Michelle Basic Hendry • Fine Art

Inspired by Rock Art & A Publication

Michelle — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 12:30:26 +0000

I have been working on this very personal piece off and on since first touching Oklahoma’s red soil. Experiencing symbols in a canyon full of the dreams of a people in Albuquerque, I was finally inspired to finish it. I believe the veil between waking and dreaming is thinner than we think. The Otherworld of our Ancestors and Spirit waits patiently for us to call upon it. The Gift of Life is to be able to act upon this World. Shamans and Medicine People have shared their visions on rock all over the world.

Embedded in the clay base is local Oklahoma red sandstone and the charcoal of a burnt tree at the base of the cliff at Red Rock Canyon. I have drawn upon my environment and my ancestral history to create this unusual piece that comes from a side of this artist not often shared. I chose the rock art image of the Stag of Lascaux as the centerpiece of this mixed media work. Each element on the piece has personal meaning and the first steps into visually interpreting personal symbols. I believe that dreams are best not related in realistic style. This one will hang on the wall of my studio.

Dreaming I

Smooth bark and green leaves

Make the arcs of my Cathedral.

Sparkling streams beneath my feet

Create a mosaic of pebbles.

I pause when the stag calls.

I see the steam from his throat

But he makes no sound.

Darkness descends from the clerestory.

I awaken in liquid moonlight and

Fireflies light like lanterns.

I wash the darkness away and

Step out into the Crossing of the Plains.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cover of the Spring issue of Apple Valley Review featuring my painting, "Waiting"

The Spring 2012 edition of the on-line literary journal, the Apple Valley Review features my painting, “Waiting” on the cover.

New Mexico ~ Albuquerque

Michelle — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 13:00:30 +0000

My last day in New Mexico was perfect. The sky was clear and temperatures were comfortable for hiking through a sea of shattered black basalt, searching for the markings of another people from another time.

On my own for the day (Hubby was working in Albuquerque), I wandered over the the west side of the city to see the famous Petroglyph National Monument. The Monument is a huge park consisting of thousands of acres containing over 7000 petroglyphs carved by Native Peoples up to 3000 years ago with more recent markings by the Spanish from the 1600′s. There are even a few modern additions. Dirt roads and tiny parking lots were out of the question for my large vehicle, so I spent the morning at Boca Negra Canyon. Can you see the RV in the top photo?

I was fortunate that the only canyon with a trail to the top and a view over the mesa and the Sandia mountains had the biggest parking lot. Much of the city was cast in a haze. A bird with the most beautiful voice landed beside me and called my attention to the view. High above the clouds, we climbed the dragon’s spiny back to heaven.

I didn’t see many people that morning. After descending the back into the Canyon, I had met only one lovely family from Michigan. I sat and had my lunch surrounded by sagebrush and stone and enjoyed peace that one might find unexpected on the edge of Albuquerque. It is difficult to describe how intense the light is here. I found myself taking photos through the viewfinder and forgetting that my sunglasses were still on.

I am not often behind the wheel of our 36′ RV. I am happy to be the passenger and let my husband drive. With my driver unavailable and a desire to see Albuquerque’s Old Town and the Rattlesnake Museum, I became the horror of narrow city streets and was watched carefully by drivers and police alike.

The drive into Old Town from the west is on old Route 66. It has been widened to four lanes. Four narrow lanes.

By the tentative way I was being passed, I wonder if I had been using both western lanes. OK, maybe just a lane and half? There is a beautiful archway that is in all the Route 66 tour books. I held my breath as I rolled beneath it, wondering if I might catch it with my A/C unit and watch sparks of neon shoot off on my wake. It was everything I could do not to stop traffic while crossing the bridge over the Rio Grande. The monochrome cadmium orange of the leafless trees and coral soil contrasting with the cobalt blue of the river was – well – enough to stop traffic. I did manage to find parking suitable for my rig behind the convention center and I headed in to the narrow streets of Old Town. I imagine everyone else breathed a collective sigh of relief when I was relieved of driving duty later that afternoon.

