barnum (whose dog, Bailey — a beautiful four-year old weimaramer — is crashed in his tent).
These are my favorites of the people I’ve met today. When I got to the Vermont border — and the start of the Long Trail — a young woman, Lauren, and her friend hiked up, on her way to thru-hike. Half my age, she also appeared to be carrying half the weight that I’m carrying. A few minutes of visiting and picture-taking, then I took off to give them a chance to bid their goodbyes — after they checked their cell phone messages (!). Thirty minutes later she passed me for Congden.
Now that I think of it though, the first people I encountered were a couple of day-hikers — two tall, baldish men who barely acknowledged me. They were deep in conversation about the Bible. A little later a couple of other similar looking men, who were gracious, thanking me for stepping aside so they could pass, and wishing me well. A little later, three AT section hikers headed south — seemed college-aged. After that, no one until — Finally! I made it to Seth Warner Shelter.
A lovely young man greeted me. He was taking his lunch, having started a northbound LT hike today as well! His name is Justin from RI, originally but most recently from Maine. And he’s been to Philmont! We visited for a nice short while, when he finally pushed on, hoping to make it to Congdon.
Next to show up was “Running Moose” from Kansas. SOBO AT hiker headed to GA. He looked like a child! But had a red beard and a great deal of chest hair brimming from his shirt (!) Had a purple sash tied around his head and was very soft-spoken and thoughtful. Thought before he spoke. Contemplative. Very pleasant.
I then had an hour or two to myself after he left, during which time I got water, played my flute, wrote, sketched and relaxed. Next to arrive were Barnum & Bailey. Barnum is a former army dude turned philosopher/hiker. Says he was a real “Reagan Republican” until the Bush years and serving in Iraq. Now he’s a diehard liberal; good fun to talk with and listen to, and his pup — Bailey — is a sweetheart.
These mountains or the oldest in the world.
There’s magic in these mountains.
I can guarantee you that.
~ Barnum
September 10, 2015 — Day 2 — The Long Trail, Vermont
A short heavy shower last night at 6:00. A few other hikers showed up for water and shelter from the rain. But only two of us slept in the shelter: Bear and me. All hit the hay by dark and, despite rolling around a lot, I slept pretty well. Up to pee twice. Then up with my alarm at 5:45. Lesson learned: load up on the day’s water the night before, as I went through water faster than expected and had to fetch more in the morning.
Broke camp and on the trail by 7:20 — a little later than I’d hoped. The morning started with a gradual but challenging uphill and deep humidity and heat. Honestly? I was miserable, fighting self-doubt and worry about the 13 miles ahead and forecast of heavy rain. A couple of hikers passed me — a woman about my age and a much younger college-aged man. Mother & son doing a section of the AT. After about 45 mins I decided to put away my watch — something I will do every day now once I hit the trail. A reminder from my Rangering days that
YOU’RE ALWAYS ON TIME
And…
YOU’LL GET THERE WHEN YOU GET THERE —
NOT A MOMENT SOONER AND
NOT A MOMENT LATER
Was feeling uneasy and anxious, when I came to a side trail to a spring. Even though I didn’t visit the spring, for some reason it cheered me — just having a place on the map that I could identify lifted my spirits. Soon after that I climbed to a high clearing under power lines. The clouds were low so I couldn’t see very far, but still, I could see the sides of distant mountains. I decided to stop and have some tea and study my map. I felt instantly at peace and satisfied…
Eventually this day I made my way beside a beautifully marshy pond. The sky was overcast all day, but no rain in the morning, at least.
By midday I was beside the beautiful Stradford Stream, where I dined at Congdon Shelter with “Smoky” a NOBO AT hiker who was sitting there, rather mellow, having a cigarette (!!) After lunch I decided to push on as planned and head to Melville Nauheim Shelter. Smoky commented “It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?” And I realized, yes, it is. Overcast, cooler and no rain — it was beautiful.
Eventually a couple of light drizzle showers passed through, but barely enough to require a rain jacket. The last descent of the day was down Harmon Hill — very steep down long slick stairs. I had to walk very carefully, as the moss, leaves and rocks — all damp — were incredibly slick. And I did slip at least once, landing on my right thigh, smashing my camera that was in my thigh pocket. So much for the camera image screen — now badly cracked (camera still works).
