Sometimes it seems I’ve a deep-rooted desire to be in control. Some of my friends would pin it to me being born “Aries” — I really don’t know. I have two siblings born under the same sign and (fortunately for everyone) they’re both clearly different from me in this regard. In my case, it’s a sort of creative tension. On one hand, of course we can NEVER be fully in control of anything, and on the other, each time we try and life redirects our plans, folks like me are then obliged to adapt and creatively re-solve our visions. It’s like an ongoing exercise in creative problem solving.

I’ve tried to make use of this tendency in my approach to art-making. I thrive in a realm where I’m tossed an unresolved mix of unknowns and get to structure things or establish some degree of order. I very much enjoy the process and the discovery of “solutions” along the way to “resolving” a painting. In such works it’s a delicate balance between “letting go,” sensing without thinking, and applying a degree of energy toward ordering the chaos without lessening its essence. In my art I have shifted from (decades ago) aiming to achieve a certain expected outcome and knowing what imagery I strove to end up with, to learning to appreciate how nowadays my paintings are far more exciting for me to create when I go with the flow and don’t insist on any predetermined outcome. When I have a fixed idea the results often seem stillborn. Contrarily, I feel when I approach creating in a more open way, the results are more vital  and seem to be more engaging to others as well. 

It’s one thing to practice this as a studio  discipline, and another to apply such principles to living in the world at large. Harder still when there are other tensions in the world. Even though I’ve spent years working and living alone and can be reasonably at peace with it, this COVID-induced isolation, this “not in control” time, can be soul-draining. I especially struggle with the lack of any physical touch—I suspect this aspect especially affects those of us who are not partnered with someone. I recognize many are being challenged by far greater issues: severe financial crisis, debilitating physical suffering, and/or  permanent losses. I do take this to heart, try to hold others in compassion and understanding. 

But I also try not to be in denial of what I feel. Lately I feel a muted heaviness as we balance social distancing for the sake of the most vulnerable in our communities with the impacts of physical isolation. Social media, Zooming, and FaceTiming only act as light tonics. They may convey rudimentary info but it’s via an energetic vacuum. I’m still finding joys, and fortunately have plenty of satisfying work. I’m somewhat isolated but not utterly alone, very grateful for family, and good friends, and able to have safe-distance in-person chats with a select few. For someone sensitive to nuanced emotional energies, one crucial thing I’ve learned in this time is that physical contact with others helps keep my being balanced and my soul nourished. Perhaps it’s out of selfishness, I’m skeptical masked hugs are more dangerous than they are beneficial. I admit I could sure use some restorative, life-affirming hugs. (If you thought my hugs were lengthy before COVID, be forewarned.)

Like so many others, some of my friends and loved ones have contracted COVID-19. So far, gratefully, all have recovered with no affects in the short term. My 92 year old mother was in the hospital last weekend (and thankfully, just “released” —into more isolation and quarantine! Ugh!— today) — but right now any hospitalization carries that element of grave concern. As all who have faced this sort of thing know to their core, few things make you feel as helpless as being unable to assist a loved one who is not well. 

Here we are, stumbling through things in America without consistent leadership, so we make our own choices and find ways to cope. One of my methods is floating in the nearby Roanoke River. I began floating last year as a rejuvenating therapy. It was a softly joyful way to nurture my heart, which after a long period of barrenness had unexpectedly cracked open to love, then, as life’s currents go, was as unexpectedly set adrift. This year, during this unforeseen swirling viral COVID spiral with its necessary social distancing, floating has become my anchor, beacon, and saving Grace. I often go alone, but a few friends have taken floats with me. Inevitably I encounter non-human companions along my floats, and for sure they’re welcome, much appreciated friendships as well.

Everyone approaches life in their own fashion, suited to their unique moment. Maybe because I began floating last year awash in self-doubt and confusion, from the outset I avoided trying to “control” the journey. I still prefer this way. Like life, I know it has an endpoint, and I’ve a general idea of things to be cautious about. As the hot summer lowers the river, many rocks are now jutting up, so at times I do guide my vessel between obstacles. But mostly I prefer to let the tube bounce off them and set me into a freeform spin. In the Sufi tradition, spinning was a means to help unlock one’s being from the control of one’s intellect. For me it’s also accepting the futility of trying to control what I can not. Maybe it also acknowledges I’m just a peon in the powerfully flowing grand scheme. Which in many ways feels similar to the limited sensible options right now in pandemic America. 