Old Town is strikingly similar to old Santa Fe with a large Catholic Church at its center with buildings flanking close over each street and an open square. After visiting inside the Church and walking around the square, I found the Rattlesnake Museum on the south east side. It is a tiny storefront and easy to miss because it lacks the imposing frontage of the other museums in the area. I bought my pass and wandered into the rooms containing snakes of all kinds, every rattlesnake you can imagine; a beautiful, blind, white Texas Rat Snake and even a small boa. The rattlesnake right at the entrance was so large that I couldn’t help thinking that he was sitting, waiting for tourists to pass into his lair like trapped rats. Past him was the only way out of this place and that glass terrarium did not look like it could possibly hold him for long. In fact, when I didn’t immediately see a snake in his terrarium, I began to wonder…

“What if they got loose?”

My own lizard brain started to heat up and get busy when I discovered that not only were there many of North America’s venomous snakes, but there was a Black Widow spider, a Brown Recluse and a Tarantula to boot. I have no pictures because the snakes don’t like flashes and it was too dark to go flash free.

Yes. Low light, small rooms, snakes and spiders – what was I thinking??

As beautiful as they were, I found myself letting out an audible sigh of relief when I sneaked past the gatekeeper and out to safety. Now I know why your entry ticket commends visitors for their courage. I am happy to say that these were the only rattlers I encountered on my trip!

I met my my husband in the square and relieved to be serpent free and no longer required to drive, I enjoyed another hour of wandering through shops with wonderful Navajo jewelry and Mexican crafts and as the sun began to lower in the sky, we set off for home. New Mexico was reluctant to let us go without flaunting her beauty one last time. The multicoloured soil and stone buttes wandering the desert captured the sunset behind us and lit our final moments, reminding us that we were leaving ‘ the land of enchantment’.

I have already booked my summer return.

New Mexico ~ Santa Fe & the Turquoise Trail

Michelle — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 18:33:13 +0000

Traveling can be an exhausting business. After White Sands and the long drive through burning hills, we stopped just north of Albuquerque for the night. If you travel by RV, the casinos can be a great place to stop. They’ll take you at all hours (I think it was nearly 2 am for us) and we had access to an electrical hookup and dumping station to boot for around $10.

Santa Fe is like two cities – the one every city knows with the long road of hotels and big box stores; the other, where all roads meet, is the ancient town of old adobes and narrow streets sitting at the base of the mountain’s embrace. I recommend a few days (we only had one) in order to have a day each to absorb the art, the architecture and the walking trails in the old part of town.

Mule's Skull with Pink Pointsettia © Georgia O'Keeffe Museum

One of my top priorities was to visit the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum while in town and see some of her originals. The museum is a labyrinth of small rooms filled with drawings and paintings of sensual landscapes and flowers. I must say that O’Keeffe’s paintings are both intense and sublime. I could feel in them the calm of New Mexico. I can see how an artist could spend a lifetime uncovering a vision to describe it.

Building in Santa Fe is now restricted to adobe architecture only. The soft corners and smooth walls seem to blend into the mountains. Along with being very much a hot spot for the artistically inclined, the underground here is very ‘west coast’. Bikes, bongs and health food dominate a community that would otherwise, not be large enough to attract a Whole Foods! The center of the Old Town is filled with Galleries, Native artists and old Churches. The oldest is the c. 1610 San Miguel Mission Church, which sits beside one of the oldest houses in North America dating to 1649. The old house with its rough walls and wooden barriers reminded me of the houses in old Cairo. No photo here because it needs to be a painting.

New Mexico lays claim to a number of the oldest structures and residences in the U.S. I am planing a visit to one of the oldest continuously inhabited places in Taos later this year.

Canyon Road is the main art gallery district and I’ll agree that it is pretty consistent in quality, but there is a little too much contemporary (read modern) art for my taste. What is good, however, is exceptional. One of my favourite spots is the studio/gallery of Jordan+Roybal Fine Art at the entrance to Canyon Road. These artists have each mastered the use of subtle visual textures in a completely different way. The painting outside the gallery was enough to stop traffic. The other gallery that is a necessary visit is the Sugarman-Peterson Gallery on West Palace Ave. It is not on Canyon road but in the center of Old Town. The prices there are well out of my range, but the work is outstanding. Surrounded by paintings from the likes of Dennis Wojtkiewicz, Terry Strickland and Susan Romaine in their full size and stunning glory, it made me wish I had the means to take one home.

