Light Ten Candles [on Two Artists Tuesday]

I never tire of telling this story. 4th of July, 2013, Kerri and I walked through the festival booths and carnival rides, we avoided the stages where bands were covering well-known tunes, we passed the pie-eating contest, and stopped at the jumping dog competition. Dogs running and leaping through the air into a big pool of water. Doggie long jump.

While we watched the antics, we talked of someday having a dog of our own. We dreamed that our dog would be black – only a black dog for us – and we’d name it Earl. Or Erle. It is our shared middle name so it seemed only natural to give the pup the family name. Little did we know, on that day, I imagine at that precise moment, our Tripper-Dog-Dog-Dog was born. Dogga is a 4th of July pooch.

Three months later, driving the moving van loaded with my worldly possessions across the country, just after entering Wisconsin, we passed a sign that said, “Aussie pups.” We weren’t ready for a dog. I told Kerri that I thought it would be safe to look since Aussies are never black. We flipped the van around, drove up the long farm driveway, jumped out and greeted farmer Don. “We’d love to see the puppies!’ we chimed in unison.

“Well, I only have one left,” he said, “And no one wants him because he’s black.”

I think it was the first time that Kerri punched my shoulder and gave me that look.

And, although we weren’t ready, I can’t imagine life without our black dog that refused to answer to the name Earle. He’s as quirky and complex as we are, more sensitive if that is possible. He taught us what to call him, the first on a long list of lessons he’s had to teach us.

Today we light ten candles on the Dogga cake. We celebrate the best u-turn we ever made. We toast our willingness to take the leap before being ready. Our life together is made infinitely richer for it. Now, who wants cake?

read Kerri’s blogpost about DOGGA BIRTHDAY

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Touch The Immensity [on Two Artists Tuesday]

I’ve always felt a kinship with birds of prey, especially hawks and owls. If I fully comprehend the concept of a “blessing” then I feel blessed when one of those great birds cross my path. A sign. A message. An acknowledgement.

A guide.

Last fall we were with a hawk when it died. From my office window I saw it struggling. It was laying in the middle of the street. I grabbed a thick towel so I might pick it up and move it off the road without harming it. Just as I was ready to placed the towel over the bird, like a rocket it shot into the sky landing in the tree above me. We watched it. After several minutes, it suddenly flapped its wings and then fell to the ground. With the towel, we bundled it and put it into a box. We called Fellow Mortals Wildlife Hospital and the DNR to ask what we should do. By the time we reached someone, it had passed.

It is possible to Google anything so I searched for the meaning of the experience according to the good-god-google: Something new is about to begin. Let go. Move on. Good advice and useful every single sunrise.

Searching for meaning. Making meaning. What could be more human?

I thought about the hawk when we came across an owl feather on the trail. At first we thought it was a hawk feather but the good-god-google instructed otherwise. They are easy to confuse since the feather markings are remarkably similar.

It was important to discern the difference since the meanings according to the good-god-google differ. If an owl feather, then wisdom is the theme. If a hawk feather, then the gift of power and courage to overcome obstacles.

Or, it’s simply a beautiful feather that brings to us the great gift of appreciation, no good-god necessary.

Mostly, the pursuit of meaning from our bird encounters plucks the bass string of human yearning: connectivity to something larger. Something much larger than the good-god-google, a numbers god by definition, sporting 100 zeros. Something much larger than prayers or mantras. The resonating recognition that comes when gazing into the infinity of a midnight sky. The briefest touch of immensity when standing before the rolling endless waves at a beach. The vibrantly alive blue ball of earth as seen from the moon.

Pay attention. This bird carries a message meant for me.

Being – beyond the limitation of words, like the feeling of kinship with a passing hawk. The awe of a midnight hoot from an owl. The driving necessity of making meaning of something as precious and passing as life.

read Kerri’s blogpost about OWL FEATHER

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Reflect The Light [on Two Artists Tuesday]

One of my most prized possessions is the homemade notebook DeMarcus made as an art student. It’s his notes from a class on color. The pages become more brittle with each passing year. The pencil notes are fading. Every so often, when I need a masterclass from a simpler time, I gingerly open the notebook and read a few pages.

The first entry always catches me. “Color: Light is a form of radiant energy transmitted by wave movement through space and is perceived visually.” The underlines are his. Radiant energy. Wave movement. Perceived.

It’s the second half of the page that grabs me: ” The (3) Qualities of Light: Physically = Life-giving. Mentally = Intelligence. Spiritually = Divine Wisdom…Think of color as light reflected.”

