I glance at a screen to look at emails but before reaching them, dozens of distractions vy for my interest and engagement. Regrettably the undercurrent to many is what will most provoke my emotions. Outrage at the latest political antics? Disgust at some obscene greed that’s the ever-in-waiting bridesmaid of our economic system? Frustrations at some gross injustice or terrible suffering occurring across the globe? A local scandal that may involve someone I once met? Or a heart-warming tale replete with video…?

There’s a handful of “lighter” clickbait: results of a sports event; maybe a random a tale of heroism; a famous person touting a new film, award, or partner. Perhaps a new factory opened in the region, or that new bridge project is finally underway. And of course ads for all manner of things to purchase, sure to make me happier, or “solve” an issue I didn’t realize I had until told of the solution to my previously unknown problem. 

Emotion-tugging trade-offs for all the conveniences I enjoy in modern life in the USA. Very minor complaints, as my world is relatively luxurious compared to the majority of humans. Traveling and stepping outside of my comfort zone just a wee bit the last few years has seared my privilege into my awareness. Indeed, having the room to complain is itself a luxury of my elite status. I don’t always succeed, but try not to waste energy in such directions.

I’ve unconsciously expended plenty of emotional energy over the decades, some joyful, some less so. Some foolish, some necessary. I’ve also done physical work full-time now for over 25 years, a different form of energy. My workday allows room for some contemplation as I labor, but I try to stay mindful of my tasks. Gratefully, I’ve reached a place where I can have some holiday “down time” and am very appreciative of those who directly and indirectly enabled me to be here.  

It seems our culture presses us to stay occupied. I’m old enough to recall being deeply moved by (and in full agreement with) John Lennon’s lyrics in “Watching the Wheels” as I involuntarily stumbled into adulthood. Two different forms of social occupation stand out: Pushing us to be “productive” — whether at a profession, in our society, studies, or in our personal life; or more sneakily, enticing us with distractions that keep us occupied emotionally so we don’t have to face broader considerations about life and where and why we apply our energy. Of course we like to feel we are choosing how much we swim in whatever direction. 

Yet it feels to me neither of these (“being productive” or “distractions”) encourages or inherently cultivates our sense of “being” — a simple contentment in being alive. 

As I sit on my porch typing this a song sparrow is projecting a sweet little flute-like melody with full voice from a nearby tree branch. A pair have nested in the hanging fern on the soffit. The local mockingbird perched atop the utility pole across the street trumpets out a longer arrangement of calls, copied after careful listening to several different feathered neighbors. I’ve been half-aware of both; only when I pause thinking do they arrest my focus. Because I learned their calls long ago, without Googling them up or thinking hard, I instantly identify them. I sip some water, take a few deep breaths and thoughtlessly drink in their songs. It’s as satisfying and nourishing  to my being as any tonic to my body. 

Speaking of this body, I become aware of the bits of poison ivy rash I acquired a few days prior, wrists and shins now itching — so my attention has shifted from emotions triggered by online blurbs, to thoughts formulating words about that phenomena, to the experience of isolating a few sounds reaching my ears, and on to the intimacy of my skin. Next I feel a few twinges as two winged ants are wriggling, caught on my hairy legs. I pluck them off and note another floats in the light breeze past my face. Then another. Suddenly there are dozens visible, wafting past like seeds on the wind. For an instant I wonder how long they’ve been doing so? More get stuck on my clothes and skin and the rain of flying ants becomes annoying enough to send me inside. 

I breathe back into the moment. The world we’re immersed in is so wonderfully rich, yet we remain ignorant of all but a tiny percentage! In my case, usually swimming in thoughts and emotions unconsciously entrapped within my supposed “self.” We’re trained to believe we’re the only  “conscious beings,” observing the rest of the world; disconnected witnesses in seats at the show.                     

Yet the birds singing are certainly aware of their song, as well as the songs around them, and of me, especially if I approach the nest. The flying ants may not all consciously be able to control their floating flight, or avoid getting tangled in my hair, but some seem to maneuver and the ones I pluck out don’t aim at my legs again. Am I really so different, to what degree do I determine where I will place my body? I surely didn’t plan on a rain of flying ants moving me indoors! 

Similarly, how much do I really control my emotions or thoughts? Like the annoying prompt of the ants, I may somewhat direct the flow of them once “they” initiate an appearance, but it seems wildly arrogant to pretend I direct the arrival of all my thoughts or emotions, or their departure! They fade in and out on natural currents as circumstantially-driven as the breezes carrying the ants. 

