Walking downtown
past Barbara's forsythia
intoxicated with lemon yellow

impossible blossoms reaching
into a deliciously long
afternoon of Bommarito red

sumptuous sips
of Frank Sinatra,
aureolus blooms and friendship.

Warm regards,

Laurie

It is the time of year when the robins return to my garden. I
first know this by their song. They begin singing before dawn
when the morning star is just rising, and sing the sun all the
way up. Then they begin again at dusk, not stopping until the sun
is down. It is also the time when the faeries come back into the
house and garden. You can hear a faint tinkling sound at dusk,
out among the tangle of last year's wildflowers. They begin
tidying things up and planting new seeds. The next morning
you can see faint imprints of their silver slippers in the dirt.

Late at night, when everyone is asleep they come into the house,
and if you wake up and are still as still can be, you will hear
their saccadic song following their lithe movements. They are
dusting, and lining up pairs of shoes. In the morning the glasses
sparkle, as if stardust was left behind. They are not bothered by
how the garden is still dead from winter and the house is messy.
They are like Matisse, and want to echo beauty. (Matisse said he
wanted to make paintings so beautiful that when you came upon
them all your troubles would subside).

Before they leave, the faeries add some marks to my painting
and carefully wash my brushes.

********************************************************************** Sending you wishes for the new beginnings of spring,

Write without reason.
Go too far. Fall in, fall in.
Say I am here, my palms are open
even though you are lost and don't know
who you are.

My hands are empty. I have forgotten my name
and the sound of it on his tongue. All I have left
is the scent of something I once touched. Memory
of the sound of color streaming from the stars
singing.

So now I am praying and writing to remember back
my name. Praying that this gloom laden night becomes
music to the stars and your great remembering
happens to me.

************************************************** Wishing you a surprising, renewing and joyful New Year.

Warm regards,

Laurie

This morning I woke up to the sun sparkling on the snow and pine trees. Finally a winter visit after a strikingly mild fall. I have been teaching for almost two weeks: the teenagers at my son's school, all 22 of them at once, in Denver for the Calligrapher's Guild, and my series here in Boulder called *Absence and Presence*, which I just finished yesterday.

I arrived to teach at Naropa University at sunrise yesterday morning, wanting to gather myself together before class. I was deeply moved by how long I have been coming to this place. I remembered when I first came as a student, thinking I would continue my studies in Buddhism. That is another story, but my formal studies in Buddhism ended and the study of calligraphy, painting and bookmaking began. I could not have imagined myself here now, teaching. When I first came here I knew nothing about calligraphy or art of any kind.

Before my class yesterday I sat down and wrote:

This morning I returned
to the same place.
The crow is hopping and croaking.
The clouds in the east are colored
with the pink newness
of the day.

Now I see that this place
remembers me,
is tending to me.

Blind for so long
my eyes are opened
in tears and sunrise.

The crow calls in fours
Yes yes yes yes

Here here here here.

Wishing you all a warm Thanksgiving.

Best regards,

I was laughing at myself this morning in my navy blue tennis shoes, like the ones I wore as a child to Laguna Beach. My sister and I had twin turquoise swim suits. I still love that salt smell and the sound of those waves, the sound and smell of something that has been here for thousands, maybe millions of years. And the feeling of wet sand between my toes.

Anyway, I was taking my morning alley walk, looking down at my hands. I am holding an old square piece of metal with a hole in it, some sprigs of purple lavender, wild plums and two small white roses. I can feel a hint of fall in the morning air and am feeling the excitement about teaching again. I have been playing with new materials this summer for the writing and painting classes: copper metal and nails and galkyd varnish for the covers and binding of our books. Also been working on a promotional piece for the Ghost Ranch workshops in February and May: "Write Upon Tablets."

It doesn't hurt to surround yourself with *brilliant* people: Jill Berry helps me in countless ways, including all my classes at Naropa University and Ghost Ranch. Erin Sturga is helping me with the design of my promotional piece. Diana Phillips at Two Hands Paperie is an invaluable fountain of knowledge. My father, Lloyd Hubbard, is an engineer and inventor, and flew me up to Minneapolis before I had my first computer with the express purpose of helping me write the original copy for "Finding Your Own Story." After minor adjustments to my not pursuing a career in math or science or engineering, or becoming the president of IBM, he is a constant source of encouragement and wisdom. And then there is my beloved Chris Locke, who is my writing critic and website wizard. Well, as none of these people get paid for this work I can only thank the stars in heaven for their willingness and enthusiasm.