Made my way to Route 9 — the highway to Bennington — the bridge across the Walloomsac River. I was just making my way up the first “staircase” when a local man out for his evening walk came up behind me and said that a week ago the stream at MN shelter was dry — he encouraged me to get water at the river. Forty-five minutes later….. I had gotten water AND left a note at the bridge sign alerting others of what the man told me. Halfway up the steep steep part — some time later — he was coming back down. “This is the worst of it — you’ve got it Girl!” He also said the water at MN was still quite scarce.
Later, when I got to MN there was water — even a little trickle to it. He must not understand that, as far as I’m concerned, just about any water is good water. As I approached the shelter, a young man looked up and said in a cheerful voice, “Hello Dawn!” It was Justin, my fellow NOBO thru-hiker whom I met on Day One! Such a delightful soul and good, cheerful company.
Dinner done and cleaned up by 7:30 and in bed by 8:00.
And NOW the rain came. It rained and rained and rained all night long.
And cleared up come morning.
If you desire the self, get out of the self.
Leave the shallow stream behind
and flow into the river deep and wide.
Don’t be an ox pulling the wheel of the plow,
turn with the stars that wheel above you.
~ Rumi
Thank you for being here and reading my musings.
If you enjoy my posts I invite you to subscribe to this, my blog so you catch all my occasional musings. And by all means, if you know others who might enjoy these writings, please feel free to share this post with them.
Meanwhile, find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website, www.taosdawn.com. Peruse and shop for my art here. And please consider joining me for TuesdayDawnings, my weekly deep breath of uplift, insight, contemplation & creativity.
Thank you again!
Stay safe. Be kind.
~ Dawn Chandler
Santa Fe , New Mexico
if expletives are uttered in a forest and no one hears them, do they make a sound?
This is a ‘creepy’ forest tale that happened to me late June 2019. And it might have repeated itself this year of 2020, had I not learned my lesson! (More about that soon….) My ‘Tuesday Revelers’ may recognize this tale, as I shared a version of it last year in Volume 1, Issue 24 of TuesdayDawnings.
In mid-June I ventured for the first time this year to the forests above Santa Fe to paint one of my favorite aspen groves. As I made my way up the steep trail, I discovered a “tent” of caterpillars on an aspen sapling. As I hiked higher, I spotted more and more silky tents. Whole canopies that should have been festooned in beautiful jade green were now totally denuded of verdancy and draped instead in silky webs. As I looked around I could see caterpillars not only on the branches and leaf debris, but on the white aspen trunks as well.
Some areas of the canopy still had leaves though, so I pressed on, thinking “I’ve carried my painting gear all this way — I’ll be damned if I let a few caterpillars keep me from painting!” No other hikers were in sight as I made my way to a favorite secluded spot. I looked around for an insect-free log to sit on, then set down my pack, pulled out my painting kit, and after a few sips of tea and jottings in my journal, stood at my easel and began to paint.
Aspens Interrupted ~ by Dawn Chandler
oil on panel ~ en plein air ~ 12″ x 9″
The forest was nearly silent, save occasional birdsong.
Then I started to be aware of an unusual and soft percussive sound.
thwiiiiip ……… thwiiiiip ……… thwiiiiip ……… thwiiiiip ……… thwiiiiip ………
What the ….
I realized it was the sound of caterpillars falling from the trees.
Being a righteous outdoorswoman, I tend to think of myself as having a higher tolerance than most people for things like insects and spiders and snakes. Really, generally speaking I don’t much mind bugs.
But even I have to draw the line at caterpillars falling out of the sky onto my neck.
I couldn’t pack up fast enough.
By the time I gathered up my gear, caterpillars had landed on my wet paints three times.
And every time I looked at my pack leaning against a tree, it was covered with yet more caterpillars — as was my log seat. As was nearly ever other surface in that forest.
Which leads us to ….
~ pondering ~
If expletives are uttered in a forest
and no one hears them,
do they make a sound?
{ … … … … }
{ … … … … }
{ … … … … }
Later, back at home, I had to take a shower just to wash away the creepy-crawly feeling.