The old road between Santa Fe and Albuquerque is littered with ghost towns and winding roads that appeal to the motorcyclist. Some of these old, partially abandoned mining towns are seeing a revival through collectives of artists and tourist attractions. Old adobe houses with magnificent courtyards are being restored in places like Cerillos and Madrid.

The RV was slow to snake its way up and down giving me a lot of time to absorb the textured landscape full of a rainbow of rock and scrub. Tiny ruins grasping a hillside would appear, while our engine heated up and roared around a narrow corner. Fences between us and ranches seemed like more determined barriers than the multicoloured mountains themselves. The sky was slightly cloudy, dusting the tops of distant mountains like wisps of cotton blocking the sun only enough to turn their distant oranges to indigo. It is no wonder artists are attracted to this place.

Sunday night returned us to Albuquerque and I had one part day left to visit the Petroglyphs and Old Town Albuquerque before beginning the long ride home.

Next post…. Albuquerque, the Petroglyphs and the Rattlesnake Museum!

New Mexico ~ White Sands…

Michelle — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 19:25:42 +0000

The West….

Moving to Oklahoma has opened up the West to long weekend driving trips and made some of the magical places of my imagination accessible to this land bound creature who prefers to avoid planes whenever possible.

I never imagined that I would get to visit White Sands National Monument in New Mexico, which is less than an hour from the Mexican border. Driving south, the land is right out of the old cowboy movies – semi-arid scrub across high plains that rise up suddenly into mountains and disappear as quickly as they arose. As we approached Alamogordo, the mountain ranges did begin to enclose around us and the dark shadows of the Organ Mountains caused the white gypsum to glow a blinding white. White Sands is high desert, comprising of, by far, the largest deposit of surface gypsum in the world. In fact, there is no other place like it on Earth.

I don’t think it is possible to take a bad photograph here – even at high noon. While children on March Break attacked the dunes with sleds and the tools of my childhood winters while wearing shorts and braving the over 90 degree air on the sunny sides of the snow white dunes, I took a walk across the whiteness in search of isolation. That isolation is easily found over a couple of dunes, leaving me to wonder if it was I that had been abandoned. It is easy to lose your way in this blinding sea. Fortunately there was little wind and my own footprints served to take me back.

Even if only for a few moments, the sand spoke and it was like listening to the white noise of a waterfall of diamonds. The mountains turned blue and purple through the prism filter of white gypsum winds carrying the scent of ancient seas.

As the sun began to draw down to the mountains, the organized sunset walk began with a group of about 30 people and many cameras. The colours of the sky and the reflecting light quality on the gypsum pillars raised up by the determined roots of high desert plants are almost impossible to describe. This is one of the few places in New Mexico where walking barefoot is not a dangerous dodge of serpents and scorpions, so the softening of the light and breeze while taking a barefoot stroll is a sensory overload of gentleness. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves…

If only we had 30 more minutes on the dunes after the horizon began to darken…. As we rushed north of Alamogordo, headed for Albuquerque, the crescent moon rose over the mountains. Unlike the hook of crescents of central and northern Ontario, the crescent moon rises in a shape of a fine chalice bearing the sphere of its own shadow, perfectly horizontal to the mountains. They say the full moon is the best time to step out on a White Sands Sunset Stroll. I beg to differ. Next time, I’ll bring the equipment to capture a beauty as breathtaking as the dunes themselves.

One last thing I feel I need to share…

Traveling at night often deprives one of the views of traveling by day, but New Mexico proves to be as haunting in the dark. As we climbed in the endless darkness for what seemed like forever, an orange glow like the lights of distant construction vehicles rose high above us on some invisible ridge. For fifteen minutes we drove on and soon what this orange glow actually was became clear – and frightening. The smoke, of what we were later to learn were controlled burns, glowed red orange and flickered with the unseen flames of a bushfire. Soon the scent of slow burning wood invaded the cabin and the fires themselves became visible, lighting up the undersides of the crowns of burning trees like ghostly figures in Dante’s Inferno.

And we are reminded that each place has its element, where I am accustomed to the wrath of air and ever present water; the Southwest feels the wrath of fire and scorched earth.

