Tag Archives: vessels

The Lifeboat: Holding What Matters Most

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As I mentioned in my previous post about Celestial Navigation, I return again and again to the idea of vessels—not just as containers, but as carriers of memory, meaning, and mystery. Recently, I’ve been exploring the specific vessel symbol of the Lifeboat (thanks, Bosha), both as a new Enso Oracle Card (more about that soon) and as the inspiration for a workshop in which we create sculptural boats layered with mulberry paper, wax, and intention.

The Enso Circle Oracle Cards project is still in its “sandbox” stage, but coming up with symbols for the cards helps me with the ups and downs of the artistic life just as the Enso Circle has helped Artists-in-Residence since 2021 when Michelle Belto and I founded it.

The Enso Lifeboat card emerged as a quiet call to consider what we carry with us in times of change. It’s not about emergency escape—it’s about soulful preservation. What are the objects that keep us afloat emotionally? What fragments, what symbols, what small, beloved items would we gather into our own lifeboats if we had to set out across uncertain waters?

Here’s what the Lifeboat card look like in its current form:

And this is what you would read in the guidebook if you were to draw this card:

The Lifeboat

Keywords: preservation, essence, protection, emotional memory, inner refuge

When the Lifeboat card appears, it asks: What do you carry when all else must be left behind? This vessel holds not the things of utility, but of meaning—symbols, fragments, and reminders of what anchors you to self, spirit, and memory. In the upright position, it represents the quiet courage to choose what matters most and to cradle it with reverence. You are called to preserve your essence—not in grand gestures, but in the small, soul-bound keepsakes of your journey. The Lifeboat is sanctuary and simplicity. It’s a gentle reassurance that even in tides of uncertainty, you have the means to carry what’s essential.

In the reversed position, this card may signal overwhelm or disconnection—perhaps you’re holding too tightly to the wrong things, or drifting without recognizing what truly sustains you. It invites you to reexamine your cargo. Are you carrying weight that no longer serves? Can you release the nonessential to make space for the sacred?

Reflection Questions:

  • What emotional “items” do I instinctively protect?
  • What anchors me in moments of change?
  • Am I honoring what is truly meaningful, or clinging to what is familiar?

Affirmation:
I honor what matters most and carry it with care. In simplicity, I find sanctuary.

______________

Going Forward and Connecting

In the Spirit Vessels and Memory Boats workshop that I’m filming now in my little studio, we bring this metaphor into our hands. We begin by building the structure of the boat—humble materials like reed, cardboard, twine, and paper come together to form a frame. It’s not unlike the invisible scaffolding of our inner resilience.

As we wrap and shape and fuse layers of mulberry paper and encaustic wax, the vessel begins to take on a skin—fragile in appearance, but surprisingly strong, like the human heart.

At this stage, the question becomes more personal: What will you place inside? These boats are not meant to carry passengers or provisions in the literal sense, but fragments of memory, tokens of identity, and quiet reminders of what keeps us afloat. Some artists tuck in words on torn paper, a small stone, a scrap of fabric, a whisper of something lost or longed for.

Each lifeboat becomes a kind of reliquary—part sculpture, part story, entirely sacred. No two are alike. And none need explain themselves. Their power comes from the act of choosing, of honoring, of making space for what matters.

This is where I am right now – choosing what to include. The inside is lined with a special calligraphy paper and the edges are adorned and wired with special rocks and rusty rings and clay symbols. Do I want to include things that will stay permanently or keep them interchangeable? What anchors me in moments of change? These questions are as much a part of the process as the application of walnut ink and wax.

This workshop is still in development, but even now as I build prototypes and test materials, I can feel the quiet potency of the process. Just like the oracle card, the vessel invites reflection: What are you saving? And why?

More soon, as the vessel takes shape.

Safe voyages! Tend to your lifeboats!

♥Lyn

The Gift of Celestial Navigation

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In my last post, I talked about a new sculptural form I’m working on to take to Ireland for our Vessels workshop there this summer. I called it the Five Knot Vessel and it’s part of a larger idea encompassing Spirit Vessels/Sacred Ships. I’ve been filming a new workshop about that for the last couple of weeks.

Lots of other artists have helped show me the way, but  I’ve still been sort of inventing it as I go along. Strangely, I  haven’t really felt lost lost, and it occurred to me that I should thank my father for this. Here’s why –

During World War II, my father was a navigator, flying out of Horham Airbase in England,  charting courses through the night skies using instruments like the sextant and the ever-reliable chronometer. With only the stars and a drift meter, he found his way for his pilot and the crew through uncertainty by using celestial navigation.

His maps and almanacs were filled with numbers and angles, but to me, they always felt like something more—a kind of sacred geometry, a quiet trust in star patterns.

He pointed out to my brothers and me the constellations in the dark sky (I can still find Orion) and showed us how to find the North Star no matter where we were (the two outermost stars in the bowl of the Big Dipper point to it). Even though we moved around so much as children in a military family, he didn’t want us to ever feel lost.

I realize now that my own artistic journey draws deeply from that same navigational spirit. In my vessels and assemblages, I piece together fragments—shards, relics, whispered clues—to find direction, to create meaning. Like him, I chart a course, even when the path ahead isn’t visible.

My compass may be intuitive rather than mechanical, but the need to find my way, no matter where I am, echoes through every layer I build.

Each vessel I create feels like a map in three dimensions, a kind of spiritual charting made visible through form and texture. The assemblages are constellations of memory and mystery—bits of paper, found objects, old photos, words half-remembered or imagined—all pointing toward something just beyond the known.