{ … … … … }
{ … … … … }
{ … … … … }
And yet….
Two days later I returned to the aspen forest.
Only THIS TIME I surveyed the trees carefully from a distance in search of a large dense canopy of green leaves with no silk webs; I spotted one in the distance and bushwhacked my way there.
And there …. OH! YES! There I discovered an even more beautiful, wondrous, perfectly secluded premium flat and rock-free painting spot in an area of the aspen forest that I had never even known existed.
With a little exploring, I found evidence of other hikers — but their evidence appeared decades old.
Somehow I had slipped through a hidden doorway and entered a magical kingdom — a forest kingdom I never would have known if not for the caterpillars.
What a gift.
First brush strokes — laying in the darkest darks.
Next, finding the mid-range greens and yet more darks.
Adding some lighter notes to the tree tops where the morning sun is catching them. Also adding in the aspen trunks — first by dripping Gamsol down the painting where I want to place the trunks, to “wash away” the paint. After dripping Gamsol, I’ll wipe away more paint with a rag, then go back in with a greyish-green to start painting the trunks.
Adding a few more tree trunks, and then moving into the foreground and lightening it up — first by wiping away some of the paint.
Adding sky, distant mountain blues through the trees, and more lights and darks in the foreground.
Always, always always step away and reasses. Inevitably you can see better what’s workingin the painting and what isn’t.
This was my first plein air excursion with my new Day Tripper plein air rig from Prolifc Painter and I LOVED IT.
My Aspen Morning ~ by Dawn Chandler
oil on panel ~ en plein air ~ 9″ x 12″
It’s my understanding that, though the caterpillars may return for several seasons, they likely won’t kill the aspens if the forest is otherwise strong and healthy. Of course climate change brings all of that into question. As someone who unabashedly hugs trees, I hope with every cell of my being that our gorgeous aspens will endure. Learn more about aspen ecology here.
Thank you for being here and reading my musings.
If you enjoy my posts I invite you to subscribe to my blog. And by all means, if you know others who might enjoy this or any of my other posts, please feel free to share them.
Meanwhile, find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website, www.taosdawn.com. Peruse and shop for my art here. And please consider joining me for TuesdayDawnings, my weekly deep breath of uplift, insight, contemplation & creativity.
Thank you again!
Stay safe.
~ Dawn Chandler
Santa Fe , New Mexico
which would you choose?
There’s something you need to see — it has your name all over it.“
— so My Good Man informed me when I arrived at his house late afternoon of the solstice. Whatever it was, he’d discovered it on his trail run that morning over on The East Side — the wooded slopes of the Sandia mountains. Over there on the east side is where NM Route 14 runs pretty much parallel to I-25 on the west side, though Route 14 is far more pleasant and picturesque and has become my preferred route between Albuquerque and Santa Fe.
There’s a network of trails over there that he frequents, not the least because there’s a brewpub AND a coffee shop sharing the trailhead parking lot. Yet despite the opportunity for both warming and cooling libations, I had yet to experience — or be convinced of the merit of — these trails. We had gone out there once last winter during a bitterly cold morning, and were disappointed to discover the trails were slick with ice. After a few minutes of miserable slippery hiking, we turned around. I hadn’t stepped on the trails since. And, truth be told, though I enjoy driving up Route 14, there are parts of that side of the Sandias that have struck me as a bit monotonous in their drab and unvaried greenery — a surprisingly narrow-minded outlook for one who would like to think she strives for open-mindedness, especially when it comes to exploring trails!
But the promise of something remarkable was all I needed to get me up at 5:00 am on a Sunday morning, fill my travel coffee cup, load the pup in the car and drive over to the east side with My Good Man.
And there it was: the-remarkable-something-for-me-to-see revealed itself the moment we stepped on the trail:
The path was lined with stones, each hand-painted a gorgeous sky blue…
each with an inspiring thought scribed on its cool smooth surface.
What’s more, there was an invitation for anyone who wanted to to select a stone to keep for themselves.
What a delightful, inspiring and generous gift — made for strangers!
My Good Man was right: This had my name all over it.
Now for the hard part:
Which one to choose?!
I decided to wait until the end of our hike* to make my selection to give me time to listen to which one called to me most strongly.