Also getting ready to submit paintings to the annual exhibit at Regis College, put on by the Colorado Calligrapher's Guild. Even been messing around with luscious oils. For those of you who are interested in shorter local classes, I will be teaching "Brush Lettering, Pattern & Books" at the guild (Nov 9, 10, & 11) and at Two Hands Paperie (December 8). http://www.lauriedoctor.com/workshops.html

Have put up recent work on my website in design and art: http://www.lauriedoctor.com/artwork.html and http://www.lauriedoctor.com/design.html

I'd love to hear from you,

I have returned from teaching at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico, a week long workshop titled "Horizon: Apparent Meeting of Earth and Sky." The students write and paint and make two books. We work in the Upper Pavilion, which is something like a drafty airplane hangar with windows on all sides looking out at saffron rock and rust colored buttes dusted with the greens of sage and juniper. There are 22 students from all over the United States and abroad, and it is a raucous group. I ask them to forego the usual introductions and make up whatever they want about who they are. Barbara B. summed up the week the last day by saying: "Well it really was a great week, except for this damn book."

One morning I am sitting in the Dining Hall with several of the students before class . Hard boiled eggs, granola, cooked plums. Jill B. is sitting right across from me, watching a young man go by with a huge tattoo of a spider on his biceps.

"I just don't get it. Imagine having that spider staring back at you all the time. Or the man in our class at Naropa, Steve, with the naked woman on his arm. Would you want to stare at those tits every time he put his arm around you?"

Jill proceeds to tell us about a show she went to in San Diego of people who were tattooed over their whole body, standing on pedestals still as statues in a darkened room, their bodies all lit up, naked and magnificent. It reminded me of a book I had read, "Shark Stories," of four generations of Hawaiian women. One of the women was married to a Japanese man who was tattooed all over his body and became rich in undisclosed ways, continuously traveling and being unfaithful. He died of blood poisoning from the tattoos. Sometime after the funeral we go back into his wife's house, and there on the wall is his whole skin, tattoos and all.

"Oh, God!" Andrea from Martha's Vineyard is disgusted and repulsed. Barbara G., who wears a black patch over one eye and introduces herself as a drug dealer, reassures her that no one would really do such a thing. But Jill, who has not disclosed her identity, tells us about the movie "The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover." The one where the husband discovers his wife's lover, cooks him and serves him up. Now Andrea lights up. She likes cooking. We tease her about her change of heart saying, "Skinning is not okay, but throw him in skin and all, and that's just fine." The conversation veers off into the possibility of having him stuffed. Well maybe just his penis. Jill says "What would I want with a stuffed penis?" But Andrea nods knowingly saying with a glint in her eye, "well..."

There are some things that have to be mentioned in any recounting of the time at Ghost Ranch. Barbara B. insisted on offering Happy Hour at her place, "Barbara's Bar and Grill." Chairs in a circle overlooking the canyon and Kitchen Mesa to the southeast. Chips and salsa in the middle of the circle, white and red wine, vodka tonics. She is telling us about her time studying voice in Shanghai. But then again, she is also rumored to be a nun.

Kathy is wearing her t-shirt with scrawled writing that says "Don't Drink and Draw." Barbara B. says she also does animal imitations, and demonstrates to us, cawing much like a crow, thus setting the stage for the upcoming talent show around the campfire. She invites everyone who can do animal imitations to audition. My performance of "My Boyfriend's Back" is rejected, everyone missing the deeper meaning of animal sounds. The talent show happens on Thursday, our last night. People sitting on stones around the fire. DeAnne, Robyn and Kathy all do animal performances: Chicken Laying a Very Large Egg, Gorilla and Deer in the Headlights. Barbara jumps up to sing Chinese Opera, clutching her chest, exclaiming toward the star filled sky. Deb leaps in spontaneously, becoming the deadpan interpreter. She crosses her arms on her breast for the last line, translating "She longs for her homeland." The performance is stunning, Chinese Opera being such a rare thing, and laughter echoing across the desert. Deb astonishes everyone as she is the one in the class who has never even taken a road trip by herself before, much less an art class. She is shy and her hands shake. Her middle name is Western. By the end of class she has decided to quit her job, sell her condo and move down to Ghost Ranch to tend to the lambs. At the end of the week she says "I think my whole Myers-Briggs has changed."

I missed a lot of the uproar, being pulled to take my sleeping bag to a remote canyon and sleep under the stars. It is the new moon, and I want to find my way before dark. I have been to the same place before, when the coyote on the ridge was speaking, and the raven croaking and echoing over the canyon. This whole week it has been the dark of the moon, and so the velvet sky is dripping with stars. It is the first night we have been able to see the moon, becoming visible above chimney rock, a slender arc at sunset. When I crawl into my sleeping bag there is no sound, just the deep silence of the desert.

Just before dawn the stars begin to fade and the Morning Star, Venus, rises in the east. It is a big, bright jewel above the silhouetted cliff. I am wishing upon this star, falling into this place thinking, oh to be awake in the wee hours when silence is a thick comfort and the Morning Star is glittering above the horizon.