Coming up… Santa Fe, Turquoise Trail, Petroglyphs and Old Town Albuquerque

New Painting – Red Rock Canyon

Michelle — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 06:17:51 +0000

The wind outside is howling the same as it was the night I decided to paint this place. The power of the elements here lean to the extremes – fierce winds drive wildfires, water is feast or famine and the earth is blood red… Oklahoma’s red earth has become an obsession for me. I step on it, touch it at every opportunity. Red Rock Canyon is a sanctuary, giving the illusion of protection from the extremes.

This spot lies across from the reservoir, a dark pool at sunset, deep in the shadow of canyon walls. Only the tip of the cliff still catches the sun, before blue shadows dull the red stone and darkness covers the canyon floor.

Larger version available here.

Route 66 ~ Part III

Michelle — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 20:41:44 +0000

Highway 66 is the main migrant road. 66 — the long concrete path across the country waving gently up and down on the map’… ’66 out of Oklahoma City; El Reno and Clinton, going west on 66.” ~ John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Riding the older sections of Historic Route 66 is to become accustomed to the rhythm of tires as they thump across the seams of the concrete road. The trip west of El Reno runs parallel in many places to the Interstate where the traffic of the 21st century passes higher on the plain as if height reflected your place in time. Transport trucks silhouetted by the sun become as indistinct as the traces of old stops along the way.

I live only a few miles from the historic highway and I often manage the more mundane parts of my new life along the edges of its domain. Storefronts of brick and tile, tin ceilings and sidewalks still line the road in Yukon, El Reno and Hydro. After a stop at the Ross Seed Company, we headed west and followed fields beginning to green with only a long string of power lines to break the horizon. Thump, thump, thump.

The concrete is curled in at the edges to keep water from washing away the soil. When rain falls here in spring time, it can be torrential. The bridge across the Canadian River seemed too wide for the gentle stream running over the sandy river bed, the deep cut banks alluding to the sleeping dragon below.

Thump, thump, thump.

Several ruins rose up on either side of the highway and the road to the near ghost town of Bridgeport split like a Y as if the expectation upon entering and leaving the the town is that the visitor is only ever passing through. Less than a mile up from 66, the crossroads of Bridgeport is marked only by the decaying post office. Steel bars still protect the postmaster’s window and images of a man with sleeve protectors sitting behind it in the semi-darkness invade my thoughts. A neighbouring dog comes by to see what we are up to and get some affection. He looks like a cross between Lassie and the Queen’s Corgis and he follows us down the street past abandoned houses.

The remaining residents live an array of double wides and in the homesteads still viable. Broken sidewalks lead down a street where furniture sits on the porches of houses close to collapse. Wildflowers grow over the edges of what might have once been a tended garden.

People are quietly inside their homes and the welcoming committee was left to the various animals, including a young horse who wandered to the fence wondering if I had a hostess gift?

As we walked back past an old church and the walls and foundations of some other unknown place, we became aware of the scent of spring’s green on the brisk breeze and wondered what this year will bring. The wind whipped up dust filled sheets from time to time and the grit in our eyes and on our teeth reminded us of why Oklahoma has so many ghost towns. After traveling a bit further down the Portland concrete road, we made a quick stop in Hydro and turned around in search of refreshment.

Heading across Oklahoma City seems a bit extreme to get a pop, but then Arcadia, OK has the most choices. Nearly 500. On a warm February Saturday evening, the “POPS” stand is crowded. We picked some unusual flavours – Spruce Beer, Cotton Candy and Creme Caramel creme soda.

One last stop was to the famous Round Barn, restored by the Hampton Inn hotel chain. I looked at how complicated the building of this amazing structure would have been and I was left wondering what motivated the builder to do it?

The sun was nearly set when we hopped back on 66 and headed home. That sounds strange when I say it. We are the migrants now and Oklahoma is the end of the line for many. The irony is that some are riding the road east from California.

As Oklahoma faces another possible drought and the oil boom keeps the economy buoyant, one has wonder about the tides of time and what they bring in and what they leave behind.

Mount Scott and Wildlife Refuge

Michelle — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 12:30:31 +0000

I have had a busy few weeks with visits to the historic town of Guthrie, music and art events at the City Center and the windy trip to Mount Scott and the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge. My husband and I are doing day trips to find places where we might like to camp when Oklahoma’s red and orange landscape is altered by Spring’s green grass and the return of leaves to the trees.

