Make Peace [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Posted on May 17, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

Look closely. There’s a turtle motoring through the water, scooting along the muddy bottom of the river. Turtles always elicit squeaks from Kerri. We watched this shelled-wonder for a long time. There were a few others that caught my attention, heads rising just above the water, floating peacefully in a pose of suspended animation. Turtle tai-chi.

We went to a sound meditation at the Botanical Gardens. Singing bowls and rain sticks. I was transported. I felt as if I was gifted with a turtle-moment: floating in a calm suspended animation. I recognized that feeling of ease and vowed to practice it more often. There’s wisdom in non-motion. Non-resistance. Flow by another name.

We were awake deep in the night. She asked if I could remember the places I’ve lived in my life – specifically the apartments and houses. Mostly she wanted to know if I could remember living-in-them. Making dinner. Doing laundry. How they felt. The sounds and smells. For me, there have been many. Most were creative spaces. Most of my living spaces were also studio spaces. Sacred spaces. Quiet places.

I don’t remember the day-to-day. I remember the place and time that I decided I was going to learn to cook. It was a statement of self-care. It was a decision to make all the world my studio and not just the places where I painted. Moving out from a solid center, joining the world, rather than closing off from the noise. Making peace with my out-of-step-ness. It was a decision to move into the chaotic world, to crawl with abandon and explore the river’s muddy bottom.

That reminds me of a Flawed Cartoon.

read Kerri’s blogpost about TURTLES

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Utter Life [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Posted on May 10, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

The theme of the mural is “humanity represented through different stages of life through song.” Past, present, future. The song of Sorrow. The song of Joy. The song of Hope. It’s painted above the proscenium arch of Chicago’s Auditorium Theatre, designed by artist Charles Holloway, the words at the apex are “The utterance of life is a song, the symphony of nature.” The symbols of his time.

Even as I write this, the birds this morning are in full-song. The utterance of life. The symphony of nature. Dogga barks to round out the bass section. Yesterday, standing on the bridge over the Des Plaines river, as we watched two deer amble across the trail, the ancient sound of Sandhill cranes croaked from above and two gawky-yet-glorious birds careened in for a landing on the sandbar just to our right. “We’re smack-dab in the middle of a National Geographic special,” Kerri whispered.

Sitting in the auditorium I wondered why the song of the past is Sorrow. Hope, Joy…Sorrow? It seemed a mismatch or, perhaps, a wrong assignment. Most of the people I know are suffering in the present moment. They sand off the rough edges of their memories so they remember their life-walk fondly. The song of warmth.

Honestly, the mural reminded me of another painting, a piece by a master-painter that lived during the same period as Charles Holloway. Gassed by John Singer Sargent. It was not something that sprung from his imagination. He witnessed this moment. A man who’d spent his entire life painting portraits of the elite. A genius artist. He painted his composition from what he sketched that day and it has become a symbol. The suffering of his present moment. The sorrows of the past in a world that had lost its mind. As testaments of the horrors of war, it lives up there with Picasso’s Guernica.

I just took a peek out of the window at the bird feeder. In addition to birds eating the seed, at the base are chipmunks, a squirrel, and the adolescent bunny. The song of Joy is also available in the present moment. I wonder, if I was commissioned to paint a mural over the proscenium arch of an enormous theatre, what would I paint to represent the human condition? The songs of past, present, and future?

It was a National Geographic Live event that brought us to the Auditorium Theatre: Coral Kingdom and Empires of Ice. The brilliant underwater photography and the lifetime exploration of a husband and wife team: David Doubilet and Jennifer Hayes. Among other things they’ve documented the impacts of climate change in the oceans. Even amidst the loss of reefs and disappearing ice that sustains life, theirs was a message of Hope. They infused us with their rich hope, drawn directly from their duet with nature. The utterance of life. Interconnected. The song of the future.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE MURAL

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Meditate On It [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Posted on May 8, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

I was struck by how important it felt. How could something so routine seem like such a big deal! We used to do it all the time. Without thought. Nothing special. Now, it felt like a significant passage. A step toward “normal”: we took the train to Chicago.

Covid was the great disrupter. Daily patterns exploded. Social norms obliterated. It changed us in ways that we are only now beginning to comprehend. To this day – without thinking – if someone stands too close to me in the grocery store I adjust, creating distance. A dance of protection. That small adjustment away from someone is a titanic statement about how I approach social situations, about how I feel about being with others. Keep-them-at-arms-length.

In other words, I’m meditating on safety all of the time.

