There’s nothing necessarily extraordinary about the trail I was on this morning. I’ve relished my river time the last few years, but recently realized lately I’ve spent very little time in the woods. So I took advantage of the cool morning, set aside other tasks and wandered up our local Mill Mountain. There was a time not long ago when this was a Sunday morning ritual for me, and it felt really good to go back to my “church.”  

I encountered no one on the hike up, and this allowed me to more fully immerse into the environs. I was pleasantly surprised that despite not hiking for several months my legs were up to the ascent. A sense of peace steadily washed over and through me. I became aware how much I missed the familiar trail and multi-sensory forest experience. The steady rains this summer had nurtured a solid canopy of rich green foliage that kept me cool and in shade. Chickadees and nuthatches chattered and a few woodpeckers could be heard tapping away. I noticed my breathing adapted to the pace of my steps. I enjoyed the slight challenge of stepping over decades-old roots and small rocks. I recognized a couple of landmark boulders like familiar friendly faces I hadn’t seen in a long time. 

I felt a presence in these woods, I suppose mostly from the trees. It’s a peculiar, hard to define sensation. The soil isn’t especially rich, mostly shallow and rocky, and so lots of the trees are a foot or less in diameter; a few are double that size. Occasionally in my life I’ve felt the power of a particularly large tree — especially potent in old growth forests — but this morning what I felt was not that. It was more like a communal energy emanating from these hillsides. It is impossible to walk in a forest left to its natural course and not come upon hanging limbs here and there, fallen trees, decaying stumps, fungi, moss, and sprouting saplings. The full process of life is conspicuously on display. And prodding our other senses as well with scents of pine or decomposing wood, the texture of smooth bark we and a thousand others have grasped to round a switchback, and even the varied feel of moss, sandy patches, mud, or pine needles crushed beneath our step.

Though savoring the trail, my mind floated to recent news of yet another friend’s passing. Does the opening of our hearts after losing a loved one make us more sensitized to the death of others? Are we as a culture insensitive to death? Do we act this way to avoid dealing with it because we are so lousy at facing it? Unlike the obvious cycles of life in a forest, it often feels like our culture wants us to deny that aging even occurs. If we remove convenient yet quaint ideas of an afterlife provided by our dominant religions, are a cynical atheism or a clinical adherence to “science” the only alternative? I don’t have answers; I only know I sometimes sense an awareness that transcends my experiences. 

As I made my way to the top, I noticed a young doe very near the trail calmly, innocently, munching on some greenery.  Even as I stopped and stared, it continued, life eating life, listening intently, ready to spring, yet delightfully unafraid. We may not be able to articulate everything we know in words. But somehow, our brief encounter and exchange of presences, our communion, for me felt deeply reassuring.

Even after hundreds of floats in my slightly discolored, slightly misshapen inner tube, few things bring me such peace. It’s been in the 90°s here and I’ve been working outdoors. After a hot workday, cooling my limbs off while gently carried along in a slow-flowing river is exquisite. Encountering a few other beings seeking refuge only adds to the delight. And if they aren’t noisy humans (with noisy mechanisms) disrupting the serenity of the moment, for me, it’s as good as it gets.

​I happened to notice the female yellow-crowned heron in the branches of the tree on the right. We eyed each other as I drifted past. I’d already passed a couple of males upstream. It occurred to me the setting sun might make a nice counterpoint to the bird’s silhouetted form in the branches. So, unusually, I managed to quietly back-paddle with my hands against the current, toward where she was perched. Though she watched me warily, and hopped within the branches a bit, fortunately I didn’t scare her off. As I worked to hold my place paddling with one hand and fumbling for my phone with the other, clouds wafted in front of the golden sun, and I felt further lucky.
 
I snapped a few photos, let go of resisting the flow, and as I drifted downstream, contentedly absorbed the whole shimmering scene. The vast 60 foot piers of the Elm Avenue Bridge framed it all even as I felt everything (including me) merge into the gorgeous and ever-mysterious unfolding. Gifted beyond words to be part of it all. 

​Sometimes I find it helpful to reflect on where my painting has led me. Here’s an overview of last few months of mostly small scale paintings—the scale somewhat prompted by circumstance. In my process of making paintings, the final image or “end point” is almost never defined in advance. So coming into dialogue with what emerges is a delicate process, and more so is sensing when a work is “complete.” To a degree it reveals things to me about myself, my life in the moment, and as a physical record becomes (I hope) something for others to enjoy. 