In Winter, the bare trees of central Oklahoma stand like old men, some bent over, some split, some appearing to have legs. Others carry the heaviness of drought with the densest of wood. Standing straight with a crown of tiny twisted twigs that trap little shapes of light between them until they become so dense as to look like they are woven into a basket.

The clusters of trees at the Wildlife Reserve north of Lawton, Oklahoma have the nickname of ‘iron woods’. The wood is dense and hard from the harshness of the semi-arid climate, their bases black with the evidence of grass fires. On first inspection they are quiet, listening to you, to determine if you are worthy of their ancient secrets. Their presence is somewhat ominous and images of Tolkein’s “Ents” invade my imagination. I could imagine them shifting slowly when I am not looking only to become still when I turn toward them. Their dance as if moving to a music so slow that it takes a hundred years. Many of these trees are no more than 25 feet tall, but some are over 400 years old. Oaks and cedars… These trees are sacred to both the Native peoples and to the ancient Celtic peoples. The Oak is the King of trees.

Dust storms were moving through the area the day we visited, creating a monochromatic palette of ochres both on the grasslands and up on the mountain. Free roaming buffalo sat quietly on the plains waiting for the abrasive winds to abate. The mountains are an ancient range, the only one to run east/west in North America. They were once as tall as the Rockies, but now, inclines are made up of impossibly large boulders that appear stacked and piled as if by giants. Cedars and junipers are walls to the gale force winds at the summit of Mount Scott. Their trunks twisted and bent by the fierce winds.

When the stone opened up to plains, longhorn cattle could be seen foraging in the pale gold grass.

When Changes Come

Michelle — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 21:45:01 +0000

I spent the afternoon on Monday doing some updates to the website, getting it ready for the changes to come; a new bio and a little portfolio reorganization to open the way for new work. I am struggling a little with the new paintings because, for me, it is not enough just to paint pretty pictures. They need to mean something – I need to feel something beyond the surface. Colours and form are not enough on their own. In order to do that, I need to develop a connection, let a place speak to me.

Oklahoma is beginning to speak. But in a language that I am not accustomed.

I am discovering a little bit more about what moves me to make art. It has been years since I have seen so many new things, new places and I am not finding I am drawn to the usual suspects. Here, the landscape is intense. It has me working outside of my comfort zone and I feel like a beginner all over again. It is allowing me to see where I have held myself back and allowed some people and their ideas of me to live rent free in my head, affecting my creative choices. I am still exploring, filtering and trying to understand.

Last week, I met Gordon Yellowman, an artist preserving and continuing the tradition of Ledger Art. It was developed by imprisoned Cheyenne over 100 years ago. A sense of urgency compelled these prisoners to record their stories in images on old ledgers their military captors gave them. Pictures of horses, people and the objects the Cheyenee considered important or of value were drawn over the numbers and sums. The result is a book of sorts, a palimpsest of two cultures, forever bound.

The following day, Celtic music filled the Oklahoma City Underground where I experienced a near private concert with the Flyin’ Fiddler, Wayne Cantwell, accompanied by Susan Pierce and Tim Hart on flute and guitar. I struggled to keep tears from my eyes between the joy of jigs and mournful tunes so beautifully rendered by these artists. Susan pulled out the bodhran and I was instantly transported to a land full of ancient memories – and of the East Coast home of my heart.

On Tuesday, I listened to Albert Gray Eagle play his wood and ceramic flutes. The sounds from these hand made instruments filled every corner of the Oklahoma City Museum lobby. The room’s rectangle of plaster and tile dissolved, replaced with a colourful canyon where each note echoed softly off sandstone walls deepening the sound. Albert’s struggles are in each of the instruments he makes. A serious accident left him unable to make traditional wood flutes and his solution was a creative one made of red earth. With these he wins the hearts of the children he plays for and teaches.

The journey of the artist is far from straightforward. It is a constant challenge to stay connected to that soul voice, Guth an Anam (Irish for ‘voice of the soul’). This landscape, both cultural and geographic, inspires in me something more primal. I am drawn to things that I buried or lost or perhaps exist only in the ancestral memory of my DNA.

I am stuck in my works in progress, fearing to go forward. I am still learning so much and finding things I need to embrace. I am hoping the coming hours will bring with them that push to pause long enough to create a piece of this new world to share with all of you.