Keep in mind this is a beginning art student taking notes during his very first course introduction to color. His instructors are teaching him that working with color is working with light that is either life-giving, intelligence emitting or wisdom divine. In other words, working with color matters. To work with color is to give voice and expression to light. The work of an artist is about more than finger painting.

“Light is individualized by its contact with substances into COLOR…Think of color as LIGHT REFLECTED.”

If I could, I’d offer DeMarcus’ little notebook to all those fear-mongers out there scrubbing Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion curriculums and initiatives from their states. Scrubbing color from their palettes. Eliminating light. Life-revoking, intelligence numbing, wisdom stripping.

Repeat in pencil: To work with color is to give voice and expression to light. Think of color as light reflected.

Simple clarity from the first pages of a first year art student written in a homemade notebook more than a century ago. This nation is made vibrant through its rich diverse color palette. Why-on-earth would we knowingly, willingly, turn off the light?

read Kerri’s blogpost on COLOR

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Take Pride [on Two Artists Tuesday]

This is Pride month and, for myself, to the the brilliant rainbow flag I’m adding a metaphor: the circle.

The circle is a universal symbol and that is precisely the point. Ubiquitous. Common. Applicable to all.

Google the metaphoric meanings of a circle and you’ll discover simple, nonpareil aspirations. “The circle is both an image and metaphor of completeness and equality. There is both protection and democracy within its confines as people face each other without visual hierarchy.”

Completeness and equality. I rolled these words around a bit. Celebrations like Pride are how we strive to complete the dream of equality. Or, better: how the dream of equality strives to fulfill our founding intention. It’s written in our Declaration of Independence. We hold these truths to be self-evident.

Protection is a word but in practice it is among the deepest of human necessities. Protection is the gift of equal inclusion. Every single point on the circle is necessary; “…without visual hierarchy”. Inclusion has recently been made a tug-of-war term, a specter of the scary monster, Woke, but beyond the ruckus it is not an abstract highbrow concept. Not really. It’s a fundamental: a community that cares for its own. In tribal communities being cast-out is a fate worse than death. An outcast is never safe. Safety-for-all is among the aspirations of Pride. To come safely home. One need not be woke to grasp the concept. Compassion for others requires very little sophistication to grok.

And so, for me, I take Pride in the circle. That which leads back to itself, the original source. Our oneness. Our deepest humanity. Wholeness. Original perfection. Timeless. All the colors of the rainbow.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CIRCLE

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Encounter The Plantimal [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Suddenly, stretching its neck beyond the leafy cover of the forest green, a Wild Giraffe Flower looms above us, scrutinizing. We stand very still. Though not dangerous, a Wild Giraffe Flower sighting is rare and their behavior is largely unknown. Our guidebook cautioned us not to run away but to stop all motion, take deep breaths to calm ourselves, and appreciate the moment. I whispered, “Remember. Be still. Breathe!” Wild Giraffe Flowers are skittish around humans. Kerri managed to get this single photograph. Any more movement and she feared the skittery plant critter would quickly disappear.

Traditionally, Wild Giraffe Flowers are thought to be one species: giraffa taraxacum officinale. We read that there are most certainly subspecies but scientists have had little opportunity to gather data so the question remains open. They are hard to track. Hard to find.

“Wasn’t that incredible,” Kerri said, showing me the photo of the Giraffe Flower. “I can’t believe I caught it!” We were still breathless from our encounter with such a rare plantimal.

“I can’t believe it stayed with us for so long.” I replied. “We’re sooo lucky!”

“True,” she sighed. “It’s a good thing I caught the photograph. No one would believe us otherwise.”

“Yes, I’m sure they’d think we’re just making this stuff up. Like it was only a dandelion or something.”

read Kerri’s blogpost on WILD GIRAFFE FLOWERS

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Choose A Better Story [on Two Artists Tuesday]

Watching an early episode of the Millennial Farmer I was astounded to learn how computerized farming has become. Driving the tractor was far more digital-than-donkey. Even the word “driving” is mostly misplaced, just as the word “telephone” is loosely applied to the magic box in our pockets that searches the internet, takes photographs, measures our step, our heart rate, acts as a calendar, a compass, a flashlight, a newspaper…

Farmers can do more, faster, with greater precision. The seeds are planted to exact depths and meticulously spaced. The temperature of the earth and the minerals in the soil are collected and measured as data points. The farmer monitors the technology and engages the steering only when making a turn. Keeping the machinery in good running order requires an entirely different set of skills than it did twenty – even ten years ago. I wonder what farming will mean to the grandchildren of the people I watched mowing their fields. Like a modern car mechanic, in addition to wrenches and oil, farming demands computer diagnostic skills and a continuous upgrade of software. While the process is different, the basics remain the same. Plant. Nurture. Grow. Harvest. Feed.

