LEAVING LEAVES – After 31 Years, Shades of Autumn Is Going Dark

The inspiration literally fell out of the sky.* That was 31 years ago, and I've been making lampshades of pressed autumn leaves ever since. Let's just say I've made a few of them...and learned a thing or two. In fact, by now I may just be the world's leading authority on this craft.

Number 4, one of my early works

MEDIUM SIGHS
As part of the inexorable downsizing of my life, I’ve decided to take down my shingle and clear out my studio. Today, as I begin dumping my precious medium, the 50-plus bins of dried, pressed leaves I’ve collected over these three decades, I realize just how emotional this transition will be for me.

So many varieties, leaves from the most common trees, like oak, maple and birch, to some pretty exotic ones, like Canadian moon seed, cucumber magnolia and smoke bush. And not just leaves; I’ve also preserved grasses, seeds, berries, flowers, sticks, birch bark and other accent materials.

 

         

With each Tupperware lid I pull back, I’m reminded of all those crisp autumn days out searching for the freshest, cleanest leaves. The countless meditative hours picking them up with my reacher-grabber tool—at least 100,000 of them, I figure. 

               The leaves in my hands remind 
               me of warmer, brighter days.

MORE THAN A HOBBY
Crafting lampshades of leaves has been more than a hobby for me. It’s been the main outlet for my creative ardor. It’s reminded me I can be really good at some-
thing that’s not my job. 

It’s helped brighten some of the darkest passages of my lifetime—the trauma of 9/11; the deaths of my parents, my sister, a few friends and a dog; the pandemic; the turbulent aftermath of George Floyd’s murder; and the deadly gestapo blitzkrieg on Minneapolis and the rest of the attempted overthrow of American Democracy. 

There will be a void in my long-held 
identity as an artist and designer.

And my leaves have provided my primary autumn connection with Nature. (Actually, that connection carried on through all those cold, dark Minnesota winters, the leaves in my hands reminding me of warmer, brighter days.)

Jeff chats with a visitor 
in his booth at the juried 
American Craft Council Show.

There will be a void, not just in the scheduling of my days, but in my long-held identity as an artist and designer. I can only hope to discover a new craft, one I can practice in a much smaller space—or a space shared with someone else. I’ve always wanted to give woodworking a shot.

THANK YOU!
To all of you who’ve commissioned and bought my lampshades, thank you. I hope they’ll keep illuminating your home with beauty and joy for many years to come.

*  I was taking a walk one autumn afternoon many years ago, a gust of wind churned up a few fallen leaves. One of them landed and stuck on my sleeve. I picked it up, and as I turned it over, it happened to catch a glint of sunlight. 
     As if autumn leaves weren’t wonderful enough, the light coming through this one just seemed to ignite it with color. All the veins and little irregularities, backlit like that, made it all the more stunning. 
     I stopped right there and wondered, How could I make something out of leaves that would cause light to shine through them and show off these rich textures, this incredible, radiant color? Without hesitation, the muse of creativity answered: Make lampshades out of them.

Want to support my ad-free writing? Buy me a coffee—just click on the purple button at the upper-right of this page. Many thanks! – Jeff

FANTASIA – A Dream of Musical Mastery

I’ve had the common dreams: stepping on the school bus and realizing I’d forgotten my pants; facing a final exam without having opened a book all term; discovering I can fly… Some of them reveal deep-seated fears; others celebrate potential.

The other night I had another of the latter.

I dreamt I’d taken guitar lessons secretly for a couple of decades. (As cover I’d also taken on a second quest, one which everyone knew about, to explain my twice-weekly absences. I decided on cooking school—so I became about half as good a cook as folks expected.)

But the ruse worked. I waited until I knew I was ready. And for the right audience, the right moment to unveil my superpower. That moment came when Sally and I joined my brother, his wife and two other couples—as we’d been doing for many years—for our annual New Years Eve party. 

The hosts always came up with a theme, and then each of us was to share some-
thing we’d created that spoke to that theme. Some made handcrafts; others wrote something or compiled photo essays; one couple composed and performed music.

                Oh, great…a fourth grader’s 
                first screeching violin recital.

OUT OF THE BOX
In my dream, that year’s theme was “surprise.” So, when it came time for my offering, I made everyone wait while I ran out to the car and brought in the large, repurposed Amazon box containing my guitar. (Do you know how hard it is to hide something that size—including from your wife—for twenty years?)

Imagine the expressions on everyone’s faces when I lifted my instrument out of the box. Some reflected simple curiosity: Jeff…guitar? Others, dread: Oh, great, steel yourself for the equivalent of a fourth grader’s first screeching violin recital.

Believe me, I milked the skepticism for all it was worth. I feigned awkwardness holding the instrument; made a couple of false starts; regained my composure and then started haltingly playing A Horse With No Name—the 1972 hit by America that requires just two chords.

