It’s easy to dismiss the cold days of winter as “dead” — especially when there’s just a smattering of snow on the ground. The brisk gray days can sap of our vitality. The last few days of blustery winds took my breath a few times while I walked. When I removed my gloves to snap photos, within minutes the crisp air had chilled my bare fingers numb. If I stood still it felt like, despite my layers, the warmth of my body was being sucked away. Yet it was just this stopping, allowing a moment for the scenes all about me to seep in, that revealed more than a bleak and frozen world. 

I quickly saw there were several bluebirds, quietly puffing up their feathers as shields to the wind (no breath wasted on chatter), as they perched on chosen branches to take in the rays of rising sun. Somehow, amid the patches of icy snow they spotted tidbits of food, and darted to pluck something to eat off the ground, more intent on refueling than worrying that I watched them. The bright sparks of cobalt blue in their haunches and tails flashed against the white sheets of crusty snow, umber gray patches of earth, and ochre-toned grasses.

The high waters of the river flooded my ears with a steady, gentle backdrop roar. The soft metallic-jade color somehow made the clear water feel dense and rich. The powerful currents and swirling flows took on a hypnotic rhythm, framed by trees posted into bluish-white snowy banks. The cool tones dominate in the early morning hours, but they also make the random, humble, rust-colored leaf glow by contrast. 

The leafless tree branches show off the directions of their warm-weather striving. The stalks of the grasses and brambles act like directional hashmarks that have chaotically yet carefullly recorded the wind flows over the landscape. And then there’s the patches of water, now frozen, revealing its resistance to solidifying with its tell-tale lines and ridges and lone twig, leaf, or blade of grass surrounded but bravely standing firm. The surface offers a strangely soothing dynamic of ovoid geometry that glimmers and sparkles on its edges. Here and there offering frosty views of the clouds and pale blue sky, and even glimpses of the warming golden sun. In so doing the static ice confirms the movement of the earth, the steady inexorable march of the seasons, the constant and rich current of life pulsing forward.
 

​When I’m receptive to it, the webs connecting us seem everywhere and my days often seem to unfold in an almost magical fashion. A little over a week ago I made the 600 mile trek to visit my mother who lives on a tiered campus that includes an assisted living facility where she has an apartment. She’s doing remarkably well, considering the challenges of nine months of COVID-19 isolation (for her safety) and the fact she’s 93. The first “visit” was through her living room window. I perched in the snow next to the bird feeder while we spoke on our phones. Our family has figured out this is an option requiring no permission, administrative logjams, or scheduling and our mother can stay warm (in her jammies if she wants) in her space. It’s a bit tougher in the cold, but you do what you gotta do. Plus seeing the person who brought you into the world and has always cared for you unconditionally is worth any effort. 

We also scheduled a couple of safely masked and distanced indoor visits in person. One was intentionally timed for us to be able ZOOM—watch her granddaughter (my niece) get married (her wedding had been virus-postponed twice!) It went smoothly and despite the damn virus we all still got to feel like we were part of the ceremony. I’m grateful all around: for the facility that cares for her, for the digital WiFi  technology, the much-needed boost of seeing two young people forge forward in a commitment to love, and the shared time with my mom.

I also took a couple of paintings off my walls for her so she could have something new in her simple space to enjoy. I figured she’d only want one, but this way she could choose. I brought the unselected one, titled “Crocus” home with me. The morning after my return was the Solstice, and since that painting has a sunny feel, I decided to post it on FB. I also took a river walk at dawn after posting it. While strolling I happened to offer intentions about my future. My talisman, a great blue heron, synchronistically responded on the walk. 

Immediately following the solstice walk and essay writing, by chance (or not?) I had a long heart to heart conversation with a new friend who happens to live in Kenya. She’s made me aware of a wonderful non-profit that works with “street kids” who, largely through their own grit, survive the hardship of  living within a huge dump near Nairobi. The organization uses the arts as a means to empower these scrappy young people and tries to instill in them both the skills and the self-confidence to one day be able to move beyond this challenging place too many of them were born within. Amid COVID the pressures on them are all the more heavy, and for those offering helping hands finding the resources to change lives is so much harder. I invite you to look into them via the link. 

That afternoon, a dear friend, (we bonded during the terminal illness of a mutual friend who collected African art), saw the “Crocus” post and decided she enjoyed it so much she’d request it as a Christmas gift from her husband. It’s always very gratifying when something I’ve helped bring into the world is appreciated by others; she generously confirmed things after I delivered and hung it yesterday. A purchase by a close friend, to hang in the warm home of a couple whom I love is exponentially all the more special. They live in a gorgeously furnished home, full of several African works (from our now gone mutual friend), as well as other very beautiful objects, so I’m further humbled.

