When the mermaids sing

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Migration is a very natural phenomenon. It’s built into the persistence of the universe, life on planet earth and in the overarching skies above us, too. The Central Flyway is a north south migratory bird route, generally linking Canada and Mexico, though some bird species follow a journey spaning the Arctic Ocean and Patagonia.

The country known as United States is a bivouac along several avian superhighways. I live, not really by accident, on the Central Flyway, and thus get to experience the seasonal comings and goings of wings. The sacrament of hope in the form of feathered things.

To celebrate the waterfowl who overwinter with us, nearby Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge hosts an annual festival every year in late November/early December. Except in 2025 the wildlife refuge festival was abruptly cancelled, dominoed by the times which no longer seem to provide succor.

This annual festival of avian migration is what first brought me to the geography I now call home a few miles south of Socorro, a history heavy town near to the wildlife refuge, which joins and supports the annual celebration, offering spaces and places for human accommodation, entertainment, food, salubrious saloons for the thirsty work of bird watching and so on. Maybe even once upon a time little birds of the night.

One of these corresponding annual events is a three day art and craft show held in the historic Garcia Opera House.

The building is magnificent with curious eye-confusingly curved, outward leaning, three foot think adobe walls. For acoustics, apparently.

The organizers of the art show, in consultation with exhibitors, decided to go ahead in spite of the wildlife refuge’s Festival of Cranes being cancelled. The birds didn’t get the cancellation memo, after all, and returned on their usual schedule.

Thus it was that the hand printed cloth found its way into the grand Garcia Opera House building. What an experience of space and architectural presence!

For months I had worked long hours building an immense amount of stock. I admit to hosting some anxiety about this non festival of the cranes (juried) art exhibit after the cancellation of the Bosque del Apache event. Should I stay or should I go? Decisions and revisions which a moment can reverse…

With no international ornithologists and wildlife experts, and their friends and relatives who usually throng to the region at this time, what would the audience for the art exhibition be like?

As the day approached I felt like Sysiphus watching the boulder roll down to the bottom of the hill. Again. Southwest Print Fiesta was such a stinkin’ wet dog affair this year. Was 2025 just turning out to be jinxed every which way and then some?

Urged on by the feathered thing, I set up anyway. It was somewhat challenging given the logistical restrictions which come with exhibiting in a historic register venue, but we managed, the cloth and I, with judicious use of vintage suitcases and other random props, to create cascades flowing into pooled piles.

Then all I had to do was get out of the way. The block printed cloth worked its magic.

The mermaids sang. People heard and responded.

I am grateful that I get to practice this mysterious, magnificent ancient craft, that the feathered thing in me sometimes gets to sing duets with mermaids.

Grateful even though one of the organizers implied that my (mermaid/siren) designs derive from the logo of that greedy, past its prime, Seattle origins coffee shop company who stole their design from a Roman coin. Ignorance, stupidity and that glaring lack of classical education in this country rears its head again, even in the historic Garcia Opera House.

Grateful that sometimes the mermaids sing, sometimes even to me, in spite of what old, flannel trousered TS said.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Excerpted from The Love song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot. I urge a reading of the whole poem in its entirety.