It’s in interesting how our stresses manifest on social media. We (myself included) vent, pick at others’ comments, insist on what’s valid, or worse, become embroiled in heated exchanges — likely all signs of our current insecurities and an unexpressed ache for stability. It’s so hard to step back and take in the bigger view, to think generations beyond our own. These strange and reflective times have me questioning how to approach my desire to live a meaningful life. So much feels murky, its hard to know which way to step. Maybe its due to the social isolation and living alone, but somehow right now I feel a bit vulnerable: as if I’m walking bare foot on the muddy river bank, risking a poke from a sharp unseen object. Yet walk forward we must.

These days it can feel difficult to feel confident about many things. The formerly consistent weather, our fragile democracy, the natural environment we now know, our civil communities, our basic routines and lifestyle. I feel stymied about my distanced relationships, my larger purpose/goals, even my art... 

For now, I find peace again and again, tube over shoulder, by wandering down to the ever-constant, ever-changing river, and setting into the refreshing waters. Despite all the noisy uncertainties, once there, I briefly stop asking questions, listen more, think less. And I become less, and more, as my heart expands and merges with the whole. I’m suspended yet supported, effortlessly hovering between the grounding earth visible just a few feet below me, and the always engaging heavens above. I’m embraced in a much-needed hug from the Roanoke River itself. I hear cicadas, kids’ laughter, birdsongs, ripples against boulders. I spin as breezes sway trees’ upper limbs and feel cooling waters on my own. I breathe in the smell of river moss evaporating on sun-baked stones. I allow this mercurial, living pathway to carry me, meandering, my being fully immersed within the moment, toward an uncertain goal, yet certain renewal.

You have to look real closely but in the river view photo, in the upper left center, just at the front edge of the grassy island, there’s a family of seven or eight almost adult-sized ducklings. Their momma was eyeing me warily as my tube floated toward them. Apparently she felt comfortable enough to not fly off; they merely sat still, then calmly paddled upstream as I quietly floated downstream past them. 

Earlier in the float I’d come upon a quartet of HS boys tubing. They were working hard to impress a couple of teenaged girls who were on the bank. One was swinging from the available rope in a nearby tree. A fifth, an outlier with tats, seemed a bit older, and was climbing the tree. He boasting loudly how his mom “Didn’t need ta tell ME when supper was ready! Nobody needed to f*ckin’ tell ME that, I’m NOT SIX, after all!” It was hard to know how to respond to his proclamation, so we just exchanged greetings as I cruised past. Somewhat selfishly—I wanted to be in front of them, because I knew from experience, a flotilla of noisy humans pretty much acts like a storm warning siren for all animals to head for cover. Sure enough, as I backstroked a bit to gain some space between us, four of them, their tubes clustered together, the bank girls chase apparently abandoned, began bellowing out a song. To my distant ears, they could have been lads in an Irish pub easing their heartbreak by sharing in a raucous jaunty old tune. There may have been a wee bit o’ alcohol involved in their impromptu rendition, and it may have been a good bit off key, but I did briefly enjoy the unselfconscious passionate outpouring. I lost sight and sound of them as I rounded a bend.

A bit further along I came upon a family that I’m pretty sure were immigrants, and pretty likely from a north eastern African nation. At least my untrained ear overheard the cadence of a language that made me guess so, and their complexions and facial features fit that region. Two little ones from the group were in a white unicorn festooned float. They braved the small rapids that I was approaching and squealed with glee as they bounced over them while adults watched intently (much as the mother duck would do later) and then collected them to the bank. I managed to handle the section with no mishaps and the kids eagerly waved with big toothy grins, happy, I suspect to see a six foot five, 59 year old kid, happily twirl several times in the river right before their eyes.