Initially I was drawn to this one, what with my recent firing of FaceBook and determination to prove that one can survive and prosper as a self-employed artist without having to rely on social media:
But ultimately I chose another — or rather, it chose me. For this one encompasses what that other one says, yet so much more:
My Good Man chose this one:
Which one would you choose?
*[Pics from that surprisingly mighty fine trail exploration coming up in next week’s TuesdayDawnings!]
Thank you for being here and reading my musings.
If you enjoy my posts I invite you to subscribe to my blog. And by all means, if you know others who might enjoy them too, please feel free to share this.
Meanwhile, find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website, www.taosdawn.com. Peruse and shop for my art here. And please consider joining me for Tuesday Dawnings, my weekly deep breath of uplift, insight, contemplation & creativity.
Thank you again!
Stay safe.
~ Dawn Chandler
Santa Fe , New Mexico
the tide of awareness on the longest day of the year
As a child I always loved the summer solstice, because it meant the days were now getting longer.
Think about that for a moment.
If you are a human being with any awareness at all of our planet, and you were paying attention to that first statement, then you’re thinking to yourself, “Wait… that’s not right….. The days begin to get shorter with the summer solstice — not longer!“
And you are correct.
But I didn’t know that Truth — didn’t grasp it — until I was nearly 30 years old.
Mind you, I was well aware that with the winter solstice, the days begin to lengthen. But I never grasped that in June the days begin to shorten.
Here’s the thing: I grew up in the good old days when school let out (as it should!) on the first day of summer, and began again (as it should!) on the Tuesday after Labor Day. None of this sacrilege of school ending in May and starting in August!
When I was a kid, school ended and summer started on the summer solstice — my mother’s birthday. She always said she was “born on the longest day of the year,” and sure enough on that day, it just seemed like the days suddenly swung open in length and excitement and possibility.
From June 21st onward the days would stretch well past dinnertime, and evening would fold in with fireflies and the cooling of the grass in long lawn shadows.
For us kids, summertime meant exploring in the woods, building forts, softball games, and antics in the tree house. Of countless hours in the pool — even in the evenings as bats skitted the surface of the water. Of the 4-H Fair and funnel cake, fresh garden corn and coleslaw. Of road-trips north through New England to see distant relatives. Of camping trips on the coast of Maine and lobster and popovers and strawberry pie; of digging for clams and blue-green water-carved sea glass.
As a kid, the days of summer seemed expansive and endless and joyful.
Our esteemed writer (the ruby-robed princess on the left) partaking in a bit of summertime frolicking with her BFF, c. 1969.
It was only as September approached, when my little desk in my little room attained a stack of pristine new notebooks and sharpened pencils that I had the slightest sense of daylight lessening.
This was my experience of summer for most of the first three decades of my life.
And then in June of my 27th year, I was jolted into clarifying awareness of the Truth of summer solstice.
That summer I was living with my aunt on Mt Desert Island in Maine. I was a graduate student in painting in Philadelphia and had gone to Maine for the summer to work in an art gallery on the island. My aunt — a widow, her children long grown with families of their own — lived alone, and graciously took me in as her roommate that summer. She offered me an antique- and book-filled bedroom, and the freedom to do be on my own schedule and do as I wished.
Backdoor to the Kitchen ~ oil on canvas ~ 18″ x 12″
Walk through that door and you entered a musty shed which led to the kitchen of my aunt’s 19th-century farmhouse near Salisbury Cove on Mt. Desert Island, Maine. My friends and neighbors have been alerted: If my house is ever on fire, grab three things:
1) My dog.
2) My computer.
3) This painting.
This was to be my first time visiting her since I was a child. In my youth my family would spend a week camping on her property — an absolutely idyllic spot a quarter of a mile through the woods behind her house that opened up to a clearing overlooking Frenchman’s Bay. It remains the most perfect campsite I’ve ever known. Flat, grassy, with dappled sunlight, plenty of firewood, and immense gently sloping rocks that slanted down to the water — it was a camper’s dream.
