John Wiercioch
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Reflections on the Art of Living

Hillside Communion

8/14/2022

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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.
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Gifted

7/21/2022

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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. 
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Silver

12/18/2021

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The other day I saw a photo of myself from a few decades ago. It documented a time when my beard was reddish. My mom had gorgeous auburn hair, my older brother was a more true redhead, and my nephew’s hair glows scarlet; clearly it’s in our genes. Somewhere, slowly but steadily a shift occurred and the rust-brown became more umber, then my beard started getting salty. Nowadays, it’s mostly silver. 

It’s never been something I worry over. It’s the kinda thing that I only notice on a random, unusually awake morning glance in the mirror. Needing a trim when my facial hair gets scraggly gets more of my attention. Other typical American concerns about my body like the wrinkles, a tan (or lack of), or the steadily thinner hair atop my scalp are pretty meaningless to me. The wrinkles are a record my habitual emotions, just as the lines on my hands and callouses on my palms reveal how I hold tools. You get to place of acceptance. IE: I’ve accepted it requires a little more time to rejuvenate after an especially long hard workday. 

I’m very thankful I’m still capable of working a physical job all day long. Grateful for this body which, even if I’m a bit more deliberate, pretty much will do what I ask it to do, and much of what I could decades ago. Maybe some of that has to do with experience and learning how to use my brain more and my body more properly, or at least more carefully and efficiently. To degree it’s also just lucky genetics. 

I like staying active, and getting outside somewhat all year round. When you are, you can’t help notice the seasons also make transitions. They turn from sprightly spring greens to the banquet of colorful summer blossoms to the vivid flame-like notes as autumn descends into the spare bones and shimmers of gold and silvers in winter. My 94 years young mom is for sure in winter. And yet, to me, her essence is more radiant now, maybe as her physical body becomes more frail, the Light within is able to shine more fully through. 

I feel like I’ve entered autumn, having now (probably) lived more seasons than I have left… Not that I overthink these ratios of past and future much, nor dwell on actuary tables really. The days float by and things change. Like noticing less russet and more silver in my hair—“Well whadya know, when did this happen!” Other experiences are more profound and wake us from the routine. I’ve learned brushes with death, or the challenging loss of loved ones, for sure press the opportunity for such contemplation into our awareness. 

Why are these necessary to be aware? In a more subtle, far less dramatic way, a deep view at the river’s edge, or even a long look in the mirror can prompt one to ponder things. Does our vision become more cloudy and nostalgic as we age, or is our perception more “real” and “accurate”? I wish it was clearly the latter, most of the time.

As winter approaches, the flamboyant rainbows of youth set aside, the river reveals underlying tones that are the color of precious metals and jewels. There’s a bedrock honesty to the silvers and golds, something invaluable in the glimmers of emeralds and rubies. Or maybe I’m just imagining them, looking to find treasures in the now crystal clear waters. Real or not, it’s all a precious gift to me.
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Review

12/18/2021

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​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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Seeing Below

12/5/2021

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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.

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Tonic

11/9/2021

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After nearly two months convalescing, today I finally felt up to walking to my old sanctuary, and sat on a rock along the river. As is my routine, I randomly departed  the greenway, carefully stepped down the steep embankment, trudged through the three-foot tall grasses, and was pulled to approach a large tree. As I neared the bank, a large umber-green toad hopped out of my path and disappeared in the tangle. As if directing me, in the next step I saw a large contractor bag beneath the grasses. It’d been invisible from the greenway, but I recognized it; I’d collected plastics and set it up on this same bank during one of my last floats. (I carried it up to the trash on my return today.)

I clambered slowly and carefully over the rocks, and settled on a smooth one at the water’s edge. I let the sights and sounds cascade over me. It felt so renewing to be there and absorb some of the energies pouring from this artery of life that I’ve communed with these last few years. Though, as always, I had plenty to think about, I tried to let go of thinking and just feel the moment and sensations. It took several minutes. I slowly became aware of the rich scent of the river, which was punctuated by the aroma of decaying foliage all around. 