Near the end of the float, as neared my pull out spot, a scene from an unpainted Normal Rockwell painting came into view on the bridge as I approached. A young family was out for an evening Greenway stroll. Dad (I assume) was watching a three foot tall boy who was watching the water intently. Dad pulled a wagon with a chocolate brown cocker spaniel, who seemed utterly content to not have to use his legs to move.  Mom (I assume) held the hand of a barely-walking blonde-haired cutie with Little Orphan Annie curls peering over the low wall on the bridge. “Annie” suddenly excitedly gestured to the water and all but jumped (smart mom was obviously prepared)—the girl was at that age where you haven’t yet learned to point one finger so you just use your whole hand, which made it seem she was casting a magical spell onto the fish. I reached the family a few seconds later and we waved. “Annie” was wide-eyed with amazement trying to grasp that I was going to pass under her very feet!

As I emerged on the other side, two young teens were standing shin deep in the river. They were beside their selves a gaggling and giggling—one had just that instant caught a fish in a bucket. Apparently they’d been chasing the poor critter endlessly in the shallows. To my surprise, their excitement was justified as it was far from a minnow! After a fun chat with them, where they made clear they were NOT going to eat it, I convinced them it was better to let it go than try to take it home without a plan (as I probably would have done at their age). They did the honorable thing and poured it free. Or tried to, but it kept attempting to head back into the dark of the bucket. Finally a vigorous dumping got it out, but then none of us could see it...I looked at the companion of the bucket holder and with a twinkle in my eye said loudly “I think it went up your pant leg!” The bucket boy jumped and slapped both legs on his trunks several times, as his partner and I shared a good hard laugh. I thanked them for “doing the right thing with the fish” and we parted. 

I headed home feeling refreshed in every way, and hopeful about tomorrow.

Many times I’ve wondered how the region where we live is embodied in us, especially where we live during major transitions or changes in our lives. We generally refer to the lands from which we come when considering our beginnings. Our home “land” is defined by the “land” scape, or features of and on the ground. For sure the geography and energies of the earth impact us. The lands we live on HAVE to affect us. If we live in a desert or a forest setting or beside the sea, it not only looks different, different species of trees and plants and animals all add more than different colors and textures and sounds, their blossoms, scents, and auras are unique. The local foods have a special character. The ocean, lakes, mountains, hills, grasslands, or valleys affect the weather patterns. Resources from the land affect the economies and industries or lack of them. And all the above affects the density of the population in a region, and so too the relational dynamic between us. ​

I grew up in Elkhart, IN (on the Michigan border, so not utterly flat), so I spent my “formative years” on the periphery of stereotypical Midwest farmlands immediately south of us. I also took many excursions to West Lafayette, (since three of my siblings graduated Purdue University—and from where I write this). It’s surrounded by such countryside. Views of rows corn or soy beans that narrow to a point on the hazy horizon, endless miles of acreage, punctuated by occasional groves of trees feels very comfortable and familiar. [It always strikes me to consider all of Indiana (actually the entire eastern US) was covered in old growth forests when Europeans arrived. No wonder it seemed both an incredibly bountiful “gift of God” and also a daunting, uncultivated, untamed, wild place where the “confusing” native peoples lived.]

Cruising on a highway through the region this weekend, something new occurred to me. As I approached, met, and drove through a dramatic storm, I was struck by the presence of the Indiana sky. I’ve always been captivated by it — since my teen years, when I climbed high in the backyard tree simply to watch the sunsets, and eventually began hauling a camera up there with me to try to “catch” those beautiful instances. On this trip I recognized how the skies where we live also influence, define, and create our concept of “home.” They are the homespun quilt that gently wraps us at dusk and the slow veil that lifts at dawn. In each region of this planet the character of the ever-shifting, shroud speaks in its own voice. The clouds tend to take certain forms and reveal certain winds more routinely above every part of the globe. So too the dramatic shapes and character of storms vary with each region. Certain color harmonies offered through the sunsets we experienced in our most familiar region become part of us and at once feel most familiar. Even cloudless skies sing to us in a timbre unique to where we trace our roots, and I feel, resonate more deeply.