Just a few experiences with meditation reveals to one how we (mostly unaware) have perpetually active “monkey-minds,” leaping along from one train of thought to another. Parallel tracks carry loads of emotions, the cargo shifting depending on the recent or most pressing circumstances. In our culture, our somatic or bodily awareness is often the least noticed, unless we’re in distress, or a state of severe pain, or expectations driven by emotions or thoughts have raised flags. 

Years ago, I had the mistaken notion that meditation meant one “stopped thinking.” This is virtually impossible (unless we are brain-dead); rather, through meditation we get familiar with noticing our thoughts and feelings and bodily sensations, without becoming entangled in them. 

Of course this raises the seminal idea: then who or what is aware of these things? What aspect of this “self” is really permanent? And further, if thoughts and emotions and bodily sensations all come and go (and so, are in fact, temporary) how can we justify our identity, our “I”, as based on thoughts, or any of the experiences we’ve accumulated? The distractions and busy-ness of our world buffer us from the reality of just “being.” In being, we innately sense our inter-relationship within life. The great falsehood is our separateness, the great truth is our connectedness; war is the result of the former.

Instead of insisting “we” humans direct anything, and as arrogantly, that we are the only beings conscious of all other life, for “me” it is transparently obvious we’re within the Consciousness that IS life. In “just being” I begin to “taste” or lightly “touch” on the Consciousness that pervades and manifests as my body, and mind, and everything we can know. 

Despite our societal striving and distractions, it seems the best use of my energy is just being aware, through my senses — of the songs of birds, and breezes, and the flights of ants, and of my body and thoughts and feelings (and those of others). All of these interwoven energies manifest and connect, forming a dynamic flow that begins to glow, like the Elixir of Being. Who needs more to satiate a life?

The other day I happened to cross paths with a friend who was my yoga instructor over a decade ago. Despite (or because of?) all the years, I was struck by her radiance and vitality — her beauty. I’d always felt she was beautiful in ways that don’t quite fit the stereotyped, homogenized ideals so pressed into our minds by models in print and screen. To a degree my response was triggered by how she looked, but I suspect also by things that transcend visuals. With people, I feel it’s an ensemble of aesthetics, sensations, and energies, further colored at times by our previous personal exchanges or experiences with another.  A complex dynamic to be sure.

What makes someone beautiful? What defines beauty? Early on in my art career, I was exposed to art from different cultures and times. It got me wondering who or what determines certain objects are more beautiful than others. Was it just subjective or are there metrics that can be measured and quantified? How does the culture of the viewer affect the determination. 

Like everyone, I’d encountered things, people and experiences labeled beautiful and was often intensely moved by them, but why? 

A foundational understanding of art always involved beauty. In studio classes we aimed to gain a facility in handling a medium, and within this there were certain results we were striving to attain, usually based on a precedent of work done by someone else considered beautiful. 

A combination of my curiosity and a few seminal mentors expanded my horizons beyond concepts I’d acquired. This encouraged my quest to understand by learning about other cultural perspectives. It led me to consider the intersection between social norms of beauty while discerning my own felt responses. 

Which then led me to dive into questions about responses I had to any circumstance or experiences. How often were these the result of accumulated influences of upbringing, culture, or societal norms? What was “good” and “bad”, what relevance did “liking” a certain art work have if all responses were totally subjective? Or are there genuine felt ideals we all respond to, but which melt when we try to pin them down with the constrictive tool of words? How often were my reactions just “mechanical” or “habitual” responses? 

I veered from wanting to avoid imposed societal or peer-influenced views, to wondering if we ever could have fully aware, conscious responses to objects… How important was the context of the experiences? When does such an “experience” really begin and end? 

When I gaze at the roses gifted to me by a kind friend from his yard, I can be swept into gentle rapture by the peach blush as it fades within a single petal; or their delicate curves softly echoed by the form of the vase, both lightly contrasted by the leaves. Yet if I’m open to it, the sparkle of light passing through the water within the faintly greenish glass is equally as arresting. As is the dynamic of lines made by the interplay between the circular mouth of the vase and the edge of the round table top, and the vertical pickets supporting the porch handrail. All enhanced by the ever-shifting sense of depth — the trees and yard beyond come into view, but in the instant I shift my focus to the blossoms, this becomes a “backdrop,” presenting the flowers. So beyond colors,  there are forms, and shapes, and depth all adding to the visual symphony… and then there’s the breeze on my skin and both the felt and known sense of warmth sunshine both provides and evokes.