I don’t think I’m alone in my meditation. I believe the central meditation in my nation is safety – rather, our lack of safety. We wouldn’t be arming ourselves to the teeth if we felt safe. We wouldn’t be ripping at the seams or tolerating corrupt bullies or gobbling up conspiracies if we felt secure. People do not willingly plant their heads in the sand when times are good. In good times, people look up, people reach toward each other. Generosity of spirit engenders generosity toward others. A poverty of spirit engenders animosity toward others.

In other words, no one meditates alone. The big meditations are shared.

Of course, it is also true that people rarely make significant change when times are good. The gift of disruption is progress though the first phase is often nasty and necessarily looks precarious. I suppose we are in the nasty stage of change.

It was not so long ago that a gathering with friends began with testing to make sure no one was carrying the virus. Testing became the norm. It was routine. Am I safe? Are you? Do you remember washing your groceries or isolating your mail for 24 hours when we did not yet understand how the virus was passed? It fundamentally reoriented our experience of being with others.

I think about my safety when I enter a crowd. I look for exit routes when I enter the grocery store. And, last weekend, we stepped onto a train for the first time since the great disruption. It felt momentous. A marker in time. Rather than taking a step away, we took an intentional step toward.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step and ours was a step onto a train. Each small step toward others, each reach, each moment of listening…matters. It creates the progress borne of the disruption. I look forward to taking many more small steps.

I don’t know about you but I’m more than ready for a different meditation.

read Kerri’s blogpost on THE TRAIN

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Return To The Nest [on DR Thursday]

Posted on May 4, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

In a few weeks we will travel to a small town in Iowa for my dad’s inurnment. It is the town of his birth. Although he never lived there during his adult life, it is the place he called home. It is somehow appropriate that we will take him home in spring.

I’ve had plenty of time to think about the coming ritual. It’s now associated for me with the birth of the bunnies in our backyard. We watched the momma-rabbit dig the nest but thought she’d rejected the spot once she’d experienced our enthusiastic dog who regularly terrorizes critters in the backyard. She knew what she was doing. We discovered the truth the day we caught Dogga proudly carrying a baby bunny around in his mouth. He dropped the bunny, unharmed. We went on a 24/7 backyard bunny watch.

Once, sitting on the deck watching the terrorist Dogga run circles, I decided to check out the nest. I stopped in my tracks when I realized two babies were gnawing on grass just inches from my feet. They hopped back to their nest. I watched as they disappeared into the safety of the dark void.

The dark void. The safety of the nest.

Years ago I started a painting. My dad emerging from a field of corn. Or returning to the field of corn. I’m not sure why I painted it. He often talked of his desire to return to his hometown but he could never find a way to make a living there. His yearning seemed profound. I suppose my painting was an attempt to understand the anchor of “home”; I have been a wanderer so his longing seemed incomprehensible.

Watching the bunnies race for their nest and disappear into the comfort of darkness sent a shock of recognition through me. It helped me understand. Away from his nest, he felt like an alien in a confusing frenetic world. In that place, he felt safe. Known. He understood the rules. He knew the stories. He was attuned to the pace.

It is somehow appropriate. We will take him home, return him to his nest, in spring.

I’m still working on my site...go here to see my continued indecision

read Kerri’s blogpost about BUNNIES

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Feel The Rumbling [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Posted on April 26, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

“We have to stop and be humble enough to understand that there is something called mystery.” ~ Paulo Coehlo

Kerri sprinted through the kitchen. “Dogga has a baby bunny in his mouth!” I reached the window the moment she said, “Dogga, drop it!” He did. The bunny hopped away. Dogga beamed with satisfaction. A new friend. And who wouldn’t want to take a gentle ride in a dog’s mouth?

The Mayapples are reaching through the devastation. The new green is slowly overtaking the broken brown. We wondered if anything survived the eradication. How foolish we were to doubt the power of life. The force of nature. Already this spring the chorus of the frog’s-re-emergence has blown us away. “We only think we’re in control,” I thought as Kerri knelt to capture the wrinkly green splendor.

We sat in the back. It’s our preferred spot when we attend a performance. We can’t help it. We study. The singers, a chorus comprised of women and men who’ve been touched by breast cancer, Sing-To-Live, made me think of the Mayapple. Resilient. Powerful. Reaching through the fear and devastation. Life reaching for life. Their final song of the night brought tears to my eyes. Why We Sing.

This is why we – human beings – make art. Life reaching for life.