As is our human habit, my mind was eager to grab hold of some thing, thoughts being one way we tend to “verify” our individuality and so reinforce the notion of our separateness from life. I gently unfocused, and tried to simply feel the flow of the riverway. At first I sensed the breezes, the warm sunshine on my skin and the shimmering kaleidoscope on the surface of the water. Occasionally my eyes were attracted to the minnows just below the surface, or my attention was pulled to the tweets of the field sparrows behind me, or downey woodpecker chipping away on the overhanging dead branch. I recall noting (happily) that directly above me was an American Elm. And of course, just downriver stood a great blue heron, patiently watching for breakfast in the shallows, but also, I knew, keenly aware of my presence. 

Yet I hadn’t made this trek to the river (my first in eight weeks), my being wasn’t drawn here, to identify species. So whenever my intellect began to ponder such specifics, an aspect of “me” softly turned this labeling lens out of focus, allowing a broader view. It’s a different way of knowing, one I often try to tap into when fully immersed in making a painting. This shift exposed the subtle movement of everything flowing and in process at once. It’s like experiencing life as a verb rather than freezing and ordering it into discreet nouns. Akin to the transition from identifying the sound of one instrument in an orchestra, to attending to the full harmonics of the symphony vibrating in one’s being. It may not jibe well with so much of what our culture is built upon, but it was precisely the tonic I’d been sorely missing and deeply appreciated. 
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Contagious

10/31/2021

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It had been a long week. Parts of me were sore — still getting used to working again after a period of necessary convalescence. I was feeling a bit worn on the short drive to my job. As I stopped for a red light, I realized a friend with whom I’d been working all week was driving the car next to mine. His kind mom, also a friend, was in the passenger seat. She and her husband had moved to the eastern shore after retiring a few years ago, so seeing her surprised me. We waved and dropped windows. 

“We we’re just talking about you,” he said. “Where’re you headed?” I asked. “A funeral out of town for a friend.” I felt embarrassed, as he’d told me the day before, but wrapped up in my aches, I’d already forgotten. I wished them a safe trip and couldn’t help but think how much more potent funerals must feel for her, as she was a cancer survivor. As quickly I recalled how, although we were not close friends when she used to live here, she’d out of the blue written me to generously offer accommodations in their new home if I ever wanted to get away to the peace of their near-ocean sanctuary. 

I continued toward the art museum where I was working. At the next light a raggedly-clothed pedestrian was attempting to cross before the light changed. As she did, another car turned into her path, oblivious of her. Fortunately the walker was alert and stepped back. As the light changed, the car facing me stopped and rather than rush to work, waited for the pedestrian’s passage. I followed suit. The woman hurried across and waved a sincere thank you. 

A second car had been behind the first considerate driver. I now waited for them to pass so I could turn left, instead, the kindness seemed catchy, and they waved me through. I gestured thanks, and made a mental note of the contagious nature of simple kindnesses that aren’t  looking for payback. 

As I drove the last few blocks into the heart of downtown a light rain began to fall. Slowing as I rolled up to the market building crosswalk, I caught sight of a burly, bearded man walking toward me. Almost hidden by his girth was a two foot tall toddler in a pink hooded slicker, wearing bright yellow rubber boots. He was delicately but firmly holding her hand, which seemed barely the size of his thumb. I stopped and motioned him to cross. He nodded a smile that was the radiant smile of a patient yet proud poppa with a child who has only recently learned to walk. As they slowly made their way to the market stalls on the opposite side, I noticed the driver of the stopped car facing me was beaming as well. 

All these exchanges added at most two minutes to my little ten minute commute. Yet my petty aches had vanished, my focus was entirely re-oriented, and suddenly I was more aware of the light glowing everywhere in my small part of the world.
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Surf’s Up

10/31/2021

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Harvesting in the Quiet

10/6/2021

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We’re instinctively attracted to the dramatic. Flashes of excitement command our attention. A thunderbolt, fireworks, a human tragedy! We’re pulled together out of collective concern. Our media and entertainment generally exploit this innate tendency. 