When Does Inspiration Come?

Michelle — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 21:22:15 +0000

I was lying in bed the other night and a narrative popped into my head. I have learned that when the words start to link in my mind or images start to appear not to wait until morning. I got out of bed, grabbed my laptop and started writing. It was 1 AM.

Notebook/Sketchbook Pouches - Beaded Celtic knots on leather (made by me!)

After the flow of word images started to ebb, I looked outside to see a rising waning crescent. Its curve was as red as the earth. I sometimes think I am merely a child of the Moon and she’ll have her way when she calls me.

I am naturally a nighthawk. I rarely go to bed before midnight and now that I live “central” it is technically an hour later than the late I have always done.

Everyone has a part of the day when they are most productive. I have two – one for painting and one for writing. I paint best between 2 and 10 pm. My writing time is in the wee hours – 11 pm to 2 am. I find as lay my head down on a cool pillow my mind starts to flow and the restrictions of a left brain day dissolve into memory and fantasy. Sometimes, I play music and it often molds the landscape my mind wanders. Words and images come.

Occasionally painting ideas arrive mixed in with the words. After reading an article by Keith Bond about writing your painting as a way of understanding what moves you to paint, I see I had this as a useful tool all along. Sometimes the images come first, sometimes the words, but for me, they are inextricably linked.

The result of this little writing session was a 500 word creative non-fiction piece called “The Colour of Memory”. I plan to share it on the blog at some point. But not yet. It needs a painting.

In the meantime, I have been obsessed with the colour red. As per one of my New Year’s goals, I wanted to start keeping sketch/notebooks. I decided to make beaded leather pouches for them so that I don’t lose my Sharpie! The two at the top fit my 3.5×5.5″ Moleskine.

The work in progress at right is Red Rock Canyon. Many of you recognized the potential in one of the photos and so I have the underpainting on a 30×36 inch canvas. I am rusty, so it is slow going!

So when does inspiration come to you? Do you have best hours, best places, triggers?

Looking Forward to 2012 & Discovering “Falls at Toltec Gorge”

Michelle — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:00:13 +0000

Thomas Moran, Falls at Toltec Gorge, 1913, oil on canvas

My last post reviewed 2011. I introduced you to my early experience of Oklahoma – a place that I seem to be making a connection with at a very visceral level and much more quickly than I might have thought. As a landscape painter, I need to connect with the places I paint. It is not enough just to say they are beautiful – for me. When they weave their magic onto my Soul, then I can paint them. In my dreams, I still visit the forests and lakes of Ontario and I am conflicted still as to where home is. Is home a place or is it a memory?

The river of my life has been a series of rapids and waterfalls rushing me through whitewater narrows. Having a set of goals for 2012 feels impossible with the wilderness rushing by. I am a little overwhelmed by the landscape opening up to me as the rapids subside.

I spent a couple of hours over Friday and Saturday wandering the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. I walked through stunning life size photographs of Havana by Michael Eastman and followed dimmed hallways to experience the Dale Chihuly exhibition “Illuninations”.

It was while moving through the middle galleries dedicated to the late 19th and early 20th century permanent collection that I was struck by this one painting. It leaped off the wall and opened a door deep into the woods. The pink mountains in the background touched by sunlight beckoned me to step into this landscape “Falls at Toltec Gorge” by Thomas Moran. I was haunted by it and each visit to the Museum I would stand before it, scaling the slick, moist alpine rocks in my imagination.

I wonder if perhaps exploration is my ultimate goal for 2012? Oklahoma is not tainted with history and preconceived notions and I feel my creative juices flowing – and yet that old fear that travels with me at the back of the river boat is making noise and rocking it back and forth, threatening to capsize.

So what do I want to accomplish in 2012 and how can I best make use of this adventure? Let’s try this list:

Don’t let the fear take over the boat
Explore the world around me, travel around the Southwest and let my imagination soar
Take the time to let these new places soak in and let them speak to me
Keep painting and creating as much as possible, but experiment with new media
Write, write, write it all down
Keep a sketch/notebook
Enjoy the moment and dance MY dance (thank you Sarah Lacy! Read her inspiring post here)
Keep things balanced

So there it is…. And I am off to the Botanical Gardens! (see bullet #2)