In this peculiar moment in America, the very ground beneath us feels a bit unsteady. Many of our routines have been disrupted. Like many I’ve felt a bit disoriented. An annual summer family reunion of 30 years had to be cancelled. I planned this quick trek with hopes of visiting some family, sharing time with siblings and in-laws, and celebrating my nephew’s transition from HS into official “adulthood.” And primarily I intended to be able to hug my mother and hold her hand and savor being physically next to her for a a few too short hours. But the mostly air-borne virus altered everything. It is challenging to accept change.

Like the lands we walk, the heavens above nurture us. They complete the sphere within which we live and share our existence. Just as we are integrated within the landscape and this shapes us, so too the skies mold and create us. I have always loved the expansiveness of these Indiana views. Such stunning sights are available from mountaintops in my current southwestern Virginia home, but here in Indiana they are THE defining perspective. There’s an openness here that for me seems not as guarded and private as some mountain folk ways seem to be. A plain-spoken, unpretentious quality; perhaps because living here you see what’s coming from miles away. Maybe there’s also more time to accept we mostly can’t change the imminent events, only adapt to them. In a way similar to grand mountains, but somehow less conspicuously, these Indiana skies remind me we are peons on this earth.  

Mountains seem to contain power and invite us to tap into their energy. They reveal the slow onslaught of geologic time through erosion or if we stop and reflect on their components and origins. Skies require no prompts. They are more direct, in the moment, in every moment. Whether bright and clear, or vague and hazy, playfully tossing feathery clouds or rushing herds of heavy ones filled with life-affirming water, a sky’s presence is instantly felt each instant on each portion of this planet. They carry our waters, express the winds, highlight the energies of the sun or buffer it, and reveal the stars and are our portal to the universe. To all willing to listen, they open a doorway into the extraordinary and interwoven nature of life. They speak without words and convey understanding without thought. They’re continually present and ever-shifting at a pace even impatient humans can not miss. 

In doing so, they also silently insist we can not defy, and ought not deny, that all life is change.

When I saw her rising, she lured me and I was compelled. I almost didn’t go, having already cooled down with an after work visit. I was ready to settle in for the night after a hot day on the job, a float, a hearty dinner, a Guinness, and a chat with my soon-to-be 93 years mom over 500 miles away. My trunks and water shoes were still damp. It also would mean walk up my often skunky alley in the dark... It was near 11 PM and yet the heat of the day still clung. I hadn’t done one since last fall. But something about talking to my wonderful mom encourages me to live my life fully, and that ol’ moon was a calling. So in a few moments, I was ready and made the short trek to the bridge. 

After several delays (some pre-COVID, some due to it), last weekend I finally visited my son Anselm in Pittsburgh. We’ve been cautious about masking indoors when around others, and he and his delightful partner Claire both are working from home and have been pretty isolated. We’d not seen each other since December, and felt we could responsibly visit. It was a much-needed tonic. And such a satisfying and special wonder to experience your kids (or any young folks in our lives) growing in knowledge and other ways that surpass you. 

Fresh out of college four years ago Selm was selectively applying to companies in the field he wanted to pursue. For about three months post graduation, he had many rejections and just a couple intereviews.  With his hard-earned mechanical engineering degree in hand, he was making near minimum wage, setting up for events at the VT conference center! WE (his mom, stepdad, & I) were reaching the limits of our patience, and about to nudge him toward taking ANY position he could find in ANY field. But his persistence paid off in mid-August when he was offered a position working for what was then a 12-person aerospace start-up, called Astrobotic. The founders had the presumptuous vision to compete for private contracts building a people-less lunar landing module. Since then, they’ve secured two major NASA contracts, and are now partnering with ULA, a major defense department rocket contractor, and the Astrobotic “team” in Pittsburgh has mushroomed to over 100 employees. 

I was able to tour the expansive new facility they have underway. I actually got to see and put my hands on the physical final prototype that he and a small cluster of workmates have been designing, calculating, reconfiguring, adapting, and working their tails off on, for nearly four years. After thorough vetting and testing with NASA’s guidance and approval, it’s slated to launch and land on the moon in about two years. I still can hardly believe it. (Sorry I can’t share any proprietary photos.) The complexity and planning of each strut, bolt and nut (material, strength, placement, weight, etc) and the domino effect of each tiny change to the crucial dynamic of the whole is brain-boggling, especially to my poetically-oriented mind. Surprisingly, they’re literally (very carefully, and with some super cool, sophisticated tools—plus some pretty simple ones) mostly putting this prototype together by hand. Of course along with an incredible amount of cohesive team work and planning: in-house, with outside contractors, manufacturers, and other agencies. I am so very happy for him, and feel so fortunate to vicariously share in his exciting journey.