I find it’s rare for me that a painting can’t be improved upon after the first few sessions. I often see (in my own work and others) art that has an interesting effect or shows off skill or finesse, but wears thin after a few viewings. Once in a while a piece feels wholly complete in a session or two. And for sure sometimes I’ve lessened the best qualities in a painting by overworking it.

I like journeying (via this admittedly conservative route) into the unknown, through this process of discovery in making my simple paintings. I feel very fortunate to do some exploration through this discipline. I’m not (currently at least) out to push the art world (whatever that is) in any new directions, nor alter society toward what I feel it should be. I just want to add some beauty to the world.  Each painting is a sort of physical record of a small journey, which I feel can act as an object for contemplation. 

A dear friend and patron recently mentioned she could sense a certain “engineering/musical composition” quality in my finished works—and I take this as high praise as I’ve great admiration for both disciplines. It’s my aim to make art that will still captivate me on repeated viewings. For me this often requires lots of looking and considering. I want all that I make to have “staying power” and be able to give back to the viewer continuously, hopefully for years. 

This is why I like having a studio at home. I routinely set my work up around the house to take it in slowly. When I can glance at works daily, it keeps the conversation fresh for when I can get back into the studio. When I focus on them I’m watching for what catches my eye in successful or unsuccessful ways. This lets me steadily refine or tweak a painting over several weeks. So here’s a smattering including the beginning of a larger scale one, using the small one to its right as the starting point. Even when a larger version begins from a touchstone, the end result inevitably takes its own course. I always look forward to seeing where it ends up. 
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I was feeling out of sorts this Sunday morning — perhaps from attempting to digest a recent diet of info, the type we may not even realize we’re gorging ourselves on. It can be engaging and yet (especially our fear-based “news”) unconsciously enervating. So I took a walk this AM to the river and sat on some rocks on the bank. To do this from the greenway that parallels the river, you have to make an effort because except a few places (Iike near the bridges) the river is separated by a strip of un-manicured grasses. Which means going off the mowed path next to greenway, down a substantial bank where few besides fishermen and deer wander. ​

I was happily surprised to see the now dried pale golden grasses were three to four feet tall. It takes a little effort to forge through them and the light brambles and brush, up to the natural riparian buffers along a waterway—a biological term I learned from my hydrologist brother in law, who’s been on my mind. These are also in a way buffers that, once crossed, in a small yet effective way offer a slight barrier  into a sanctuary somewhat shielded from the human-built world. 

As is my habit, I let myself be guided without thought and picked a spot, where I perched on a rock. Though some might call it “zoning out” I prefer considering it “zoning in” — both to the place I am and in a delicate balance “within” my self. The time flew. I let the sound of the rippling water soothe my mind. Though the water was flowing I was aware of how quiet and still it felt on this gray overcast morning. Initially not much seemed to be “happening.” The water was cold and clear as glass, fully revealing the river bottom, but with my limbs condensed in a squatting position, I stayed warm. 

There were just a few chirps and only a couple fluttering wings within view along the bank. Slowly I noticed that little sprinklings of leaves floated down when the faint breezes blew, released like handfuls of confetti by the few trees that had any left to toss. What for a year had been receptors for collecting energy for the growing trees gracefully merged into the current and became part of the river. They were already only half visible as they floated by. I didn’t realize how long I’d been poised on the bank until until my knee alerted me it needed to unbend. Almost an hour had passed. 

As I stood, right in front of me multi-colored leaves long underwater caught my eyes. I snapped a few photos. For me taking photos is often a way to get more attuned to what I’m immersed within. I became conscious of the bright reflections on the surface competing for recognition with what was below. The depths were lush and rich; bright freshness and decay were complexly intertwined. Mostly I see the immediate appearance of people, but often am too self-involved to discern what’s going on below the surface in their lives. That requires awareness beyond myself, practice in being open, and perhaps allowing space and time. 

Over decades the tough bark achieved by age-old trees becomes soft, fragrant humus; over aeons the solid rocks steadily transform into the grains of quartz on the ancient river bottom; my life’s presence is a passing shadow in this illusion time.

Although my digital device “captured” the imagery of both above and below, when I look at the resulting photo, it’s hard to find discreet disconnected objects upon which to focus. As if the flowing melange was in effect more “real” than any “things” we strive to identify. Seems a fitting analogy: we intellectually desire to comprehend and “make order” of our world, label things and people as a way to assure ourselves. Yet the “reality” is, it’s all in motion (as are we). So, even as we might desire to make quick assessments based on the “solid” input of our senses, filtered through our learned experiences, it’s mostly just an abstraction our minds create. When I tune out my mind a bit, a different way of knowing reveals the swirling waters within which we‘re all just joyful bits of melting confetti.