Laurie Doctor/ Summer 2001

It is snowing on the crabapple blossoms and lilacs. The green leaves are frosted in white. The robin is singing as she does each day of spring, from just before dawn all the way through twilight. Even with the snow dusting her feathers.

I have recently returned from the other side of the world, New Zealand. I had the uncertainty of traveling standby, then the unexpected pleasure of getting on Business Class. Champagne, mimosa, wine, gourmet food, and a spacious, cushy seat with a massager for my back. I decided to ignore the good advice on how to prevent jet lag, and tasted everything. I had never been across the International Date Line.

When I arrived in Auckland, I had no sense of jet lag, or of having crossed that imaginary line through the Pacific Ocean at about 180 degrees longitude, which means in one moment it's one day later. It was just a new morning in a different place. I had expectations about how exotic it must be, this far away. So on the first day when I was walking around Brown's Bay, through the neighborhoods, I thought there must be some mistake. In front of each person's house were the same green plastic ecocycle containers that we have in Boulder. And when I found the bookstore and coffee shop, the music that greeted me was Shaggy singing "Angel". But even in the city the bird sounds were new. The Fantails were abundant, and willing to come quite close.

One of the reasons for coming to New Zealand was my invitation to teach in Auckland. I was given the top floor of Jan Leonard's house, where I had my own bedroom, bath, kitchenette, studio and porch overlooking Torbay Harbor. It was a twenty minute walk along the shore and through the woods to Brown's Bay, where I could have coffee and write. I stayed here for a week, giving a slide show of my current exhibit and teaching a bookmaking class. The dinners at Jan's house included two young women from China who were on the North Island to finish high school and go on to University. One of the women could speak English well enough for me to get some stories from her. I heard Chinese tales of Creation, Good and Evil, and about her grandmother who is a healer and lives in the Chinese countryside. She tells a story of her grandmother curing her of nightmares and making an egg move and stand up vertically without being touched, as if this is nothing special. When I ask her about the Chinese money papers we brought back from the Asian market her expression becomes alarmed. She tells me I must not use these gold and silver papers in my art, and goes into detail about how to burn them. She warns Jan and I against leaving our chopsticks apart, and places hers close together on her bowl.

At the end of this week my son, Garrison, arrives to join me. Our plan is to explore the wild west coast of the South Island. He has his fly fishing rod and the New Zealand Guide to birds. Also camping equipment. And we both have our journals. He has just finished being the lead in his high school play "Guys and Dolls," and has fallen in love with the female lead, Erin Rose, whom he has practiced kissing a lot. At the Auckland Airport it is pouring rain when I pick him up, and we head out to Lake Taupo to look for birds and trout on the Hinemaiaia River. Our first go at traveling on the left side of the road.

Now it is beginning to feel like the other side of the world. In Taupo the Maori chief has just died, and there is a big funeral. The Maori words are like music. I paint the title page in my journal with a Maori tatoo pattern and the seven kinds of night they list in their creation story: Te Po-nui, Te Po-roa, Te Po-uriuri, Te Po-kerekere, Te Po-tiwha, Te Po-tangotango, Te Po-te-kitea. The Great Night, The Long Night, The Dark Night, The Intensely Dark Night, The Gloom-laden Night, The Night to be Felt, The Night Unseen.

We take the ferry Arahura (Maori for "Pathway to Dawn") to the South Island. Cook Strait is full of dolphins and stories. It has only been a few hundred years since Captain Cook landed and Europeans began to arrive on this island. Garrison and I see our first Albatross and three hours later arrive in the harbor at Picton. I am considering the many names he has for me. Genius, Killer and Captain top the list, descending to Noodle-Brain, Poodle-Brain, Chump Bucket, and more affectionately, Munchkers.

I drink in the rivers and deserted beaches of the South Island, the words and sounds. The Bellbirds flock the rain forest and fill the kauri trees with a symphony of flutes and bells and water. There are keas and kakas. Karaka, kutuku, kaikomaiko, kahikatoa, kuripaka, kopuwai, kaiamio, kotuku. At Lake Moeraki ("to dream by day") there is a path through the rain forest and tree ferns to the Pacific. This is where the Fjordland Crested Penguins come in from the Tasman Sea. We take a walk after dark to see the glow worms, which light up the trees like stars.

Later, on the east coast, we watch the Yellow-Eyed Penguins come in from the sea before sunset, to waddle up the sand cliffs in pairs to their nests. Running to each other, calling out, holding out their flippers, moving slowly and stopping often on their awkward uphill climb. The sunset surrounding us in a full circle.

By the time we got to Christchurch we were ready to come home. We arrived back in Boulder the same evening that we left Auckland.

Warm regards in spring,