I’d begun considering when might be best to journey on a night float a few weeks ago. MY “extensive” planning consisted of watching for a full moon, warm weather, and a cloudless night sky. Even these simple requirements don’t coalesce often to allow a smooth launch and excursion! I added a headlamp to my night voyaging paraphernalia, which is all of: the tube, a ziplock bag to store a dry shirt, and my iPhone and waterproof case. Four vinyl tubes and dozens of patches on them last year taught me that cheap tubes aren’t worth buying. It ain’t rocket science but eventually I learned to invest in “river stone approved” rubber tubes with stout covers. 
​

With the stunning clear light of the moon, I needed no headlamp beyond walking my alley. The 90 degree days have made the water feel like a soothing bath. The float was worth the wait. You can kind of sense it will be when you put in and the only sounds (besides random distant fireworks—it was July 3) are water rippling against roots and rocks, leaves fluttering, and the occasional sploosh of a fish. Very soon into the mysterious yet serene panorama, I was treated to an incredible cinematic multi-sensory experience! My body felt weightless slowly drifting along in the glassy onyx/umber water, my toes and fingers were idly soaking in temps that matched the air, there were brightly shining slivers of silver white moonlight (a visual echo of the sun on the other side of the planet) marking where unseen rocks crested the river’s surface. The river’s color deepened toward black along the tree-lined banks. Beside the moon’s orb, even in amid the dim city glow, many stars shown through. Venus was clearly visible near the eastern horizon. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of electric light, I was granted a private, silent fireworks display of thousands upon thousands of fireflies emerging from high in the trees, their twinkling glows set-off perfectly by the deep mossy boughs and slight hills along the banks. 

I gazed at the moon the whole float, and of course I thought of Anselm. When we said good bye in Pittsburgh last weekend, perhaps spurred a bit from being deprived of hugs and contact, and all the cumulative emotions and angst of this bizarre moment we’re all in together, I teared up a bit, and noticed he did too. On the short walk home following the float, I recalled a book my mentor and friend Charlie Brouwer mentioned decades ago, The Starship and the Canoe, about a slightly similar father/son pairing. I smiled about Anselm and my parallel journeys, together and apart, inward and outward, and my heart swelled. Life doesn’t get better.

I’ve been happy to see many people in and on the river that winds through our city and my neighborhood. With the shutdown of schools, summer camps, and so many adult social hang outs it makes sense folks would be looking for outlets, and there are few better places to be. Fishing folks, teens teasing teens in kayaks, kids splashing away in tubes, ropes tied to limbs to leap off, laughter, music and picnics on the banks; all ages and colors and body types enjoying the affirming waters. All so good and healthy and wholesome! While I enjoy the erratically flowing parade, I also admit to enjoying some intimate quiet time immersed in her flow. 

Friday I took  my first pre-workday float, near dawn. It was softly invigorating—a fabulous way to begin the day. By being virtually alone I was able to be aware that I was utterly surrounded by the energy of life. I could fully take in the serenity of birdsongs, calls near and far echoed on the glassy surface. From far away one can hear the gentle ripples of the currents pouring over occasional rocks and dipping branches churning bubbles. I can breathe in the melting of the rising dew’s silvery veil when the soft rosy gold of dawn warms the new day alive. I become again an aspect of and WITHIN the world, not a cerebral mind acting upon or ignoring it. ​

Likely due to the popularity and increased human activity along her banks, in addition to the floods, I’ve noticed fewer wading birds and turtles. So yesterday it was an added treat to watch a familiar old friend, the Great Blue, majestically take flight as the waters gently carried me near as I floated around a bend. It was our first greeting of the year. Trust requires sensitivity, humility, respect, patience, and consistency. I’m confident in time we’ll come to have less disruptive, more comfortable passings. Oft times I wish I could relate to my human friends as easily and well.  Tomorrow’s a new dawn...