Mountain, stillness, meditation

The bottom of each one of Buz Blum's wooden bowls has a symbol from the I-Ching that represents mountain, stillness, meditation.

It is nearly impossible to sum up a man as complex as Buz Blum in a few words or paragraphs. He was an artist, an Alaskan, a Buddhist, a former New Yorker, an animal lover, an alpaca farmer, a yoga practitioner, a poet, a musician, a bread maker, a traveler, a husband, a friend. But when those who knew him describe who he was at his core, the I-Ching symbol seems to paint a more complete picture than words ever could.

Earlier this month, the 63-year-old man died of natural causes at his home near Sutton, and with his death came the end of a rich, adventurous life and a 37-year-old love affair.

Alma Blum met Buz in the 1960s in his hometown of New York City where he had grown up as David Blum, no middle name, the son of David Blum, no middle name. To avoid confusion, the younger was called "Brother" by family members, which was eventually shortened to "Broth" and then "Buz" -- with one Z. Buzz with two Zs, Blum would have told you, isn't a name but a sound.

When Alma met him in the East Village, she had been working as a cruise ship stewardess and he was a musician, a friend of Bob Dylan. When asked what her first impression of Blum was, Alma said, "I thought, the strangest people come through here."

But something about Buz Blum, with his wide, dark eyes and quiet ways, stayed with her. She found herself returning to listen to him play banjo and sing.

"He was so unusual, and yet when he talked, underneath was this quiet humble person who played the most beautiful music," Alma Blum said.

The two went on motorcycle rides, visited with friends, "but mostly he sang to me and we talked," she said.

Eventually, the two went their separate directions -- Buz on a motorcycle to Cincinnati and Alma in a Beetle to Tucson. But he continued to pursue her, now not with music but with lyrical letters. Then one day, Buz got on his motorcycle and drove to Tucson. The two were married there and began to save up money to go on yet another adventure.

After three years of working and saving in Cleveland, the two decided to head north to Alaska where they hoped to find wide, open spaces. In 1968, the couple piled into a small van with their dog, duck, crow, quail and 65 miniature trees that Buz used for bonsai.

In the Matanuska Valley, they found what they had been hoping for. Palmer's one Realtor showed them a couple of houses around town and then took them out past Moose Creek to an 80-acre homestead with a tiny log home.

"When we got here, we knew this was it. We were home," Alma recalled.

They put all of their $900 down on the property and, after having traveled all over the country in search of adventures, they had found a place where they could live out their days.

"I remember saying at the time that we could stay here until we died," she said.

For many years, the two lived in the close confines of the original cabin, but over time they were able to put on an addition and hollow out a basement. In the late 1980s, they opened their home to guests and called it Timberlings Bed and Breakfast. After having visited similar places in England and Scotland, they decided they wanted to share their home, their lives as artists and farmers, with visitors from around the world.

For the past two decades, the two have been able to support themselves almost entirely with their alpaca farm, bed and breakfast and art -- Buz as a bowl maker and Alma as a fiber artist, spinning, weaving and silk painting. And during this time, they formed countless friendships with others in Alaska and around the world who shared their interests.

"Buz was a tall, lanky fellow who seemed at one with the woods where he lived," remembered Deborah Schildt, one of the many Alaskan artists who are mourning his death. "He had a deep appreciation for every tree on his property … He was quiet, reserved and deep, very deep in his thoughts."

But Blum was also known for his quirky, clever sense of humor. In a piece displayed in Anchorage's Earth, Fire and Fibre exhibit last year, Blum used curvy twigs to outline a woman's body and two of his round bowls for her breasts. It was called, "Perhaps He Had Been In The Woods Too Long."

While Blum seemed passionate about everything in his life, woodworking was among those dearest to his heart. He would spend hours and days on end in his shop, shaving away pieces of wood and creating new shapes and textures. His bowls have appeared in countless museum exhibits and local galleries and have been featured in national magazines. But it doesn't seem that such fame was what drove Blum's passion.

"The main thing I love is getting out in the woods with the dogs and looking at the trees," Blum said in an Alaska Magazine television program filmed last year. He would observe trees over many years, choosing which to use in his art.

This, he said, was one of the most difficult aspects of his work -- having to cut down the very trees he admired. But he strived to make it count, to waste as little as possible.

Most of the wood was turned into his smooth, enticing bowls, many with trails of bark along their rims.

The remaining shavings were used for animal bedding and to fuel their home's wood stove.

In one of his pieces, titled "Bowl Full of Itself," Blum filled the small bowl with the shavings.

Their home in Sutton is filled with such pieces of Blum, pieces of his humor, pieces of his creative mind. Badges and pins, one that reads "Doing Strange Things in the Name of Art," adorn a doorway where each morning Blum picked out which one to wear that day.

His wife admits it will have its challenges, but she intends to stay here and continue with the lifestyle they chose more than 30 years ago.

She may have to sell a few of the alpacas and replace the wood-burning stove with oil heat to make it feasible, but this summer she will once again open her door to visitors.

While she occasionally becomes teary when talking of her husband's death, she says she finds comfort in the fact that he did not suffer, that he died peacefully in the place he loved.

"It was a very gentle passing," their friend Schildt agreed.

She said it is hard to accept that this energetic man, always so full of life, is now gone. He was 63 years old, but many people thought of him as being much younger and none were ready to say goodbye.

"This isn't fair," Schildt said she found herself thinking. "I'm not ready to lose him as a friend."

But she said that when she looks at his life, all the people he touched and all the experiences he had, both in the physical and spiritual worlds, she can find some peace.

"He was obviously prepared to go -- more so than many of us will ever be," Schildt said.