The view across Frenchman’s Bay from our camping site on Anne’s point. All of these watercolors are from the large journal I kept that summer of 1991 living on Mt Desert with my aunt. Unfortunately the paper of the journal wasn’t ideal for watercolors, but I delighted in painting in it none the less — especially trying to capture the various treasures I’d collect during walks at low tide.
The day after I arrived that summer of graduate school, I hiked through the woods to the point, and set up my family’s old canvas tent, amazed by how small it seemed now that I was an adult. Over the course of that summer I would spend many a day down there walking the shore, filling my pockets with treasure, and nights writing and painting in my journal by flashlight, soon lulled to sleep by the sound of the tides.
The tides were fascinating to me. For, other than my family’s annual excursion to this spot, I had had little exposure to the ocean — despite growing up in New Jersey, just a hour from “the shore.” While my friends would spend their summers and weekends “down the shore” we always went to the mountains to hike and camp. My father’s attitude was that if we were going to go to the ocean, then by God, we were going to camp! And so we did — here, “down east” on my aunt’s coastline.
As a child I was too young to have any awareness of the tides. All I knew then was that sometimes the water was high, and other times the water was low.
Now though I became intrigued by the relationship between the moon and the tides and the remarkable schedule of high and low water. Soon I learned that if you knew the time of the day’s tides, you could pretty much determine the time of tomorrow’s tides; that high tide and low tide were about 6 hours or so apart. That was just amazing — the clockwork of it!
But if ever you lost track of the time of the tides, there was always the annually updated tide chart — an accordian-folded pamphlet printed on thin, durable paper, with a series of minuscule tables mapping out with precision the time of each day’s high and low tides, as well as the exact time of sunrise and sunset. In my aunt’s house the tide chart was tacked near the old cook-stove in the kitchen.
That year June 21st — the summer solstice — was on a Friday, and I was looking forward to celebrating the kick-off of summer at a party with new friends down on the southern tip of the island. After the party, I was planning on sleeping in my coastal tent.
Anticipating a late evening, I went to the corner of the kitchen to study the tide chart and see what time the sun would be setting that evening.
My eyes scanned the numbers, noting that on the Solstice the sun would be setting about one minute later than on the previous day.
But afterwards, within a day or two the sun would be setting one minute earlier again. And the day after that, another minute earlier.
Wait, WHAT?
I looked hard at the chart, my finger running down the column for sunset. Each day after the 21st, sunset was a minute earlier.
By July 4th, evening would be a whole quarter-of-an-hour earlier than on my mother’s birthday!
I scanned the column for sunrise. Each day after the 21st, dawn would occur one minute later than the previous day.
It hit me like a tidal wave:
NOOOO! It can’t be!
I was astounded!
As I stood there in the kitchen a wave of embarrassment overtook me I realized the depth of my ignorance.
And sadness.
Sadness at the realization that already the cold dark days of winter were on their way.
I felt crestfallen that Mother Nature had let me down. She was supposed to be protracting summer evenings till September. Surely that was the promise she made to me as a kid, when school let out on the first day of summer, wasn’t it?
That evening of the longest day of the year was winged with melancholy for me.
That was three decades ago, and while I no longer feel melancholy at the summer solstice, I feel, perhaps, a little wistful for those carefree days of youthful summers, no matter they were enjoyed in a daze of ignorance.
Mostly, though, I feel fortunate that I get to witness yet another cycle of these beautiful earthly seasons.
And gratitude. Gratitude that I get to perform a personal solstice ritual that holds meaning for me.
For June 21st remains the day my mother was born — some eight decades ago. And though she died of breast cancer 12 years ago, thoughts of her flood my memory constantly, and on this day especially.
Back when she was struggling to fight her cancer and was in the brutal cycle of harsh chemo treatments, she confided to me:
I’d give anything for a strong cup of black coffee and a glazed donut.
To this day I kick myself for not finding a way to smuggle coffee and donuts to her room, doctor’s orders be damned.
But in my way I try to make up for it.
For every year on her birthday — on the longest day of the year, on the summer solstice — I raise a steaming cup of strong black coffee and a glistening glazed donut to the sun. And on my mother’s behalf…
I savor every sweet, pillowy morsel…
I savor every dark richly roasted sip…
I savor every minute and moment of light.
Teeth marks that perfectly align with the upper jaw of a certain 13-year old mutt….