This is important: I don’t always understand what I’m building at first, but as the pieces come together, a path emerges. It’s a quiet navigation, a way of honoring the instinct to move forward with purpose, guided by trust in the process. Just as my father trusted the stars, I trust the fragments, the gestures, the invisible pull that tells me, “you’re on course.”

My art is my “sky”—it holds the coordinates of where I’ve been and points to where I might go next.

In remembering my father’s tools of navigation, I’ve come to recognize my own, even though I’m not even halfway through this experimental vessel workshop journey. Where he had precise instruments and star charts, I have intuition, layers, and luminous surfaces that speak in symbols.

But the impulse is the same: to locate oneself in the vastness, to chart meaning from mystery. Each piece of art I make is a kind of message to the universe, a quiet assertion that I am here, I am looking, I am finding my way.

You, too, have your own navigational tools—anchored in a childhood memory, a beloved mentor’s words, or a moment that gave you courage and direction. Whatever they are, trust them. They are your inner compass, guiding you across the uncharted waters of your own creative life.

Perhaps that’s the greatest legacy of all—not the destination, but the courage to navigate by what light we have, and to keep creating our path, one small guiding star at a time. Thanks, Dad.

And thanks for reading!

 

What does your vessel hold?

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Jennifer Dixon, Vessel Workshop

I spent this past weekend in the Art Studio at UTSA/Southwest teaching a workshop called The Ephemeral Vessel: Exploring Plaster, Fiber, and Paper. As usual, I learned as much as a taught.

We began the first day by discussing the vessel as a concept. A vessel holds deep symbolic and spiritual significance, representing both containment and potential. The outside of a vessel symbolizes the physical form, protection, and boundaries, encapsulating the external aspects of life and the tangible world. It is the visible, crafted exterior that interacts with the environment, often reflecting cultural artistry and craftsmanship.

Jalen uses a soldering iron to pierce the “skin” of his vessel in progress

The inside of a vessel, however, carries profound spiritual connotations. It
represents the inner self, the soul, and the essence of being. This inner space holds potential and mystery, symbolizing the capacity to contain and nurture life, emotions, and spiritual energy. It is a metaphor for the unseen depths within every individual, the potential for growth, transformation, and the holding of sacred or significant contents.

The inside of Janis’s vessel shows little scraps and shards of memories of the process

Together, the inside and outside of a vessel illustrate the dual nature of existence: the balance between the external, material world and the internal, spiritual realm. This duality underscores the importance of harmony between our outer actions and inner values, encouraging a holistic approach to understanding life and spirituality.

And when we weren’t pondering the existentialist nature of the forms we were creating, we were also have fun! There was a moment of silence in the studio when each person got ready to pop their plaster-covered balloon. There were many oohs and ahhs when an unexpected material turned into magic on the surface of a bowl.

Almost dry enough to pop!

Taking simple materials and transforming them into meaningful creative statements has always been kind of a miraculous process. Every one of the vessels created in this workshop held a narrative. I am in awe of the vessel-makers and their stories.

Click here to see a catalog that I put together of some of the amazing work that was done this weekend.

As a final note, Everyday Sacred by Sue Bender is another one of those books that I can return too whenever I need centering. The begging bowl in this book is such a powerful image. The begging Zen monk receives the food people can spare in his bowl with gratitude. It’s an ongoing practice to accept what happens in life – and my bowl is so full of gratitude for this workshop experience!

Painting with Fire – fill your bowl!

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It’s so great when things come together almost magically, like bowls and scrolls and wax and fiber!

Today I’m able to announce that my new Painting with Fire Encaustic workshop will be called The Diaphanous Vessel: Exploring Paper, Fiber, Plaster, and Wax.  This class reflects the excitement that I’m having inventing ways to create translucent, delicate but strong vessels.

Vessels are not new to me, but I’ve always thought of them as clay forms. What a revelation to realize that paper and fiber can fuse together to create these organic forms that are surrounded by space inside and outside. Translucent beeswax binds these shapes together and fiber strengthens them.

And of course, if you sign up for Painting with Fire for this coming year, you’ll learn how to make these for yourself.  You’ll also have 53 other great workshops from the best encaustic teachers ever.

Click here for the info and the link to register

My summer class at SW/UTSA will also be about building vessel – there are just so many possibilities, and so many metaphors relating to bowls and receptacles. Stay tuned for that class info if you are here in San Antonio – the summer catalog is almost ready to come out.

Vessels, be they bowls, cups, or urns, embody a metaphorical richness that transcends their utilitarian function. They symbolize receptivity, gracefully accepting the contents poured into them. Conversely, they epitomize generosity, as vessels pour forth their contents, offering sustenance or wisdom to others.  They speak to the human condition, serving as vessels not only of physical substance but also of emotion, culture, and spirituality.

Some new vessels with collage and with Irish paper.

I love this excerpt from Jane Hirshfield’s poem, The Bowl:

A day, if a day could feel, must feel like a bowl.
Wars, loves, trucks, betrayals, kindness,
it eats them.

Then the next day comes, spotless and hungry.

The bowl cannot be thrown away.
It cannot be broken.

It is calm, uneclipsable, rindless,
and, big though it seems, fits exactly in two human hands.

Bowls both give and receive – vessels both hold space and occupy space.  I hope to see you in Painting with Fire this year so we can continue this conversation!

♥Lyn