To feed. Hands in the soil. Eyes to the horizon gauging the weather. Eyes on the advanced weather forecast technology. Praying for rain. But not too much.

There’s an old black-and-white photograph on the wall of the farmhouse we rented for our family gathering. People assembled on the porch, wearing high collars and long prairie dresses. Horses and wagons populate the foreground. I marveled, standing on the same porch in the old photograph, how close-in-time I am to the people in that picture. Two headstones away. Tom once told a story, when he was a boy, of sitting in the lap of an elderly woman who, as a small child, sat in the lap of Abraham Lincoln. That makes me a mere three headstones from the 16th President. “He smelled of saddle soap and lavender,” she reported.

I hear abundant chatter about rural America being all red and urban America mostly blue. Both colors have to eat. Both are made better by technology. The food is grown in the red while the computers are imagined and made manifest in the blue. A single step back from the chatter reveals how truly interdependent we really are. I am grateful for the easy availability of food at my local grocery store. I imagine the farmer is grateful for the advanced technology that takes some of the guesswork and toil from their lives.

We are, all of us, a single headstone away from passing on a better or lesser world. Both are possible. The choice is ours. Where do we desire to place our focus? What world do we desire to create?

Farmer’s take great pride in feeding the world. Entrepreneurs and software engineers take great pride in making tasks easier for others. Generally, gratitude is not only a much better story than division, it’s also more productive. It’s also more honest. I find that people are highly motivated when helping others. The question is, “Why can’t we see how we are helping and being helped?” Our interdependence is right in front of our faces.

The noisy trappings of our time may seem complicated but the basics remain the same: Plant. Nurture. Grow. Harvest. Feed. We eat what we sow. We choose the thought-seed that we plant. Technology can help us be more effective and efficient. It cannot help us gain wisdom or sort what we lose in our dedicated color-crayon-divide. It cannot help us choose or pass on a better story. Only we can do that.

read Kerri’s blogpost about HAY RAKES IN THE SKY

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Accept The Gift [on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

Years ago Tom gave me a bit of career-advice that I’m still trying to take: “Unlike most people,” he ominously said, “your path will never be about plugging into life. Rather, you must find how life can best plug into you.”

Joyce, a healer and mystic, got that look in her eyes, and told me that I was never going to pursue a single profession. Mine-to-do was to see into hearts; mine was to guide people to their truths.

These days, their words ring loudly in my ears. In the past 24 weeks, since the start-up collapsed, I’ve applied to over 100 positions. Each morning I open my email and find the latest thanks-but-no-thanks. And, each morning I ask myself the same question: How do I – this time – once again – at this stage in my life – find how life might plug into me? I’ve received plenty of ideas-for-jobs and more than a heaping spoonful of advice. “Seeing into hearts” and “Guiding people to their truths” is not stellar resume fodder, even when it includes owning businesses and fixing businesses and coaching people all over the world and painting paintings and directing plays and repairing broken theatre companies. Those “ways” feel finished.

I’m working very hard to find ways to plug into life.

It was a great relief to unplug from the fruitless pursuit for a few days. To gather with my family, to say good-bye to my dad, to eat and drink and play at a farmhouse that will forever represent the time and place an era ended and a new age began. Sitting on the porch in the morning sun I felt spacious for the first time in many months. Standing in the yard watching the sunset, I was quiet inside. Rooted. Easy.

I hadn’t realized how compressed I’d become. How air-less. The farmhouse served as a gift from my father: take a deep breath. Nothing more. Nothing less. This life is quickly passing. Relax. It will find you.

I stepped into the morning sun and practiced my tai-chi. These words from the Buddha came to mind: “Joyful participation with the sorrows of the world,” The accent is on the word “joyful.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about FARM SUNSET

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Embrace The Accident [on Two Artists Tuesday]

I am a big believer in happy accidents. Kerri didn’t intend to take this photo. A vibrant shock of red thrust into a field of green. I’m tempted to slap a title on it and enter it into a contemporary photography exhibition.

I’ve read that serendipity, an “unplanned fortunate discovery,…is a common occurrence throughout the history of product invention and scientific discovery.” It’s also a common occurrence throughout the history of art. It’s also a common occurrence throughout the history of…history. We have experiences and then we make meaning of them. Not the other way around.

I suppose we pride ourselves on our capacity “to know” so we forget that all knowledge is the result of a stumble, a discovery found at the far end of curiosity, exploration or an outright mistake. The point of a hypothesis (to borrow a term from Quinn) is to cultivate serendipity. Try it and see what happens.

