there are moments when everything seems like a big deal. our own planet earth is up close and personal, every concern a meteor about to threaten our very existence. the sum of the individual pieces too much to bear. we wonder, wonder, “what is going on?!”
and then there are moments when perspective reigns. when we can step back, see the bigger picture and realize that everyone has their brown paper bags full of baggage, of difficulties, of things to sort, to keep, to ruthlessly throw away. the moments when you stare up at the night sky into the milky way and feel ever-so-small, knowing that you are alive and this very moment will not pass again.
EARTH INTERRUPTED. pieces of everyone’s brown bags, torn, scattered and intermingled. no longer baggage-holding. an earth close-up and glowing. full of the hope of it all fitting together: people, issues, problems, loves, wishes, peace.
we canoed out to hog island. it is a bird sanctuary and so we could not get out to walk around the giant rock that it actually is. seagulls and pelicans, terns and geese congregate on this tiny island and they are protected, their habitat is protected.
each morning, each evening i stand at water’s edge and gaze out on the lake toward little hog island. i watch as the lake changes, sometimes hourly. i can hear the birds out on that island, the waterfowl, the screeching seagulls, cranes in the distance. behind me, david is busy with his sketchbook, drawings passing through his hands, fodder for later paintings. for me, standing there, lyrics pass through my mind. i breathe slower and without paper i try to remember them, try to remember the melody that flits through, beckoning me to follow it. i jot it all down once inside, fodder for later songs.
we walk usually every day. sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night. we take the same path that leads us about three miles, watching the woods as they change. there is a place we pass, fenced in and covered with some kind of netting, a low building in the distance. two months ago, we had no idea what it was all for. but as time has passed, the pheasants have grown and now we can see them in the enclosed area. they are protected. for now. because we understand that they soon will be released. as soon as the dnr hunting season starts. i stand, staring at them through the woods, through the fence and i breathe slower, tears starting. it is hard for me to have walked this way every day now, knowing they are right there, peeping and crowing, growing, unaware. not knowing, i imagine the worst – like ‘the hunger games‘ – release them and then chase them down. it makes me shudder.
a bird sanctuary. a bird farm. the juxtaposition is like the lake – fickle and hard to understand. one minute serene and calm and protected, the next churned up with irregular-rhythm-waves that batter the shore, dangerous and unprotected.
i wish that the pheasants were on hog island instead of around the block.
it’s the second time this week i have quoted john denver. surrender. sweet surrender.
this painting in david’s HELD IN GRACE series is called SURRENDER NOW.
giving it over, surrendering, relenting, succumbing, relinquishing. all synonyms with slightly different connotations, slightly different surrenders. within yesterday’s grey-ness and vulnerability, surrendering seems most obvious, most necessary. the letting-go-of-control-and-trusting is difficult. the barricades between you and surrendering a fortress of spider-webbed resistance. we tend to fight surrendering. we tend to forget that we will be held within that yielding.
columbus turns 86 today. somehow, in his ever-joyous soul, he is surrendering to a changing journey. somehow, he is gracefully surrendering to the anguishes of dementia that slowly, but surely, take over. he laughs. he is quiet. he tells stories. he has forgotten stories. he doesn’t remember things. he remembers things. he knows how to do tasks he has done for years. he has no recollection of how to perform tasks nor does he recognize the familiar around him. he doesn’t remember us. he remembers us. we hug him and he surrenders to the tears he feels when we leave. he is held. by his wife jeanne, by his children and his family, by his friends, by those who love him. he is held. his surrender, whether intentional and thought-out or simply reactional grace, is like a fish in the water, like a bird in the air.
i honestly (get the pun?) don’t think i need to say anything else about this. in light of everything, the subject(s) seems/seem most obvious to me.
(FLAWED CARTOON was drawn and created by david and our dear friend 20. their cartoons were timely, profound and, mostly, very very funny. the pig push puppet is a part of my push puppet collection, which, i am sure, you never imagined me having.)
i don’t purport to understand every painting of my visionary husband. if i ask him what a painting is about, he posits a question back to me, “what does it mean to you?” in normal conversation, this kind of question-question response is not troubling, but in husband-wife conversation it is slightly irksome, one of those times where you gently roll your eyes at your partner and sort of hope that coffee grounds find their way into the bottom of their first cup of coffee the next morning. ok, so maybe not, but it is from a little bit of laziness that i sometimes want him to just TELL me. instead, groaning, i take a tiny step back away from the painting and let emotion take over.
the title of this painting THREE GRACES suggests (from research) the goddesses of things such as “charm, beauty and creativity”. a wealth of goodnesses, a wealth of possibility. an appreciation of every little gesture, every honey bee, the creation by others of a world of wonder and challenge.