I shared a painting from the deep archives with Horatio. He wrote, “You were bursting at the seams, amigo…Have you thought to paint the current iteration and see what that looks like?” Bursting at the seams. I feel the rumbling.

I dream of the day Kerri returns to her piano. There’s so much more music! I feel the rumbling.

Butterflies bursting from cocoons. Hardy green shoots breaching seed pods. Mayapples push through the crusty soil called by the warmth of sun. Bunnies emerge from their leafy nest. Courageous people singing to live. It’s everywhere. Feel the rumbling.

read Kerri’s blogpost about MAYAPPLES

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Read The Shadow [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Posted on April 19, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

Kerri said, “Look at that shadow! It makes me think of the collar Ruth Bader Ginsburg wore with her robe!”

Ruth’s collar was not my first thought. I went straight for Spirograph. The colorful spiral drawings made possible by the magic of plastic rings and wheels.

I suppose most people would have their moment of shadow association and move on to other topics but not us. Our association led to another association: what might Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s collar and a Spirograph have in common?

The artistry of mathematics. Action scribed from a center of integrity.

The Notorious RBG once said, “I am optimistic in the long run. A great man once said that the true symbol of the United States is not the bald eagle, it’s the pendulum, and when the pendulum swings too far in one direction, it will go back.”

The colorful line scribes an arc all the way to the edge of the ring and then, in perfect pattern form, scribes an arc across the board to the other side. And again. And again. Until a beautiful pattern, a brilliant complex roulette is formed. A single line that, at its inception looked random or out of control, running to the extremes, weaves – in the long run – a unified, inclusive, connected design.

Optimism in the long run. The symbol in a collar. The certainty of tides. The balance point found in all polarities. So much hope! A visit from RBG and a memory of a childhood toy. And, all of this from a single shadow cast on a dresser on an early spring morning.

read Kerri’ blogpost about SHADOWS

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Note The Trail [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Posted on April 18, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

Our pin-on-the-map lands between two airports: O’Hare to the south and Milwaukee’s General Mitchell to the north. On clear summer days, or unseasonably warm days like last week, we recline in our Adirondack chairs and watch the planes Etch-A-Sketch in the sky. According to our recent 5 minute contrail-count-study, at any moment, there are more planes in the sky than one might believe.

It always makes we wonder if Ben Franklin or Leonardo daVinci joined us on the patio would they calmly count contrails from their Adirondack chair or would their heads explode at the wonder of it all. It amuses me to imagine Leonardo hopping around with excitement and pointing to the sky.

In my recent past the phrase “digital exhaust” was relevant to my work in the wild, wild world of software development. Like a contrail, the output of our incessant tapping of keys leaves a trail marking our arc through digital space/time. The particular characteristic that had me hopping out of my chair was the notion that “reading” the digital contrail not only marks our past but is a great way of foreseeing future action. Past patterns are terrific indicators of future behavior. Just ask the FBI.

Kerri keeps a paper calendar where she records the significant and insignificant details of every day. It’s a behavior she inherited from her mother. Beaky was a great recorder of events and maker of lists. If I want to know if we had dinner with 20 in November of 2016, Kerri flips open her 2016 calendar and hits me with the details: yes we did and we had blackened Tilapia, small potatoes, and roasted asparagus. I’ve lost many a debate to the entries in the calendar. Her calendars are our personal analog contrail. Our unique life arc through space/time.

It’s helped me answer one of Tom’s questions about his great-grandmother Isabelle. He found a box with stacks of daily flip-calendars that Isabelle kept, each day had a notation about the weather. A hardworking ranch woman, standing on the porch of the farmhouse, in the days before airplanes, she stared at the sky and made a note in her calendar: hot sun, not a cloud in the sky. Tom looked at me as we went through the stacks in the box, asking, “Why would she do that?”

Contrails.

read Kerri’s blogpost about CONTRAILS

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Listen To The River [on Merely A Thought Monday]

Posted on April 17, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

“Have you learned that secret from the river; that there is no such thing as time?” Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

I’m not sure why I didn’t recognize it before now but Siddhartha and the Parcival grail epic are the same story. A ferryman. A hermit in the woods. A second teacher that appears and teaches presence – by example.

“The river knows everything; one can learn everything from it. You have already learned from the river that it is good to strive downwards, to sink, to seek the depths. The rich and distinguished Siddhartha will become a rower…” Parcival removes his armor. The great and powerful knight loses himself; he chops wood and carries water.

