The Gift of the Gingko

What abscission feels like

There’s a tree called the Gingko. Its leaves are gorgeous, simplistic, fan-shaped. I’ve loved them for a long time and used them over the years in things I’ve designed. They speak to me. 

The last two years have been hard. No, I’m not talking about Covid, although that added a layer of complexity to things.

After a bout of pneumonia, a few days in the hospital due to a sudden drop in potassium, and a year full of medical appointments, we finally found out that my wonderful 63-year-old husband, Bill, has dementia. He can no longer work, drive, cook, and has difficulty performing simple tasks. The pneumonia and potassium drop, jump-started the dementia, and his symptoms and cognitive decline came on fast.

This diagnosis came into our lives following the deaths of both of my beloved parents.

I’m not looking for a pity party here. That’s not where I want my energy to land, so stay with me.

Back to the Gingko tree. The process of losing leaves is called abscission. A few years ago I read that this particular tree loses its leaves - goes through the abscission process - all at once, very quickly in comparison to other trees, sometimes even in one day. It's unknown what exact day it will happen because of varying temperatures and weather conditions. If you get to see the bed of leaves it sheds, it’s a gift.

That’s what life has felt like. All my leaves dropped all at once, those things that felt real, safe, that I cherished, all fell away from me, leaving the trunk and branches bare, exposed, vulnerable, scared. I’ve gone through an abscission.

The Gingko is resilient, and doesn’t just survive with age, it thrives. It’s durable and has an incredibly strong immune system.

I’ve taken some time to process my feelings, deal with paperwork, plan for a strange future, reach out for help, and pray to God to provide for our needs. Friends and family have been wonderful. Business associates have been supportive cheerleaders when I felt like curling up and shutting the world out.

Bill and I openly talk about what he’s experiencing, and how it’s impacting us, our children, our family. We feel it’s important to share, to help destigmatize this unkind disease and it’s symptoms, and to help others who don’t have the kind of support that we do.

Again, back to that glorious tree. Last year, November 6th, 2021, I was running errands and realized I was near a spot where a Gingko grew. And yes, it was the right day. I saw the bed of golden yellow on the ground, the branches stripped bare. I picked up a bunch of leaves and took them home. They give me hope. They inspire me to be durable, resilient, and strive to thrive through this.

My creativity has been my refuge throughout my life and I know it will be my sanity as I navigate this maze. I’m blessed to have talent that provides an outlet for my own pain and grief while providing some hope and visual inspiration for others.

As I spend time in my studio, those Gingko leaves are having a big presence. I’m working on new designs for “Positivity Panels” combining images with luscious encaustic, available very soon. 

I need hope, I need to trust, I need to have faith things will work out. Maybe you do too. Maybe you know someone else who does too. 

With gratitude,

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”

~Albert Einstein

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bed of Gingko leaves; joy in the moment on November 6th 2021; working digitally with images; embedded Gingko leaf in encaustic

It's that time!

When the sap runs

Spring is underneath that white layer, and rising to meet the cold air.

Growing up, when the sap was running, it meant a hike to the bush and the sugar shack.

Just up the road from town, and down a muddy lane skirted with crystalized snow, we'd approach with anticipation. It was an adventure checking the buckets on the trees to see how much had been collected, and to smell that faint sweetness of watery sap. If we were lucky, the wood stove would be blazing with fire, thick steam rolling around us, the big vat boiling with liquid thick enough to pour onto a tightly packed ball of snow. The taste was heavenly.

Continuing on past the buckets and maples in the bush, we'd make our way toward the creek, listening intently. We could almost gage how high the water would be based on the sound and we'd carefully watch it start to break away the ice on the rock bed and move swiftly south. On rare occasions we'd gather sticks and wood, make a fire on the rocks, and cook the hot dogs we'd packed for lunch.