Birds begin cackling and calling fiercely and suddenly my attention is pulled to witness five or six robins screaming their fiercest while on the wing, as they chase a Cooper’s Hawk across my view. With an elegant swoop the loose cluster all glide swiftly across the street then out of view into the pines a few hundred yards distant. 

I’m able to half-sustain this awareness as I rise from the rocking chair and add in my own movement. I walk up the hill of wild plants thriving in my backyard, into the overgrown arches of trees in the alley. In between patches of bright sunlight, a black cat sits motionless up ahead. Our eyes lock and it stares me down for a few seconds. As I approach, it darts down into the shadows of the trees. A chestnut colored Brown Thrasher watches us both warily and then follows the cat through a passage above. 

Out of the alley and on the sidewalk, I pass a profusion of rose bushes bursting with color, hanging over the adjacent fence. Many blooms have shared their part in this chromatic chorus, and having graciously aged, let go. The morning rains and gravity have called hundreds of the multi-colored petals to the earth. Each one taking its proper, un-knowable, assigned place on the shimmering, umber-gray wet cement, continuing an evolving symphony to my eyes and other senses. I can “feel” the delicate velvet of the petals resting on the damp dense sidewalk underfoot. My shoulder brushes and gets splashed by the still dripping greenery that leans out to touch me as I pass. Everything glows and smells fresh.

What is beauty? When we allow our selves to “fully be” within the non-rational “now” — to embrace and not resist the whole flow of life — maybe the better question is: what isn’t beautiful?

A wonderful chat with an artist friend (four decades younger) in Kenya yesterday, and a local trip last weekend have me thinking about one of my mentors this morning. 

A small group of my friends visited the studio and woods at the home of Charlie Brouwer, a professor who guided me when I was an art student at Radford University, thirty-five years ago. He’s been making sculptures out of wood for longer. He and his lovely spouse (and high school sweetheart), Glenda, long ago settled into their farmhouse in forested getaway a few miles “off the hardtop,” as they say in these parts. He built a studio, they established gardens, and discovered trails on the old homestead. He slowly began placing his works along them, forming a sculpture park which they christened “Out There.”  

It’s an absolute delight. The sculptures are seamlessly integrated into the peaceful woodland setting. Light tones of stain on the mostly locust-wood pieces are further softened by weathering, dappled sunlight, and in some cases, moss. All are sensitively placed, in clearings, adjacent streams, or nestled within the company of their leafy relatives.

Charlie’s works are evocative and thoughtful, at times playful, they often exude a quiet joy. They’re always poetic and gently inspiring, much like their creator. They’ve set it up with a simple map with numbers that identify the works, so visitors can wander the grounds at their own pace. We were given the added bonus of Charlie walking much of the woods with us, and so able to glean in-depth backstories about many works, the former owner of the homestead, and the land itself. 

The direction my own art work took (abstract paintings) might seem to have little in common with Charlie’s mostly figurative, metaphoric, additive wooden sculptures. But to me this dosn’t reflect a lack of influence (and in some ways I feel highlights his skill as a teacher, encouraging his students to find their own path rather than emulating his). 

There’s a quiet yet vital presence to Charlie’s art, a reflection of his character. I’ve always been intrigued by and attracted to people who leave a memorable impression without calling attention to themselves; those soft-spoken folks who, with a few words get us reflecting more than those who loudly proclaim their views. I love that Charlie has never been afraid to share art that makes him (and us) smile, without ever embracing the sarcasm or cynicism so prevalent in the “art world,” or our society in general. He’s also touched upon despair and loneliness (he once did a series of works related to a trip in Poland and the Nazi death camps) and yet through all his carefully crafted works, his belief in the light within humanity shines. 

We both have a great love of the non-human built world, and share appreciation  of Thoreau, Teilhard de Chardin, Rachel Carson, Mary Oliver, John O Donahue, and many other writers who recognize a more fully integrated relationship of humans within the earth’s wonders. Charlie’s integrity, and his profound desire to find and share beauty have deeply affect my own work and life. I’m so very grateful our paths crossed all those years ago. 

I encourage anyone to make the trip “Out There” for a calming, vitalizing refresher from our frenetic world. He and Glenda welcome visits by individuals or groups, just contact ahead to schedule a time.

PS Charlie also has several works now on view outdoors at the Berglund Civic Center Plaza, near downtown Roanoke. 
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