in our world today, we first cover our disbelieving eyes with hands of despair. we look to the heavens for guidance. we ground ourselves, one hand firmly planted for balance, the other on our foreheads, thinking, thinking. we seek to find answers, ways for charm and beauty and creativity to thrive. and the elusiveness of peace.
when we were first talking, we discovered we were both artists. he – a painter. me – well, you already know that part. we were far apart in distance so we did not see each other or the work of the other in person. he didn’t come to any of my concerts. i didn’t go to his gallery openings. but….there is this thing called the internet.
it was with much curiosity that i sat down to view his paintings. i wondered about his style, his choice of color, the movement in his paintings, the emotion. our budding friendship would not be dependent upon whether or not i liked them, or even understood them. but i must say – in all honesty – that it was incredibly convenient to find that i LOVE his paintings. i love his style, his choice of color, the movement in his paintings, the emotion.
this painting, ICONIC, was the first large painting in his YOGA SERIES. full of grace and the expression of inner peace, ICONIC is stunningly big (54″ x 54″), a statement piece that i have no doubt will soon grace the wall of the owner who hasn’t found it yet.
anyone who has purchased an actual painting – not a print or facsimile of some sort – knows that it is a relationship that develops, that the owner and the painting find each other, that it is not merely a purchase. it is the bringing home of a piece of someone else’s heart. the hanging-on-the-wall of someone else’s heart. or, in the case of music, as i well know, the listening to of someone else’s heart.
and then, while no one really paid attention – distracted by other things….
this painting is called ICARUS and, not being too much of a study in mythology, david told me the story. now, somewhere in the bank of knowledge that i have learned and somehow forgotten, it resonated. no matter. it is certainly relevant now. the shout of “squirrel!!” and the shifting of gaze happens time and again. our attention-deficited-culture becomes distracted by you-name-it and we miss things that are happening, that are more monumental than we realize. icarus flew too close to the sun. we try too hard. we push. we seek to achieve. we don’t pay attention. we miss. we get burned and fall. others fall around us. we don’t really pay attention.
what is really happening in our world while we are paying attention to the latest headline? what is really happening in our world while we get caught up in the latest rhetoric? what is really happening in our world as our politicians play shell games with us while the stuff of real importance they skirt past us?
david knows that i don’t really like this painting. it’s one of a very few that i would say that about. (just as i am quite sure there are musical compositions of mine that are not his favorite.) i feel a kind of mayhem, a kind of negativity from it. it unnerves me. but, alas, it is a contemporary statement. we don’t really pay attention.
“You must wait patiently, knowing that you’re waiting, and knowing what you’re waiting for.“ (carlos castaneda)
way back when, almost three decades ago, saltines were my meal of choice. i was waiting for the birth of my first child and saltines were helping me wait – patiently. i woke each day, wondering, wondering. i knew that what i was waiting for would change my life forever, would give different meaning to being here on this good earth, would be a miracle of outstanding proportion. it did change my life. it did give different meaning to being here. it was, and still is, a miracle of outstanding proportion. my girl and my boy – both waited for, with all my heart.
most things in life require waiting. some things require more patience than we can muster. we balance impatience with the force of knowledge that we simply cannot change the time it will take. it takes what it takes. my sweet momma would say, “good things are worth waiting for.” sometimes you need to tie a weight to your toe…to ground you from floating away in a cloud of impatience, to keep you in balance, keep you in grace, to help you wait.
i remember my big brother skipping stones. always my hero, he was inordinately good at it. even over waves as they came into the shore. it wasn’t just the flattest stones, either. he could skip most anything. there’s a certain stance, a certain fingerhold of the stone, a certain turn of the wrist, and the stone would defy physics, drawing an invisible ellipsis across the water, touching ever further out.
the concentric circles. we sit in the middle of our own hearts, our own joy, our own pain, our own little worlds.
this mantra starts closest, a fingerhold on our own-ness. each repetition is a prayer for one who is a step away, two steps, three steps, a community, a country. the ellipsis goes on. the prayer is never-ending.
“the river is moving is moving and i am still i am still. the challenge of the seeker is not to be separate from that you seek. and sometimes as kdot said you have to stand still stand still and let what you seek catch up to you.”
stand still stand still. difficult. every single cell vibrates with the anticipation of movement movement. every single atom. every single frequency. every single. but to stand still. in it all. and wait. we are here. we are the past. we are the future. it is all the same. we stand in it. some of it fades away and some of it catches up. all while we stand. and tremble in not-knowing. and quiver with suspense.