Turning the Feather Around

I often think of the feather in one way or another. I think of the Indian dancers with the feathers in their hair, turning as they move. I see the image of the feather turning. Then I think of the fact that birds can fly in any kind of weather. When they’re wet, they shake their feathers and replenish the oil from a gland. I keep the two feathers from Walter Caribou nearby. I have also had both of the Indian names from Walter written on my business card.

My immune system has been affected by the Castleman’s and the radiation and chemotherapy treatment. Now I have sores on my hands and feet. They take a long time to heal, but they do seem better, after almost a year.

I can’t expect to live forever. I hope Hazel and Briand will put a stone for me in the Morrison section of the Chippewa cemetery. It’s across the highway from the Chippewa Church, the one my grandfather helped found. My ashes can be spread on the lake, but I’ll have a marker, too. Having it both ways.

I saw the seasons coming this year. Here on the lake, it’s so temperate, and it’s so rich. I’ve seen it many times before, but sometimes you think about it with another twist.

Every moment, the horizon is present. The horizon has been an obsession with me for most of my life. It makes an indelible image that, for me, stems from being born and growing up near the edge of the lake. Later, spending many summers on the Atlantic shores reinforced it.

I think of the horizon line as the edge of the world, the dividing line between water and sky, color and texture. It brings up the literal idea of space in a painting.

From the horizon, you go beyond the edge of the world to the sky and, beyond that, to the unknown. I always imagine, in a certain surrealist way, that I am there. I like to imagine it is real.