And then the wit hit the fan. Finally, after my third feigned false start, I launched immaculately into In My Life, by the Beatles—a selection I’d played hundreds of times and perfected.

                      

             When I finished there was nothing 
             but awestruck silence.

CHANGED THEIR TUNE
As I played, the dream’s focus turned from my hands to my audience. You can imagine, as I have frequently since, the new expressions now on their faces. 

          

When I finished, instead of applause or even approving smiles, there was nothing but awestruck silence…and then, gradually, the applause.

I awakened from the dream reveling in the adulation. And having to give myself a little pep talk. Hey, self, people already love and admire you for who you are. Even if you’re no virtuoso. 

Have you dreamt of having a superpower? Was it something you could actually do if you put your mind to it? Did you put your mind to it? Won’t 
you please share your dream with me and the rest of the OMW family in 
the comments? 

Want to support my ad-free writing? Buy me a coffee—just click on the purple button at the upper-right of this page. Many thanks! – Jeff

RUBY IN THE SKY – Sipping Nectar With Hummingbirds

A small wonder’s playing out on our urban deck this evening. 

Dusky clouds sidle across the western sky. Cream, peach, rose…blending as in one corner of a Monet or Degas palette. 

Against that lavish background, a sudden movement as one of our resident hummingbirds swoops in, hovers at the railing, eyes me through balusters and trailing vines. 

This juvenile, barely three feet from my face, hesitates long enough to sense my welcome, then lands and sips nectar from our feeder. 

Close behind, Mama, too, surveys me before taking her demure turn. Finally, Papa, informed by now of my benevolence, forgoes caution and drinks his fill.

Sated, he lifts his head, where the sun’s ember ignites that iridescent ruby throat. And I, too, am full. 

Want to support my ad-free writing? Buy me a coffee—just click on the purple button at the upper-right of this page. Many thanks! – Jeff

ONE DAY, IF I’M LUCKY

One day, if I’m lucky, all my friends will be gone. 

Wait...what am I saying? Would that really be so lucky? Sure, I'd have outlived them, but…

I reflect on this now and then, like on a sultry, pulsing-crickets night like this when I’m alone, deep in thought, sipping a nice tequila on the deck. Maybe it’s the booze, but in such moments I often yearn for that sweet, simple connection: calling to chat with a dear old friend. So I call. Usually, they answer.

             I hope there’s room left in the 
             loneliness for joy and gratitude.

Those chats nourish me, mind and spirit. They reaffirm who I’ve been, who I am, how lucky I am to be both alive and befriended so well. They also make quite clear how empty the former would be without the latter.

How fortunate I am to still have such friends!

But if I were indeed to be the last, I hope missing my old pals wouldn’t hurt too much. That there’s room left in the loneliness for joy and gratitude. That remem-
bering might feel just a bit like calling one of them from my deck. 

               

Living friends or not, I hope I’ll have kindled the kind of relationship with the rest of my world where that affection, too, might sustain me. That, for one thing, my companionship with Nature, with all her familiar ways, might feel like being with an old friend. Someone who cares, who shares their wisdom with me, who’s got my back. And, dare I wish it, laughs at my jokes.

HOCUS FOCUS – The Utter Reality of Magic

Now and then something happens in one’s life whose elegance, whose grace, whose aura just can’t be explained. It excedes the art of any individual; it’s more than matter, scale or place. 

You may think you can describe it, but often the emotional impact leaves you speechless but for a gasp or a breathy “Wow!” You end up apologizing: You had 
to be there. 

IMAGE: Greg Rakozy / Unsplash

Some folks are uncomfortable when they can’t quantify or explain things, but I rather like it. For one thing, it keeps me humble, reminding me just how limited even a writer’s vocabulary is—not to mention how infinitesimal my place in the Scheme of Things. 

And I’m more than okay with what turns out to be both the simplest and most impenetrable description of such awe: It’s magic.

        Magic, you see, is not just a quality 
        or an emotional state; it’s a connection.

A CONNECTION
Of course, that declaration bothers folks whose education, culture and world view all revolve around the tangible. Who believe everything needs a reason, and that if you can’t come up with one you’re either a brick short of a load or just not trying hard enough. 

PHOTO: Paramount Pictures / CBS

Well, there’s the catch. Some things, no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t make happen. Sometimes you have to stop trying altogether and let them happen. It’s that way for magic, and that, for many, is very hard indeed.

But that’s exactly where magic is brewed. In that moment when one abandons logic and opens oneself, body and soul, to wonder.

IMAGE: No attribution found

Magic, you see, is not just a quality or an emotional state; it’s a connection. It lies not just in the beguiling thing or event. But, like an electrical circuit, unless the power has someplace to go, it remains mere potential. Until, that is, you emanate your intention, that mystical signal that you are that place. 

    It’s what makes the Mona Lisa 
    seem illuminated from within.

