Wine Shadow [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

And with no warning, Cat Stevens was suddenly holding a concert in my head: Oh, I’m being followed by a wine-shadow, wine-shadow, wine-shadow. A leapin’ and hoppin’ on a wine-shadow, wine-shadow, wine-shadow…

Carl Jung wrote that “Everyone carries a shadow,…” I suspect Carl chose his verb carefully. Rather than being followed by it, everyone carries their shadow. The absolute weight of weightlessness. The next part of his thought goes like this: “…and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” The moral of his story: get to know your shadow.

I had a long talk with a high priest in Bali. He explained that, according to their belief, they see no need to run from the dark as we do. They strive to make peace with the dark. Keep in mind that their construct is not built upon the hard rock of heaven-or-hell. For them, there is dark energy and light energy. The two dance and balance each other. They are necessary to each other. Our work, he suggested, is to walk between them, hold them both as meaningful and sacred. Getting to know the shadow is about having a relationship with the light.

“Don’t sit down!” she said, jumping up, camera in hand.

“What? What?” I asked looking around. She rarely jumps up like that. Only in the presence of bees.

She pointed enthusiastically at my chair. “Shadow! Shadow!” she whispered, as if her voice would scare the shadow away. She focused her camera on the weighty-weightless.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, just in case she was right. I’ve ruined a shot or two in the past by using my outdoor voice. I didn’t want to get “the look” if I caused the shadow to flee before she could snap the picture.

It was during her photoshoot that Cat Stevens popped in. And Carl Jung, not wanting to be out-sung, offered his quote.

“I look forward to getting to know this shadow,” I said.

“What?” she whispered, aiming and re-aiming.

“Never mind,” I smiled.

Did it take long to find me?
I asked the faithful light
Oh, did it take long to find me?
And are you gonna stay the night?
” [Moonshadow, Cat Stevens]

read Kerri’s blogpost about WINE SHADOW

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A Second Look [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

Aura Moon Double Haiku

An appearance.

Things are rarely what they seem.

Masks conceal faces.

The moon winks and nods,

Tugging at the aching heart.

Take a second look.

The aura of the back light at night. Wires that carry electricity to the house. A sliver moon. A photographer playing with the elements. What began as a spontaneous chase to capture the waning moon became a rolling series of discoveries: “Look what happens when the light is on!”

“I want to shoot the moon through the wires,” she said, aiming her camera.

“A good first line for a novel or a play,” I thought.

Character One: I want to shoot the moon through the wires.

Character Two: Maybe we should talk about it? (no answer) Do you think we’ll hear the owl tonight?

And so it goes, listening and looking into the night. The story progresses until their desires meet at a distant crossroads.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WINKY MOON

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All The Way To The Skin [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

The fortune read, “Sprinkles of joy will shower upon you in unexpected ways.” She stared at in disbelief. It was a whispered reinforcement from an old friend. A much needed affirmation of good things to come.

For me it brought a memory: she was introducing me to Lake Geneva. We were just getting to know each other. The skies opened suddenly and dumped buckets of rain on us. We laughed and laughed, ducking into a doorway for some cover. We were soaked and giddy. Showers of joy came upon us in unexpected ways. So much joy showered us that we had to put towels on the seats of the car to protect the upholstery.

Last night, walking by the cemetery, we talked about the hillside covered in headstones. “These were people with voices and dreams and desperation. Lives.” I said. “Like us. They had just so many days on earth. These stones for me are not an abstraction.” She agreed. We must not waste our precious days lost in the weeds. Railing against the weather.

When the deluge comes, it’s best to hold hands, turn into it, and laugh. Joy may sometimes come in sprinkles but for us it usually arrives in buckets that soak us all the way to the skin.

read Kerri’s blogpost about JOY

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Amor Fati [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

A week ago there was snow. It came and went like a sacred Tibetan sand painting: between the initial pristine white blanket and its rapid disappearance, it passed through several glorious configurations. My favorite was the field of pocks sculpted by drips falling from eaves and branches. Nature is both an excellent painter and a sculptor.

