End papers of letter to Deb Jones**– a six month correspondence project

For over six months I have been writing letters to an artist in Colorado. The rules were that whatever we sent had to be in a seven inch square format and the actual piece had to be stamped, canceled and sent by Pony Express– the Post Office. During this period we were allowed no other form of communication– no email, phone, or social media. My partner and I agreed on a monthly rhythm of sending correspondence that included time in each of our respective woods, without even a camera, and parallel uninterrupted time in our studios. We were propelled by curiosity– about discoveries in the natural world, and about how this mid-1800's way of dialoging would work. (The telephone was invented in 1876).

When the "spring peepers" woke up the woods in March, *Letter to Deb Jones*

This correspondence project includes several pairs of artists communicating by post. There will be an exhibit opening soon, on June 2, at the Project Shop Gallery in Carbondale, Colorado.*

I traveled places I would not have– had I not been limited to finding the written word, or an image– from my hands– and then carry it to our small local post office on River Road, where it was hand canceled and delivered to my artist friend 1500 miles away. I had to resist any temptation to communicate in the facile ways we now take for granted– including posting anything about this project– as it was in process. This structure allowed the deepening of experience that rises up with a vertical kind of time– and only the slowness of the post office as a transmitter of messages. My correspondent’s life and my life, our lives, were cross-pollinated in ways I could not have imagined. This old fashioned exchange revealed moments of synchronicity I would have missed in our normal fast world.

Inspired by this project, I continued reading Peter Wohlleben's The Hidden Life of Trees. The language of trees is so much slower, and their messages travel beneath the earth. There is a timeless majesty in the nearness of trees. This old oak tree, which guards the meadow in the woods, has been dead a long while. I am not sure I thought of it as being dead in the beginning–as I was drawn to its magnetism again and again. How can something that is no longer living have such a graceful and strong presence after death?

*Ancestor Tree* on back of letter to Deb Jones from L Doctor

During this time I was also moved by Leonard Cohen's example (top image), and how deeply he listened at a time of sudden loss, when all of his money, all his retirement, was stolen. Faced with having to begin again, he surrendered his own desire and fear, and searched inward for which direction to turn to. He was an example of someone who held the paradox: He could be completely himself and totally surrender who he thought he was, or should be, at the same time.

*Three leafs,* page from letter to Deb Jones from L Doctor

This project has been free of external pressures or expectations, and held by the structure we provided at the beginning. It gave me energy, instead of depleting it. It supports my belief that a gentle process– of renewing, questioning and searching for your path as a maker– helps to get you back on track when the demands of the world take over– and is a necessary part of becoming more and more yourself in your making.

I will close with this song-poem-prayer from Leonard Cohen:

If it be your will
That I speak no more
And my voice be still
As it was before
I will speak no more
I shall abide until
I am spoken for
If it be your will
If it be your will
That a voice be true
From this broken hill
I will sing to you
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
From this broken hill
All your praises they shall ring
If it be your will
To let me sing
If it be your will
If there is a choice
Let the rivers fill
Let the hills rejoice
Let your mercy spill
On all these burning hearts in hell
If it be your will
To make us well
And draw us near
And bind us tight
All your children here
In their rags of light
In our rags of light
All dressed to kill
And end this night
If it be your will
If it be your will