there was not room on island for an easel, canvases, this cart of paints and this beautiful wooden box of brushes. they waited at home for david’s return.
consumed by many tasks and layers of work since we arrived back home, we are surrounded by boxes and bins still unpacked. there is much to do. we have many other things tugging at us and these packed boxes, although frustratingly in the way, have sunk to a lower rung on the list of things-to-do.
d spent a bit of time rearranging his studio to accommodate some new items passed to him and some things to help store for 20. in those moments, the brushes and paint spoke to him. a bit of time, some available canvas, an easel lit by basement spots. it doesn’t take much for the juju to revive itself, for the muse to gently remind you that it’s there, waiting.
and so, there will be more time. there will be more paint, more sweeps of brush across canvas. the tools of his trade await.
yesterday, while i sketched moments on various keyboards, both pipe organ and piano, d sketched on paper. and he somehow captured how i was feeling. the lifting of eyes to the universe, the imploring of the heart. his scribblings on paper, my scribblings on keys. two artists, expressing.
the telling of the story – through music, through painting or drawing – does not demand complexity. sometimes it aches for simplicity. a pure line of melody, unadorned. a few fast pen-lines, unfinessed. the telling of the tale, honestly, pitch by pitch. not the skirting of the story, the fancified version sung by an vocal acrobat. instead, the straight-up carole-king-richard-diebenkorn-versions, sung note for note, painted line by brushed line, color by color. intense in their clean simplicity.
the more complicated things get, the more i list toward simple. less is more. my piano left hand has always been a virtual non-stop accompanist to my right hand, arpeggiating ad nauseum. in recent years, i’ve asked it to calm down, to allow room for the delivery of the right hand, to allow breath, to allow lift. together, they have given space for the real scribblings, the true expression.
if you have ever been to a taize service, you will have experienced the wisdom and power of repeated simplicity, a line of music that will take you to your knees. nothing advanced or embellished.
if you have ever held a child’s drawing in your hand, you will have experienced the wisdom and power of innocence, art that will take you to your knees. nothing advanced or embellished.
powerful emotions swept through me the first time i joined hands with d and prayed. it was quiet so any talking or wild display would have been inappropriate, but those tears…i was struck by the rush of it.
there is deep strength in the joining of hands or the kneeling down together and a universal ask for wisdom, for healing or an expression of gratitude. it matters not what your deity is called. what really seems to matter is that together you face the world, together you figure it out, together you give thanks, together you create love, acceptance, peace.
had the presence-most-powerful-and wise-in-the-universe wanted us only to be solely and inwardly and separately focused, perhaps there would have been just one person – ever – on this good earth.
but there are about 7.7 billion people. indeed, there must be at least one with whom we can each choose to join hands.
this painting is magical. it is the stuff of dreams, the stuff of hope, a vision of the future, the thready sharing of life and love. it looks more to me like flying than resting and, perhaps, as the wedding gift that d gave me four years ago today, it was prophetic. with the presence of mountains and a daisy, holding hands, embracing, perhaps dancing in flight, it is what we knew then.
what we know now is so much more.
our journey, our flight, together has, in its rawest form, a newness. meeting smack-dab in the middle of middle-age has its interesting elements. not that either of us is rigid…oh, no….of COURSE not. but when you are nigh 60 years old you do have your ways of doing things. add to that the fact that we are two artists artist-ing together. sheesh! there are some lively chats in these here parts. and to feel like you are starting over again – in your middle 50s – is time-warpy. there’s a lot to learn…but i guess that’s always true.
i have to say that i have never argued as much with another person. i’m quite sure that we agree the sign we purchased on our honeymoon in the mountains of colorado says it all, “you are my favorite pain in the ass.” it goes both ways. we definitely have a full-spectrum of emotions together. we are the best at disagreeing; we are the best team together.
i’m eternally grateful for this gift. i cannot adequately put this into words, so it must suffice that – this is the man i skip with.
i have no idea where this journey with mountains and daisies will take us. we are open to the mystery as we continue this amazing flight. allways. always. magical.
we sat, broken down, during commuter hour, just north of milwaukee, in the fast lane of I-94. big red had stalled and would not start.
d called to me on the walkie-talkies i always insist we have with us when we are driving separate vehicles. i was car lengths ahead and had moved from the fast lane back into the right lane in sudden stopped traffic when he said, “k.dot! i’m broken down!” i took the next exit, drove back north on the highway, took the exit after i saw him sitting in the fast lane, cars backing up in stopped traffic. i eventually made my way to be right behind him. sitting in the fast lane of the interstate with angry commuters approaching and trying to resume their 75mph to no avail is not my idea of a fun time. the police officer soon got there, and it was a great relief when he pulled behind us with his lights on, effectually calming things down and blocking us from oncoming traffic.
and there we sat, broken down in spirit as well as mechanically. we looked like the beverly hillbillies and i would have drawn the comparison aloud, but i fear that the police officer was too young to understand the reference. big red and little baby scion were both full of stuff, for we were moving off-island and back home. dogdog and babycat were in the scion with me, none too pleased with the sounds of traffic.
while waiting for the tow truck, d, with no success, occasionally tried to start big red. and i, of course, while relaxing, stationary, in the fast lane of the thruway, texted jen, mistakenly panic-dialed my girl and wendy when i was trying to reach roadside assistance and googled reasons why an F150 would turn over but wouldn’t start after a sudden stop. i, channeling my sweet poppo, decided it was the fuel filter or something to do with that, not that i could do anything about it. i just liked trying to figure it out. and i had nothing but time on my hands. big red hadn’t had a lot of gas in it on island and we had just filled the tank a couple hours before this happened. my guess (truly just a guess!) was that when big red stopped suddenly, sediment that had collected in the gas tank temporarily blocked the fuel filter. sounded plausible to me, dogdog and babycat, both of whom had great investment in my figuring it out.
about 45 minutes into the wait for the tow truck, big red decided to give up the game and started.
the very-nice police officer got us off the highway and we all stopped in a parking lot to chat about our fun time together.
we googled back roads home and while we were slowly driving these back roads, d crackled over the walkie-talkie to me, “well, i wish that our good angels would make something good happen.” i answered, “maybe they just did.”
angels are indeed all around us. it is possible, of course, that there was a reason not to be on the highway at that particular time. maybe there was a reason we needed to pause in our trip. perhaps there was a reason we should drive the back roads home. surely, there was something.
we pulled into our driveway safely about two hours later.
i don’t purport to understand this watercolor WRESTLING WITH AN ANGEL. i, instead of wrestling with angels, will express a gratitude for all the ways we remained safe in an event that could have had many difficult turns.
the fresh simplicity of this painting makes it feel scandinavian to me, clean lines, blues, yellows. i recognize it. its warmth. its less-is-more-ness.
i also recognize the image. the moments we stop, head down, turning inside. pondering, wondering, musing. the palette of our hearts, our lives, a mixture of emotions, we try to wrangle a few minutes of quiet to sort it all out.
this painting – INNER LIFE – is a breath of fresh air for me. a reminder of what a few silent minutes can offer.
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.)
reverse threading 