CASES IN POINT
The kind of awe sparked by that cause-and-effect connection may come from something very big or very small, quite obvious or extremely subtle. Let me give you some examples of magic—a couple of them very personal:

• Magic is what makes Lionel Messi better than anyone in futbol (soccer). 

• 

  PHOTO: Kriangkrai Thitimakorn

  It’s what makes Starry Night’s sky-
  scape swirl and the Mona Lisa seem illuminated from within.
• It’s the spectacle of 10,000 herring surging back and forth as one.  
• It’s what lends the Taj Mahal its celebrated powers of seduction. 
• It’s why a 50-foot gray whale cow 
  swims under her 20-foot calf, lifts and carries it to my extended hand.

BELIEVE  
Magic is Creation’s sleight of hand. You’ll never figure out how it’s done. You can’t measure it. You can neither time it nor tame it. Most often you can’t even describe it.

Nonetheless, please believe in magic. It lives not just in exotic places; it’s present all around you and even in you. The key is to realize that looking for it usually fails. It will find you if you let it.

ILLUSTRATION: Matthew Burgess and Doug Salati

        "Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it." – ROUALD DAHL

IN A NEW LIGHT – Attached to the Moon

(With August nibbling away at our recent full moon (the buck moon,* July 29) I offer this reflection on the storied orb. May it move you to get outdoors and experience the wonder in a new light. By the way, this month's full moon, on August 29, will be a Sturgeon Moon.**)

Sun shadows fall heavy on the earth. Stark, stretched, hard-edged forms, so common we barely notice their attachment any more.

Moon, though, lays down her strokes gently, subtle shades of black 

on black. Now we feel the attachment more than know it.

* Buck Moon is the traditional name for the full moon that happens in July, referring to the time of year when male deer grow new antlers. 

** A Sturgeon Moon is a full moon occurring in August, named for the large lake sturgeon of the Great Lakes and Lake Champlain, which indigenous peoples found easiest to catch these late-summer days. 

I'M ALL EARS! – Sweet Corn As If For the First Time

There are a few foods which, if you haven't tasted them really fresh—like a day 
or two after picking— you haven't tasted them at all. Among them, home grown tomatoes, apples, strawberries, and, so apropos of midsummer here in Minnesota, corn on the cob.

        

Obviously, the main attraction with corn is eating it—that sublime interplay of flavor and texture that only really fresh corn can serve up. (I like mine with a little butter and enough black pepper to make my lips smart.) M-m-m-m, I can't wait!

But wait you must; first you've got to shuck it. Like so many of life's little chores, you can look at that task as a nuisance...or you can choose to see it as an experi-
ence, a joy. I highly recommend the latter.

                                                  *     ~     *     ~    *

KERNELS OF TRUTH
Pick up an ear of fresh sweet corn and the first thing you notice is that it's heavier than a green, leafy thing should be. I've always imagined that heavy gifts in small packages held special promise.

The next thing that strikes you are the silken tresses spilling out the tapered end in bleached yellow-green, tips perhaps tinted golden brown by summer air and sun.

The snug, slightly sand-papery leaves peel back easily one at a time; try for more and they voice their squeaky objection. Layer by layer, the green softens from dark and dry to light, tender, translucent. The 
last ply or two cling tight, conforming like shrink wrap to the pebbly texture beneath.

      Emergent kernels, near the tip, wander 
      randomly, then fall into neat rows as they 
      march smartly down the cob.

The kernels greet you cheerily, buoyantly. Slightly cool and moist, they grab the tips of your fingers like so many tiny, shiny, pale yellow balloons all squeezed together— inflated, it seems, to the point of bursting.



Emergent ones, near the tip, wander randomly, then fall into neat rows as they march smartly down the cob. Here and there someone loses the cadence and falls out of line for a step or two.

        A few strands always hold out, ducking 
        stickily into crevices between rows.

Then it's back to the silk. Most of it lets go willingly, but a few strands always hold out, ducking stickily into crevices between rows. I suppose this is where some might let the job get a bit tedious. Don't let it spoil the wonder; a few threads of corn silk may even be good for you!

Now just cut or break off the remaining stalk—appreciating the cob's tough, woody core—and your cob's ready for the pot.*

Corn on the cob: whether you're shuckin' it, cookin' it or eatin' it, enjoy! And if you have any funny or informative takes on corn we small-wonder freaks would love to hear from you in the comments!

* There are as many suggestions out there on how to cook sweet corn as there are on how to swing a golf club. I lean toward the less-is-more approach: Boil the water; turn off the heat; plop the corn in; and wait three minutes.

Even better and way easier, microwave your corn: Do not shuck the ears; cut off the stem end just before it starts curving in toward the stem; and nuke for: one ear - three minutes / two ears - five minutes / three ears - seven minutes. 

Using hot mitts or pads, grab each ear by the pointed, silk end and squeeze as you would a big tube of reluctant toothpaste. The denuded ear will slide out the fat end and leave you holding all the husk and all the silk in your hand.