Eileen, 20’s mom, turns 100 today. Her party was last week. 20 made a beautiful photo board of her long life. The child. The sassy teenager. A vibrant young woman. A mother. A keeper-of-the-books. A grandmother. An aged woman. The full cycle of life. Her granddaughters attended the party. Her great-granddaughters, too.

“Age-and-stage,” 20 often says. Age and stage.

“Is this what you mean? That the river is everywhere at the same time, at the source and at the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the current, in the ocean, and in the mountains, everywhere, and that the present only exists for it, not the shadow of the past, nor the shadow of the future?”

“That is it,” said Siddhartha, “and when I learned that, I reviewed my life and it was also a river…”

Parcival turned and was shocked to see the grail castle standing in the meadow behind him. The hermit smiled and said, “Boy, it’s been there all along.”

Happy Birthday, Eileen. 100 years. A moment.

read Kerri’s blogpost about 100 YEARS

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Incant [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Posted on April 12, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

It reads like a love poem. “Puschkinia blooms in the empty moment between the fading of the snowdrops and the blooming of Chionodoxa.”

Despite their desire to be understood otherwise, botanists are poets, too. Taste these sounds: siehei, sardensis, forbesii. Spoken together they form an incantation worthy of Macbeth’s witches. There are three witches in the play: Category, Sub-category, and Group. Chionodoxa, we are told, is commonly called “Glory Of the Snow”. The poet-botanist would have us know that, in the empty moment between the fading of snowdrops and the blooming of the Glory-Of-The-Snow, tiny Puschkinia reaches through the soil and fills the void with cobalt and white.

Love poems and incantations. Love poems are incantations. “And because love battles not only in its burning agricultures but also in the mouths of men and women,…“ Neruda. Ahhhh.

“Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble.” What will the future bring? Glory-Of-The-Snow, of course! Shakespeare would have nothing less.

All of this poetry came alive in our front yard this week. It was the empty moment, It was the space between the fading snowdrops and the blooming of Chiondoxa. Had we not looked up from our computers, had we feared the cold wind off the lake and stayed comfy and warm inside, we certainly would have missed it.

Love poems and incantations. Harbingers. Nature quietly whispers its temptation, “Puschkinia blooms.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about PUSHKINIA

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Welcome The Muse [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Posted on April 11, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative

For many years the “sitting room” was a place we passed through en route to the kitchen or our bedroom on the return trip. It was our staging ground while packing for trips. It was the place we put things when we didn’t know where else to put them. I never sat in the sitting room.

And then, one day, a muse-of-calm possessed Kerri. She wanted a space of peace instead of space of clutter. She wanted to sit in the sitting room. She wanted to hang out in the sitting room. She wanted to read and relax in the sitting room. She became a cleaning dervish. She hung meditative paintings. It was a miracle.

I stopped in my tracks the first time I attempted to pass through the sitting room post-transformation. There was air and light. There were comfy pillows and a throw blanket on the couch. I was filled with an overwhelming desire to sit in the sitting room!

I’d heard rumors of the couch in the corner of sitting room. It was one of BabyCat’s favorite nap spots. Kerri assured me that no creature could sit on that couch without falling into a deep relaxed state. I had my doubts. In my time it was the central repository of clothing overflow. I’d actually never seen the couch. Plus, that BabyCat could sleep anywhere, on any surface. BabyCat was a gifted sleeper.

Kerri appeared behind me. She was holding a book. She, too, had transformed! She was the Siren of the sitting room! I nestled into the couch and cooed, the lap blanket covering my feet. The Siren sat on the other side of the couch. She opened the book and began to read. I was like Dorothy in the poppy field. Eyes drooping. Head bobbing. Incapable of concentration. The last thing I remember was thinking, “So this is what it feels like to be a cat…”

Now, we spend hours in the sitting room, reading on the couch. Falling into a deep relaxed state. Each morning, as I pass through on my way to the kitchen, I slow down and breathe-in the calm.

Sometimes I wonder why we waited so long to create this place of tranquillity. The potential was there all along. The good news? The peace of the sitting room is spilling out into the rest of the house. The sun room is filled with plant-love. The living room is beginning a subtle transformation. We gather around our small table in our tiny kitchen and laugh and tell stories. It’s how change happens. Create the space. Grow the space. It’s how peace happens.

This I know: the muse-of-calm is not yet done with us. I can’t wait to see what happens to the rest of the house and beyond.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SITTING ROOM

Filed under: Metaphor, Possibility, Two Artists Tuesday | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment »

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