In a powerful but different way, the Grand Canyon, a new born, a heartfelt song, or a gorgeous sunset can all sweep us together in wordless awe. I find it more interesting to cultivate ways toward this type of connection. Some traditions use the rubric of turning inward and focusing on one’s breathing, acknowledging the immediate sensations of one’s body; or noticing one’s thoughts or emotions without engaging in them. I’ve always been a fan of folks doing whatever works for them to find their center if it causes no harm to others.

Being a borderline introvert, it comes easy for me to softly engage with the world. Our cultural and intellectual awareness is primarily visual. It can reinforce our habits and sometimes, our addictions and prejudices. Visual beauty captivates me, but from early on, I wondered what makes me think something is beautiful? So I was also drawn to the less showy, the unrecognized drama. Heated societal debate may go on about which shock topic is more special or deserves our priority. Often I’d rather explore the rich wonders that lie “in plain sight,” humbly awaiting my discovery beyond the boisterous, exuberant melodramas.

There are profound wordless insights within exchanges in the quiet. Only when I silence the clamor of my worldly concerns, do I create space to receive them. Such “listening” requires a certain unforced awareness. It’s not intellectualized, nor wholly sensory, but I find the path through the senses offers me a foothold and a springboard. It’s not limited to places nor things, sometimes people evoke this mysterious merging. 

Some of the most engaging and enriching people in my life have been quiet and unpretentious. Whenever it occurs, the bonding is less a process of building and more about disclosing what already is. If I can set aside self-centered urgency, be patient and fully present, the genuine connection has room to be revealed.  All sharing is enhanced if not rushed; as our experience deepens, it becomes more timeless. Whether with our own breath with the atmosphere, our awareness with a humble flower bud, or our essence with another being of any form, for me this beautiful communion of presence is the joyful purpose of life.
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Unseen Forces

8/19/2021

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The wind pressed into my awareness lately.  It’s not something one generally factors into deciding about a float on the river. Yet on a recent float a headwind greatly extended the time a friend and I were on the water—despite our low profiles near the river’s surface, a light breeze will silently accentuate or buffer the gravity-driven current. And it can reveal our fragility by chilling a wet body in short order. Even our colorful sunsets can be ascribed in part to the wind-driven wildfires across the globe.

We’ve had several storms pass through here, hurricane remnants. Enhanced by our climate changes, these now can include tornado-watches, a once-fragmented by the mountains novelty that more robust storms have made more common. Storms routinely dump 1-2+ inches in quick deluges, something rare in my childhood that’s also now the norm. 

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Floating the river on a breezy day can reframe one’s view. The glass-like surface becomes rippled, transforming rays of sunlight into a hypnotic shimmer. The river’s usual reflective mirror becomes instead an abstraction highlighting the pulls and vibrations of the wind. Unseen force are made visible. Evening colors dissolve toward silvers and golds, as if the wind eschews being robed in the colors of material things.

Intrigued by the metallic palette, I plunge my hand into the waters, captivated by the whorl it creates. For an instant I see a world unto itself. It melds into the whole, as surely as we all will. But it was never really separate from the river, so the notion of merging is a falsehood. Can we recognize we too are not separate? That we too are never really apart but rather, just an integrated part of the whole?

The breezes sweep us forward like leaves, bit players that we are. Mostly we act out futile egos in this timeless drama, even as we have the potential to recognize the larger view. Relinquishing control to the elemental forces of gravity, wind, and sunlight, I pass under the canopy of century’s old trees, between boulders worn over thousands of years. Waving my hands within the gentle flowing resistance of this ancient river, I feel connected to mountain springs pouring into creeks far beyond my limited sight. Floating helps me sense the limitless, unseen energies sustaining all beneath our minuscule roles.  Without answers to the many pressing questions storming through our time, I try to listen to my heart and take love and beauty as my guides.
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    ​John's Blog

    Writing offers an opportunity to clarify my thoughts and feelings. Often these relate to my art and may offer insights about my work. I learn from engaging with others and welcome comments. 

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