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 theΒ beam out of yourΒ ownΒ eye, and then you will see clearly toΒ remove the speck from yourΒ brother’sΒ 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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Take Heart! [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Look carefully at the top of this photograph and the story will become clear. There is a giant pursuing this caterpillar.

The fuzzy critter must have taken something from the giant. A golden goose or magic potion for transformation. And then, in the dead of night, made a run for it. I’m not sure how but the caterpillar climbed down the bean stalk or leapt the crevasse or…navigated whatever obstacle separates the land of giants from the land of future butterflies.

It might seem hopeless for the racing caterpillar -as is true in all worthy stories. The fuzzy hero seems doomed. The giant might in a single stride catch it and reclaim the stolen treasure.

But take heart! Carefully note that the giant is standing still! It has yet to spy the fleeing larva. Just beyond the photo-frame is a field of tall grasses! A meadow without end! A chance of escape, though not yet visible to us, is within reach!

Imagine it! The giant catches sight of the caterpillar as it rushes for the cover of the meadow. He steps, his foot thundering just behind the caterpillar, bouncing the vulnerable critter off its feet. The giant reaches! The caterpillar rolls and in a miracle of impossibility, regains its footing and in a desperate leap disappears into the grasses, wriggles into the shrubbery.

The giant howls and thrashes at the tall grasses, pulling apart the Milkweed, tearing up the Wild Carrot, to no avail. The caterpillar, against all odds, escapes.

And now that it has safely absconded with the magic potion, the golden goose, what will it do with the power of this great unknown? What possible future does it imagine this adventure will bring?

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CATERPILLAR

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Enter And Listen [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

A Haiku for You

A forest critter,

Gnome, Leprechaun or Spirit,

Tree Dweller, Heart Door.

Sometimes I want to believe in magic. I want to think there is an angel at my side. I want to sit in the certainty of Rumi, knowing without doubt that the entire universe, the whole of infinity, is tipping in my favor.

Sometimes I want to know what tomorrow will bring. No surprises. I want to know that the good people will win over the rage-mongers and truth-spinners. Just like in the movies. I want to know that perseverance will inevitably meet ideal circumstance and all will be well in the end. I want to be at the other end of the week so I can tell the story of what happened, the story of stamina and fortitude fulfilled.

Sometimes I want to know that the eagle flying by at just the right moment or the hovering hawk or the owl hooting outside my window at midnight is bringing me a message: we’ve got your back. Fear not. Take another step. From our height we can see the meadow, the sun and tall grasses. We can feel the hope, breathe the calm.

Sometimes when she spies a heart-shape and kneels to capture it for her collection, I want the gentle spirit, the gnome or sprite living in the tree or residing in the leaf shaped like the symbol, to make themself visible to us and affirm that there is meaning in the mystery, that in this life there is more sense than we can possibly imagine. There is reason. A reason. Yet, I already know what it would avow if it allowed us to see it: the meaning of the mystery is always found right where we knew it would be, where we know it to be: in the heart. Our vast open hearts. We do not need to seek it or wish for it. We need only enter and listen – more than just sometimes.

read Kerri’s blog about HEART DOOR

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Pluck The Symbol [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

Tonight, as we near the day of clover, the celebration of St. Patrick’s snake dance, we will make corned beef and cabbage for our weekly dinner with 20. There will be Guinness, too. The snakes in the story, by-the-way, are symbolic. There were no actual snakes in the region. Remember, as I will when tipping my Guinness, it’s a religious holiday though, through the advent of Guinness, pagans like me can play, too.

One of my favorite things about human beings is how blind they are to their natural curiosity. For instance, read the wikipedia entry for four-leaf clover! There’s layers and layers of data on the odds of finding a four-leaf clover. Sometimes curiosity looks like study. Sometimes it looks like science. Or engineering. It’s one of my least favorite things about human beings: we can kill the spark, snuff the magic of the curious story-telling-mind, by how we tell the story.

Believe the snakes are literal and you miss the point of the story and misunderstand the reason for the holiday. The same is true with arks filled with animals and the Red Sea parting. Metaphors made literal: the apple remains uneaten. Knowledge dies on the vine.

Symbols open stories. Symbols make the story universal which is impressive if you stop and think about it. How can two people, living in two different cultures, who don’t share a common language, understand in-a-flash the same idea? Symbol. Metaphor. Heart openers. Mind expanders. Experience joiners.

In the epic of Saint Patrick, as a pagan I’d be one of the metaphoric snakes driven into the sea.

And remember, the data suggests that for every ten thousand three-leaf clover that you spy, you’ll find one stem with four. A symbol of good luck, no matter what the data suggests.

Train Through Trees, 51″x46″, mixed media

read Kerri’s blogpost about CLOVER

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