Thank you for being here and reading my musings.
If you enjoy my blog posts and know others who might enjoy them too, please feel free to share this.
Meanwhile, find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website, www.taosdawn.com. Peruse and shop for my art here. And please consider joining me for Tuesday Dawnings, my weekly deep breath of uplift, insight, contemplation & creativity.
Thank you again.
Stay safe.
~ Dawn Chandler
Santa Fe , New Mexico
why I’m leaving ~ tell me what else I should have done?
Tell me what else I should have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me what it is you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
These words of Mary Oliver’s have been swimming around in my mind and on my tongue of late. So much so that they’ve become a bit of a prayer — which is ironic because a few lines earlier in the poem she says
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is
She follows that with
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields.
In addition to this diet of prayer, I’ve been crunching some numbers….
They say the average user spends about 30 minutes each day on FaceBook and closer to an hour each day when you add up all of the apps and platforms of the vast FaceBook ecosystem.
I don’t remember when I joined FaceBook, but I know I was an active user while still living in Taos — so let’s go with 2008.
That’s 12 years — over a decade. Twenty-percent of my life I’ve been a FaceBook user.
Let’s say I’ve used FaceBook only half as much as the average user. So rather than being on there every day, let’s say I’m on there half of the days of the week: 3 – 4 days, or 3.5 days per week.
So that means every-other day or so I check in on FaceBook. I tell myself it’s to see how my friends and family are doing. But that’s really kind of a half-truth, since what most of us broadcast on FB is cursory to the real depth of our lives.
If I’m really going to be honest with myself, I’m logging in in hopes of approval pings.
And then, because FaceBook is brilliantly engineered to be an addictive slot-machine of ego-stroking and distraction, those “few minutes” I was going to spend have turned into 20 or more.
Give into the addiction two or three times per day, and I’ve just pissed away an hour of my day.
Do that 3 – 4 days per week, and that adds up to about 14 hours per month.
168 hours per year.
2,016 hours in 12 years.
String those hours together and that’s 84 solid continuous days of my life — almost 3 months.
Let’s add in a little sleep there — say 8 hours per day — and string together those days of continuous use, as though I were on FaceBook just during the 16 non-sleeping hours per day.
That’s over four months of my attention directed continually on FaceBook.
Four months of my wild and precious life.
And remember, for the “average” user that number is closer to EIGHT MONTHS
To what end?
What might I have done with those months of my life?
What paintings might I have created?
What adventures might I have had?
What trails might I have explored?
What books might I have read?
What letters, what poems, what essays might I have written?
What lengthy, thoughtful conversations might I have had? What listening might I have done?
What deep reflection might I have pondered?
What chords might I have learned?
What language might I now be speaking?
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
~ Annie Dillard
More important, what will I do with the next four months of life?
And the next four months?
And the next?
I don’t know, but what I do know is that I don’t want to give over anymore of my wild and precious life to FaceBook.
This hasn’t been an easy decision. If it had been, I would have made it ages ago with my first sense of FaceBook malaise.
What makes it hard is that I have occasionally derived some pleasure from FaceBook. I’ve made a few friendships; I’ve enjoyed some quips and laughs, some amusing and interesting exchanges; I’ve been exposed to some real beauty in the way of art and photography, writing and music.
I’ve expanded the audience for my art and have even sold some paintings as a direct result of being on FaceBook.
But even with all of that, I can no longer ignore the sense of malaise, the undercurrent of regret every time I log out that I could have directed my attention more richly, more substantively.
It’s a little scary deciding to walk away from FaceBook. There’s the worry of losing friendships. But really, the true friendships will endure no matter what, and the dross will fall away. In fact, I think leaving FaceBook will help me deepen my truest friendships. For, as artist Jenny Odell has aptly observed, “The convenience of limitless connectivity has neatly paved over the nuances of in-person conversation, cutting away so much information and context in the process.” I want to get back to the nuances of conversations with friends.
No, what’s especially scary is wondering whether or not I can continue to support myself as a self-employed artist without being on FaceBook. Like so many others, the culture has brainwashed me into believing that in order to survive as a business owner and a creative, I need to be on FaceBook; that it’s the only effective way of getting my work out there, expanding my audience, and finding new patrons.