My ancestors once owned 32 acres in Ontario, Canada, where this sugar shack still is. The land has changed ownership a few times and then, coincidently, a friend of a friend purchased it about 20 years ago and that sugar shack is looking glorious today. My friend Rob, and Bruce, still tap the trees and are making syrup.

I feel deeply connected to this place even though I'm far from it, and my brother and his family still go there on hikes. Seeing the pictures of this year's syrup brings back fond memories of family, and days gone by. It makes me think of our important connection to land, the beauty nature provides, and the goodness of what it can produce if we take care of it.

Wherever you are, here's hoping you get to taste that sweet syrup this spring!

Did you know it takes 80 gallons of sap to produce just over 2 gallons of syrup?

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‘Now & Then’ (image above)
My Dad (left) with his uncle, brother, youngest sister and mother (behind the buckets) in the early 40’s.
At far left (walking away) is my niece’s husband with their son, Dad’s youngest great-grandchild.

the sugar shack as it appears today

first drops in the bucket; Bruce & Rob’s syrup; the sugar shack in the 1930’s.
(current photos courtesy Rob Stevens)

the story

how "Beholding Touch" was born

Those unforgettable moments. The times that make the hair stand up at the back of your neck. The moments your mind refers back to time and time again.

That's what matters most.

During the trip to The Netherlands with my dear Dad in 2015, I captured a moment that became the inspiration for the Gratitude Collection, eight pieces of art honoring WWII Veterans and the Dutch citizens, who's love and respect for their beloved heroes is incredible.

The collection's signature piece, "Beholding Touch", became the first, born from a photograph that spurred my creativity and longing to create a lasting legacy for those we love.

I invite you to travel with me back to the moment...

Dad and I are in the city of Apeldoorn, along with over a hundred Veterans and their families to celebrate the 70th Anniversary of the Liberation.  Holland has held a tradition of hosting a major celebration every five years and there are throngs of people lining the streets for the parade in the heart of the city.  It's a cool spring day, camera crews and photographers are everywhere, period army vehicles from the 1940's and drivers dressed in gear replicating wartime, are transporting the Veterans. There are shouts of joy, flowers, flags, and children and parents and grandparents who vividly remembered their plight during the war and wear their emotion on their sleeves.  And many respectfully make their way close enough in genuine hope of touching one of the soldiers who helped free them.  

We're in an old army ambulance vehicle, I'm seated behind my Dad, but it's difficult for me to see the people. I jump out of the back to walk alongside and experience things more fully.  Soon after, a young girl gingerly reaches her little hand up to touch my Dad's and she stares him in the eyes for what seems like a full minute.  The image shows up in my camera, intact, clear, intently calling out to me. 

Another day, another location in the province of Friesland during that same trip, put me in front of a bronze sculpture by Tineke Willemse - Steen, of a beautiful young child with a cherub-like face. This photograph becomes part of Beholding Touch (in the top left of the image), and is symbolic of children who did not survive the war and who were witnessing - beholding - the generations who were free and that did survive. 

We were to board a plane this week, May 1st, 2020, with my Dad, bound for Amsterdam, to celebrate the 75th Liberation Day with the Dutch and five other Veterans and families. We were to be in Dokkum, and the Gratitude Collection was to be exhibited there, where my Dad and fellow Vets would see the artwork for the first time.

Instead, we're home and nesting due to the pandemic that has gripped the world.  And Dad has peacefully and quietly moved on to his final resting place in heaven above.  He's watching life unfold with cherubs and angels.

The legacy remains.

in the army
vehicle behind my Dad 
Apeldoorn, May 2015

me walking beside the army
vehicle and coming upon
the little girl (bottom left)
who appears in
"Beholding Touch"

original photograph
Apeldoorn parade
Dad with young child
May 2015

photograph of bronze
by Dutch sculptress Tineke Willemse - Steen
located in Hotel Landgoed Lauswolt, Beetsterzwaag
May 2015

Go here for information about the Gratitude Collection and the exhibition that is now rescheduled.