| THE EPISTOLARIAN |
Years ago, I lived in a studio apartment on the historic Mapleton Hill, in the heart of Boulder, Colorado. Its intricate architectural details, like the quaint hatch below the kitchen sink—echoing the era of morning milk deliveries—told tales of bygone eras. The high ceilings bore an intricate medallion, and the rooms bathed in a daylight warmth that gave it a clean and welcoming atmosphere. My sanctuary was made complete with a simple futon and a kitchen that had everything in its proper place. Though small, it was the epitome of comfort.
Being a fellow paper enthusiast, you'll understand my penchant for collecting stationery and craft supplies. Living in a small apartment though, there was little space for it all, and my predicament certainly wasn’t helped by being conveniently located just a stone’s throw from Two Hands Paperie, my favorite stationery shop in the US. With every visit, my collection burgeoned, from stamps to fine Japanese papers, to a fully functional home-sized letter press.
But, in a space already jostled with outdoor gear—from ski to cycling equipment—storage became a conundrum. My apartment had tall ceilings though, leading to an equally tall closet. Therein, an almost forgotten shelf sat loftily at about eight feet, never before used due to its inaccessibility. Yet, one day, driven by the pressing need for decluttering, I hoisted a mix of my rarely used artifacts to that elevated perch: an ice cream maker, sleeping bag, dense tomes of art history, helmets, and a miscellany of other gear.
That night, in the hushed stillness of my apartment, my then-boyfriend, now husband, Rob, slept beside me on the futon. As I hovered in that twilight realm between wakefulness and sleep, a palpable, perturbed, almost arachnoid energy descended from the highest shelf in the closet. This force, seemingly ancient and oddly shaped - larger than a housecat yet smaller than a mid-sized dog - was annoyed by my intrusion. It was as though I had awakened a dormant entity that had rested there, shielded from the world, for nearly a century.
The sensation mirrored the haunting visual of Henry Fuseli’s iconic painting, "The Nightmare". The entity pressed down on my chest with a force so intense it stifled my breath. I could feel its claw-like tendrils exploring, then coiling around my throat. Desperate, I silently begged it to relent, only to feel its focus shift to Rob.
Rob’s sudden, sharp gasps tore through the stillness. Panic surged. "No," I mentally screamed, "Leave him alone!" In response, the entity returned its suffocating grasp to me. "You must go," I implored, and as if heeding my plea, it rocketed back to its lofty sanctuary in the corner of the highest shelf. Come morning, I addressed it directly, an apology intermingled with my firm request. "I'm sorry," I spoke aloud, "but you can't stay here any longer." I wondered where it went, but not enough to ask. I imagine it found another place on Mappleton Hill, possibly an attic where it could rest undiscovered and undisturbed for another century.
On another eerie night, I dreamt that an embodiment of fear was trudging up Mapleton Hill, coming for me. The unmistakable sound of his heavy boots echoed in the distance, their shadows dancing ominously beneath the sprawling maple trees that line the eponymous Mappleton Avenue. As he reached my doorstep, I was left with a choice. Gathering courage, I opened the door. As Fear's overwhelming aura enveloped me, I summoned a shaky smile and with a bow, welcomed him in.
He stood there, dressed in the imposing boots I had heard - almost reaching his knees, with ornamental spur straps. His hair was a tangled mess, reminiscent of the mythical pirate, Davy Jones, and intended to be just as frightening.
He took a seat at my modest table, and I went about brewing tea for this unforeseen tête-à-tête. His rough, worn hands with dirt-encrusted nails looked out of place, almost tender, as they cradled the porcelain cup and saucer. Deep within his eyes, I saw pools of profound sadness. He had anticipated a chase, desired the thrill of the pursuit. Yet, here we were, sharing tea. The sight of him, so deflated and lonely, evoked an unexpected sympathy within me. Fear wanted nothing more than the validation of being truly feared.
I often wish I had hugged Fear in that moment, consoled him in his innate fragility. It brings to mind the whimsically profound sentiment of Ted Lasso, who when questioned whether or not he believed in ghosts, replied: “I do, but more importantly, I believe they need to believe in themselves.” Fear had lost all of his confidence, as my beliefs were the only thing sustaining him.
When we confront our fears, we often uncover a subtle undercurrent of tenderness. My reflections on that night remind me that confronting our fears, even serving them tea, is a step towards bravery. After all, there is no difference between real or feigned bravery, if action is taken. In the end, you may gaze upon your once towering fears with a pang of pity, seeing them bereft of their former dominion.
A Nautical Heraldic Seal
This Dutch heraldic seal dates to the 18th century and features an upside down anchor.
Historically, anchors have been revered symbols of hope. The classic image of a ship's anchor, dropping into the ocean's abyss and securing its vessel, represents grounding and stability. An upright anchor tells the story of being tethered to the physical, to the tangible earth beneath our feet.
Yet, this inverted anchor, pointing upwards towards the heavens, evokes a different kind of grounding. Could the original owner have intended to signify being “anchored” not in the material world but in faith? Rooted not in the ocean's floor but in the vast expanse of the heavens, this upside-down anchor presents a compelling vision of hope grounded in the ethereal, in beliefs that transcend the corporeal.
While I don’t align with any specific religious doctrine, the metaphorical allure of this anchor is undeniable. To be anchored in such a way implies a trust, a conviction in something transcendent, unyielding, and steadfast. It suggests a hope derived not from what we can grasp or see, but from that which exists beyond our immediate perception.
As an artist, I find parallels between this symbol and my own journey. The faith I place in my work doesn't rest solely on its current manifestation. Much like the inverted anchor, I am tethered to a vision that is larger, a dream that, at times, may seem intangible. It's an anchoring in the potential, in the 'what could be' rather than the 'what is.'
Our physical realities are just ephemeral moments in time, constantly shifting and changing. And perhaps, that's where the inverted anchor's true power lies - in its reminder that while we might be momentarily grounded in the present, our hopes, dreams, and faiths can soar, always reaching, towards something far deeper. Sometimes, it seems, we merely have to wait for the world to catch up.
With love,
Kay