Well, I guess I’ll find out whether there’s any truth to that.
I want to be clear here: I’m by no means a Luddite. I may be giving up FaceBook, but I’m very definitely not giving up technology or the internet. Quite the contrary. Apart from the many “unplugged” interests I want to pursue, online I intend to put more thoughtfulness, creativity and attention into my blog, my website, my Etsy shop and TuesdayDawnings not to mention there’s a whole bunch of online courses I’d love to take.
Also, for the time-being, I’m still on Instagram — though we’ll see for how much longer. My cowardice to cut the cord entirely with social media and pull out of Instagram and FaceBook in one fell swoop points to my nervousness as to whether there’s truth to the argument that you can’t survive as a visual artist in the 21st-century without being on any social media platforms.
So for now I’ll cut out the platform which disturbs me the most, and see if I might be able to work with the other in a minimalist and valuable way. We’ll see if that’s possible.
If it doesn’t’ work out, well then, good riddance. [ UPDATE: I’ve deleted BOTH my FaceBook & Instagram accounts as of 6/20/20. BLESSED FREEDOM!! ]
Meanwhile, to those of you who use FaceBook and find it enriches and brings worthwhile meaning to your life, more power to you. I hope that you may always feel that way about your engagement with it.
But if you, too, have experienced — to quote Jenny Odell again — “a certain nervous feeling of being over-stimulated then unable to sustain a train of thought linger — though it can be hard to grasp before it disappears behind a screen of distraction;” if, like me, you have felt that undercurrent of malaise whenever you log off of FaceBook and consider the minutes and hours of your one wild and precious life, then I’ve a book recommendation for you: Digital Minimalism: Choosing a Focused Life in A Noisy World, by Cal Newport. Put it at the top of your “Must Read” list; listen to it on your next roadtrip — it’s that worthwhile.
All this to say…..
I’ll be deleting my FaceBook account on June 20th — the Summer Solstice.
Not just turning it off for a while. Deleting it. [UPDATE: AND INSTAGRAM, TOO!]
Going forward, if anyone would like to stay in touch and keep tabs on my art and life, here are a few ways to do that:
— Via TuesdayDawnings, my weekly “deep breath of beauty and uplift.”
These are missives of some of the thoughts and words, sights and sounds, inspiration and reflections, creativity and beauty that I notice, gather and create around me.
As writer Cinny Green has put it “TuesdayDawnings is a kaleidoscope of thoughtful and gently provoking offerings that enrich my day.” Though I put hours into creating each issue, I offer TuesdayDawnings for free — my humble effort to try to make the world a better place. Find out more and consider subscribing here.
— Via my blog, Musings from the Studio and Beyond — Dawn Chandler’s Reflections on Art and Life.
This is where I share more long-form reflections, ruminations and stories. For the past few years I’ve been averaging a blog post about once per month, but with newly found time and focus available after dropping FB, I’m looking forward to writing and sharing more here.
— Via my website, www.taosdawn.com
Home to all things Dawn Chandler — my art, my bio, links to my videos, blog, subscriptions and my online shop, [plus the best page on the site, Wilson]. Dive deep here.
— Via my online art gallery store on Etsy
The place to explore and purchase my paintings and prints. Experience my shop here.
In parting, I’d just like to say to those of you on FaceBook who appreciated my posts and made positive or humorous comments or were thoughtful, friendly and kind in any way — Thank you.
And to those of you who have used your own FaceBook account to build bridges rather than walls, who share good humor and thoughtfulness, who have sought to salve rather than a scour, to motivate and inspire rather than incite — Thank you.
Blessings to you all.
May you and yours be safe and secure and healthy.
And may you find deep sources of nourishment and meaning in this, your one precious life.
Thank you for being here and reading my musings.
If you enjoy my posts and know others who might enjoy them too, please feel free to share this.
Meanwhile, find more of my stories, insights and art here on my website, www.taosdawn.com. Peruse and shop for my art here. And please consider joining me for Tuesday Dawnings, my weekly deep breath of uplift, insight, contemplation & creativity.
Thank you again.
Stay safe.
~ Dawn Chandler
Santa Fe , New Mexico