An old friend sent us a message on Kerri’s birthday. “Don’t let the old woman and old man in.” We are lucky, we have young spirits and are given to exploration and play. Nevertheless, I took the message to heart, though with a subtle modification. I altered the message to eliminate the resistance. Rather than erect a fortress against aging, I want to feed the spirit in my life-sand-painting. I want to appreciate all the phases and beauty along the way as nature sculpts me. Amor fati. Love your fate. Love your face. Love your spirit and the day in which it dances.

read Kerri’s blogpost about SNOW POCKS

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Heed The Stone [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Stones are markers.

When we wander the cemetery at the end of our street I sometimes see the headstones, not as location stones, but as boundaries-marked-in-time. Before. After. The leaping place of souls.

There are stones placed to indicate a borderline. I imagine the stone with the spray-painted message is one of those: beyond this point is the land of love. Who wouldn’t want to cross this border? Who wouldn’t want to step over this divide and wander in the frontier of love?

People stack stones to mark the way. To help others. To help themselves find the way home. Ease of passage.

This stone quietly standing along the bike trail does not call attention to itself. In fact, we’ve passed it many times and only just saw its message. Like a pictograph left by the ancients, someone-in-time felt compelled to leave a message on the path for others to see. A boundary in time? A borderline? A passage marker? An aspiration for travelers along this route?

Good choices, all.

read Kerri’s blogpost about the LOVE STONE

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A Sculpture Worth Making [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The question floated across my screen, something I’d asked a group many years ago. I don’t remember the moment so it was a blast from the past of a former me: apparently I asked, “What if no one else has your answers?”

The timing was interesting since I am currently without answers. Well, more accurately – more honestly – I’m standing still surveying the wreckage.

I appreciated my blast from the past because now, at this point in my life-journey, were I working with a group, I’d flip the equation and ask, “What if no one else has your questions?” I’m no longer a big believer in answers.

We stopped in the long hallway leading to the contemporary art collection to admire the lens. I didn’t note the title or the name of the artist so I cannot give credit where credit is due. I’ve looked at the piece before but never with the same appreciation. Never from this moment in time. It was suddenly, intensely relevant. All points bend toward a common center. A point of view that generates circles. A single intersection.

“It’s an ego,” I thought. It believes it’s the center of everything that’s happening. It made me laugh. It brought to mind the ubiquitous lesson from Quinn: “There are six billion people on this planet and you are the only one that cares what you think.” Or feel. Or see.

No one else has your questions. No one else has your answers.

Standing before the sculpture I imagined flipping the script and reversing the circle: what would it look like to genuinely care what other people think. Or feel. Or see. With no need to understand it or change it or control it. Only care about it. About them. There’s a common center available in that paradigm, too.

Now, how do I make that lens? That’s a question worth asking, a sculpture worth making.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE LENS

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Welcome This [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

My series, Earth Interrupted, is as yet incomplete. I started it like I start most things – a happy accident – or more accurately, my brush giving voice to something rising from the deep that had not yet hit my brain. I completed five canvases and then stepped away. It needed to simmer. I needed to simmer.

The Lost Boy – my play with-and-about Tom Mck – took over a decade to germinate and find its place on the stage. My new play, Diorama, is an idea that has been with me, stewing, for many years. Last fall it rolled out of me in a process that felt easy though I know better. It took a long time to find “easy”. Now the real work comes: finding the path to performance and release into the world.

I spent the morning looking at my Earth Interrupted series. I’ve not visited these pieces since just prior to the pandemic – so it’s been awhile. The original impulse must have stewed long enough because the series is calling me back – though not in the usual sense. I have no images in my mind. I have no real passion to explore the initial notion behind them. I do, however, want to get lost in what I know will be the slow evolution, the process of allowing the image to find me, not through my mind, but through my quiet. I yearn for the quiet. I quite literally ache for the stillness that I experience when I paint. It’s the process that calls.

This series began as a meditation. It feels as if the sun is reaching through a thick layer of clouds. I am lucky. I listen for the voice rising from the deep. It’s been a long time. I welcome this meditation returning, breaking the surface at long last, and signaling that it’s time to come back home.