I’ve been following the conversation in the tech-o-sphere about the sudden blossom of the very lucrative job “phrase engineer.” Human beings attempting through trial and error to learn how best to converse with the technology we’ve created. AI. ChatGpt. The unspoken goals are (not surprisingly) efficient and effective communication. There are now several sites with useful phrases, conversational hints, Youtubes abound with guidance for best ways to ask better questions, quickly eliciting the best result: an answer. It’s glorious and reminds me of old 3rd grade language primers or my high school foreign language class – only more enthusiastic.

I am among the millions who hope beyond hope that someone-out-there bumbles into the secret of effective communication. Perhaps if we discover how to communicate with artificial intelligence there will be a profound blowback and we will, serendipitously, discover the secret of easy communication with each other. Generosity. Empathy. Kindness. How-you-say-what-you-say matters.

“AI, tell me what you see and I will listen with an open mind and heart.” I know, I know. More pie-in-the-sky. But as a dedicated believer in happy accidents, I’m given to think that anything is possible.

read Kerri’s blogpost about RED ON GREEN

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Make It Visible [on Two Artists Tuesday]

“I believe that the very process of looking can make a thing beautiful.” ~ David Hockney

Sometimes I look at a blank canvas and see a composition. My job is to follow the image. To make it visible.

Sometimes I have an idea and I bring it to the canvas. My job is to explore the idea. To make it visible.

It’s a chicken-and-the-egg conundrum. What comes first? When I look at the peony do I see beauty or do I bring beauty to what I see? Is beauty a decision?

“Good-God!” I hear Kerri’s inner monologue-commentary on my too-ponderous questions. “Get out of your head! Smell the peonies!”

I wish I could. What happens when it’s not a peony that I see but my neighbor? Or someone whose worship is strange to me? Or someone with a different opinion?

Sometimes I look at a blank canvas. Sometimes I have an idea that I bring to it. Sometimes my job is to follow the image. Sometimes my job is to explore the idea.

The tricky part of language is that the biases are unseen. For instance, in English, the emphasis falls on the noun: me. Canvas. It implies the two are separate. Distinct. It obscures the relationship between. Connectivity is relegated to the basement, a lower status or obscured to the point of nonexistence. It fosters a philosophical orientation of…”it happens to me.”

Connectivity, once seen, once understood, requires us to recognize our responsibility for what we see. Our participation in the dance of creating what we see. In what we bring to “it”. What, exactly, do we wish to make visible?

read Kerri’s blogpost about the PEONY

Join The Receivers [on Two Artists Tuesday]

“…artists take delight in and care for their work, and we are thereby inspired to find delight in our own work.” – Alex Grey, The Mission of Art

Standing in front of the Atmospheric wave wall, an art installation at Willis Tower by Olafur Eliasson, I imagined how much fun he had creating it. Monumental. The colorful waves rolling up the side of a building. I wondered, if on visits to Chicago, he delights in watching the play his wave wall invokes in passers-by. I would. His work is spatial so it invites full-body engagement. I had to touch it and lean in against it. I had to put my face close to a wave and look up. The shock of vibrant red among the blue, purple and green made my eye dance across the vertical water.

It is one of the great joys of my life to be surrounded by artists: people who care for their work and find delight in it. David just completed a year-long project, a rewrite/updating of Six Characters In Search of An Author. He directed the first production of his new script. It was thrilling to witness his delight in the process. It was gratifying to watch how he navigated his doubt and fear. The delight and the fear go hand in hand.

It’s worth noting that caring so deeply for your work comes with a studied courage. There’s a very nice lie about bold artists throwing caution to the wind and creating without caring how their work is received. That, of course, is worthy of a press-release and works for image-branding but fully negates the point of artistry. In order for a work of art to be a work of art, it requires an audience. A giver and receiver. A loop of caring. The armor must come off. Expressing beauty or seeking truth is nothing if not a shared meaning and a shared truth. Artists may reach deep into themselves but the point is to engage and express meaning that comes alive beyond themselves and between others. Vulnerability is the secret sauce that connects the two into one.

I didn’t know about the Atmospheric wave wall until we rounded a corner and I saw people enthusiastically embracing it, standing back and craning their necks to take it in, gently moving forward to run their fingers along the wave ridges. The pull was immediate and I found myself joining the receivers of Olafur’s artistry. Armor down, hands planted firmly on the wall, we snapped a photo and I deeply appreciated his whimsy and moxie. Inspiration ripples to the sky!

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE WALL

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