I rarely define what I’ll paint beforehand. That evening a small painting came forth of a floating heart— for me it related to the conversation with my friend in Kenya, or reflected a shift in my own heart-space. I shared it on FB and was surprised and honored when, within hours of my post, another person I greatly admire messaged he wanted to purchase it. He embodies service to others, and again I was very touched. Such support is always appreciated, especially this year. 

I’m very eager to embrace more time making art, but I also know I’ve been blessed with good fortune to have had steady house painting work throughout this virus. While these art sales are a deeply felt validation of my yearnings toward my future, which I will honor, I also firmly believe in paying forward. I recognize there are very many folks in heart-rending situations locally and across the globe. Given the ring of participants in this magical week, it felt perfectly fitting to me to be able to pay some forward from these sales to www.Alfajiri.org. 

I can imagine no more appropriate or satisfying way to add some light to the circle and help us all move past these dark days.

​Like it or not, 
Attempt to deny and defy it, 
March about it, scream about it,
Shout about it, wail and flail, 
Proudly wave your pitiful grasp of patriotism;
Pretend our laws don’t apply to you 
or your privileged few;
Tweet your toddler-like fingers off, 
Still won’t matter.
We’re not better;
We are more. 
More colors. 
More resilient. 
We’re all imperfect, 
but we can admit it.
Our roots hold fast even in storms
Because we go deep down
We know deep down 
We’re all intertwined. 
And we are growing 
Our shared future, even for you,
Like it or not, for all.
Soon you won’t matter;
A new day is dawning.
.

Among many gifts that come to me, I get to work in the homes of extraordinary people. Three days ago I happened to get a call about firming up the date for some house painting loosely planned last summer to happen this January. I’d worked for the kind elderly couple in 2019. (I’ll give them pseudonyms.) I texted about a possible start date “that could work for you and Dan” and Mary, his wife, wrote back informing me that her husband had died in September. Ugh! I was heart sick and expressed my sadness and concerns. She assured me she was doing ok, and we promised to talk about it in person in a couple weeks.

As we ended the chat a flood of tears burst from me. I really didn’t know them well, only worked for them twice, each time for about 10 days. But they’d struck me for several reasons. Dan, was tall and distinguished-looking, but had an informal manner,  and a friendly twinkle in his eyes. He was a former electrical engineer and had a brilliant, nimble mind. I learned one day from his daughter (visiting from NC), he’d been THE primary architect of the electrical systems for nuclear subs! His devoted spouse Mary had been a vibrant public school teacher, and still was a petite ball of energy. 

She needed to be, as Dan had experienced a couple strokes the last few years. These had left him wheel chair bound and he’d mostly lost his ability to speak. His mind was fine but he could only speak simple words with great effort. Mary had a capable part-time helper, a wonderful young man from Malawi who was indispensable to them, even still she had to handle a huge amount of his care. 

Besides all this, they both were extremely sweet and gracious to me! But what stood out from the first day I began working for them were their interactions with each other.  The last few years must have been extremely frustrating for them both: a vigorous body now barely able to stand, and scintillating mind, barely able to speak, and at a time when many have retires into a life of ease, a non-stop regime of work for his spouse, ever-trying to understand his needs, pains, and thoughts through barely perceptible mumbles. Yet even in the thick of exhausted moments, they retained amazing patience and grace. 

It was the second marriage for each of them, and came late in life, after kids were grown and they both were widowed. Mary was forthright but never bitter with me about their current circumstances and the challenges they both faced. Characteristically, they had me painting in order to prepare their home for the market, having accepted they could not stay there much longer. 

Yet what an inspiration they both were! Throughout my time in their home, their deep love for each other was conspicuous! It shined in big and small ways. It’s impossible to convey the feelings of witnessing a brave under-five foot tall 80 year old woman support her determined 6’3” husband as he leaned on his walker, summoning all his efforts as step by step they made their way together down the hall in their warm home. I recall seeing Mary gently stroking his semi-paralyzed hand, or sweetly wiping his cheek at lunchtime; other times watching Dan’s eyes glowing fondly while looking at her as he listened to her share a story with the soft focus of intense and sincere interest; or hearing him agonizingly struggle, through immense effort, to softly but clearly enunciate something witty that at once complimented Mary and made her laugh. 

Obviously, before his stroke and then beyond it, they embodied love. I’ll return to their home soon, to help brighten some of the old tones and spruce it up for sale. Hopefully Mary has felt a small measure of physical and emotional relief as she marshalls forward through her grief. But what will never fade is the energy of the bond they forged, the love they radiated, the way their true colors sustained them and, just as with me, surely touched and enriched so many other lives by their profoundly beautiful, genuine affection for each other.