Earth Interrupted 1, 48″x53″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE SUN AND CLOUDS

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Maple Dreams [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Tiny helicopters capable of catching the wind and carrying the seeds of a maple, each a pod of wild-tree-possibility.

They require something more than luck to let-go and launch into space. With no control over the direction or force of the breezes, once aloft, they twirl to their seemingly random destiny. Some will find fertile soil and ample light. Most will not. The strategy of the mother tree is nothing more or less than to freely scatter potential, to litter the area with maple-dreams. The evolution of hope.

Some pods never launch just as some ideas never take hold. No matter. Creativity in all its permutations is an infinite game. The idea that lands in just the right spot at just the right moment may, in time, grow into a mighty tree. It may not. The perfection is in the process of plenty, not in the illusion of a single flawless ideal. “Throw many pots.”

On her piano is a notebook of songs and compositions. Hieroglyphs to me but she need only open her burgeoning notebook, decipher the magic writing, and play a song or composition capable of making me weep. Or smile. Or feel something so deeply that I lack words to express it. Her compositions are pods waiting to launch. Pages of plenty, ideas-in-sound, waiting for the force of the unpredictable wind to carry them…somewhere.

She is like the might-maple-mom. Freely scattering potential, littering our lives and those around us with ideas in word and music and paint. She’s so abundant – her idea-pods so ever-present – that we take them for granted. Each carrying the pip of a mighty potential, the germ of a forest of possibility. They are everywhere.

Some have found her intimidating and tried to constrain her promise, to lasso her imagination. Too bad.

Today she completes another spin around the sun. I can already see the next generation of magic seed pods forming. I can’t wait to see what wonder-of-her-spirit will take root and reach for the sky.

[happy birthday]

read Kerri’s blogpost about PODS

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Pull The Thorns [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Matthew and Rumi agree: “You hypocrite! First take the beam out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

 The Buddha is purported to have said: “The faults of others are easier to see than one’s own.”

The message is ubiquitous. The teaching is universal. If you wish to wander in the fields of flowers, pull the thorns from your heart. And, like all simple truths, it’s easier said than done.

History is riddled with the greatest persecutors loudly proclaiming themselves victims. It’s a pattern. Sometimes the odor of hypocrisy is faint. Sometimes it stinks to high heaven. Currently, we are watching this age old drama play out on our political stage. No-self-awareness. Not-an-iota-of-personal-responsibility.

It’s worthy of Aeschylus. It’s a theme that runs through the greatest works of Shakespeare. Othello. Hamlet. MacBeth. Lear. Tortured thorny hearts with split intentions. It’s ever-present because it’s a bear-topic that every human has wrangled. Psychologists call it “projection.”

There is no path to inner peace that does not begin with dedicated self-reflection, self-revelation, and a subsequent healthy course of eye-beam-removal. A good honest look at the thorns carried within the heart before the plucking. What’s true of an individual is also true of a community.

And, if we are lucky and brave and honest, “…at length, truth will out.” A good test of truth is the flood of peace that ensues. A wander through the fields of flowers.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PULLING THORNS

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A New Day [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

A new day.

Sometimes it takes a storm blowing through to make you realize what has value and what does not. The tornado takes the house, scatters the possessions, but the family is safe. No one is harmed. The wind takes the clutter and leaves a certain clarity.

I once knew an accomplished artist who lost his life’s work in a house fire. What I assumed would be tragic, for him was an opportunity: “I’m alive,” he said, elated. “Now I have a completely clean slate and can discover my work all over again.”

The storm comes. The veil falls. The Great and Powerful Oz is nothing more than a man with levers and illusions of grandeur hiding his real face behind a curtain. Dorothy suddenly knows without doubt what is true and what is fabrication. It’s quietly liberating.

She watches The Great and Powerful drift away in his hot air balloon and clumsy illusion. Dorothy realizes that no one can give her what she already possesses, an integrity of purpose, a vibrant spirit, surrounded by honest people who love her in a place she calls “home.”

A new day.

Nap with DogDog & BabyCat, 36″x48″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about A NEW DAY

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