​I find I can lose my self in the miracle that is a flower. These seemingly simple bursts of color or scent put out a call for attention and attract pollinators, and in turn fertilize fruits, that produce seeds, and sustain a global cycle humans and many other life forms are utterly dependent upon. I learned recently there are more micro-organisms in a shovel of healthy soil than the number of humans that have ever lived on the planet. Too often human arrogance trumps human humility. 

The pace our culture has defined for us, the percentage of time allotted to maintain our role within the system of modern society, leaves little room for most to take in the wonder of it all. The pity of this is twofold, as we are the ones who create and define our culture, and, like flowers, we too, are wonders. 

Each blossom is the epitome of efficiency for its necessary role, yet glows uniquely within its purpose. Just like us. As the Mary Oliver put it in her profound poem, “When Death Comes”: 

“and I think of each life as a flower, as common 
as a field daisy, and as singular,”

What is a life that doesn’t recognize miracles? Clearly, at the least, diminished.

It’s also clear, like the dwindling pollinators and shrinking amount of “undeveloped” landscape, whether noticed or not, the civilization we have created is on a collision course with the limited resources and long-established dynamic balances of the earth’s systems. In my younger years I might have mocked the concept of chem-trails and geo-engineering the climate, an insurrection against our US government, or microchips implanted in our bodies; or conversely, healing ourselves through herbs, foraging for our food, and vitalizing oneself through meditation and fungi. I now admit my former naïveté and arrogance about each of these concepts.

What’s my “necessary role” in this evolving scheme? It feels to me it’s unfolding each week. Which is of course, unsettling, because we crave consistency, being assured of what’s on the horizon. I generally like knowing what the seasons will bring, where my food will come from, if my water supply will be there and clean, how I will provide for myself and those I care about, what responsibilities are expected of me in my community on a day to day basis. 

As we begin to see disruptions and cracks in the system, it doesn’t take much imagination to sense the foundations of what humans have built are teetering. In the past, world wars between humans gave previous generations pause. Today if one pauses and looks, you can see the insane “war” we are waging against the earth itself. Of course we are part of the earth, not lords over it, despite centuries of misguided mythologies (both religious and scientific) to the contrary, so in effect we’re destroying ourselves. The earth will adjust and restore equilibrium, just as our bodies do when we take ill and a fever burns out the malady vying to overtake us. 

I can’t deny this system that allows me to write and share thoughts, and was born into, has enhanced my life. Built in part through the selfless efforts of countless generations (from my immigrant Polish farmer grandparents to billions of other intertwined strangers) I was gifted this relatively comfortable setting. Throughout my life I’ve benefitted mightily from the comparative luxuries and conveniences I inherited. 

Most of the world aches for what I now have; many are rowing hard just to survive on this boat of humanity. However if I have space to climb the mast and sense we are headed the wrong direction, even if I don’t yet see the safe harbor, it feels important to encourage we shift to a course clear of the rocks. 

I’ve had minor challenges, amid many joys. In every experience, how I responded to the relationships within the circumstance either covered up or allowed peace to shine. It feels to me perhaps this is crucial to how we go forward. Maybe the unknown path is defined by how we relate to each other, to all other life forms, large and small. How can we share living in a more loving way with our families, our friends, the whole of our community? Can we extend this to our pets, the animals we eat, wildlife, our gardens and farms, meadows and forests; from the landscape to the soil to the fungi and humus that rejuvenate it; the pulsing stream of life that is clouds, rivers, and oceans across the dynamic, blossoming earth? 

To remain ignorant or be distracted, to me, denies the conspicuous interplay of everything; to be aware and yet appreciate our role is to celebrate and nurture this miracle we’re within.

This is a view of the Roanoke River with a half moon rising in Wasena Park, near my home. The scene calls to mind a song “Moon Draws Water” by a dear friend of many years (Bob Sima). His work immediately resonated with me. We both are lifelong seekers, eager to understand life and share joy. Although we haven’t spent much time together of late, I know we are forever bound in spirit. We connected when he had just released his first solo album and was making a big leap from a standard job into following his calling. His courage has always been inspiring; his heart even more so. That moon is still tugging at me, to more fully let go, but we both continue to learn and grow. 

It’s a fascinating thing how the moon’s gravitation pull causes the jelly-like skin that are the oceans clinging to the earth’s surface to change shape, essentially causing the tides to ebb and flow. I’m not sure just when our science “verified” this phenomenon. It also intrigues me that, as far as I understand it, science still can’t quite pin down what exactly gravity is… but really, very little can be pinned down. 

What’s a river, after all? Hardly a static thing. We use arbitrary boundaries to define where a river “begins” and “ends” but these concepts can’t begin to convey the essence of a river. All rivers are constantly shifting, filling and pouring out, eroding banks and evaporating in the sun, all the while teeming with life. Try as we might, life can’t be catalogued nor contained nor controlled. 

I like that there’s lots of room for mystery. All the bright mature people I’ve ever known acknowledge that the more they learn in whatever field, the more they realize how much they don’t know. Humility can be hard to digest, especially when we or someone we love is experiencing health issues or in crisis. We ache for something concrete to ease suffering. Sometimes the bank of accumulated knowledge (whether our science or ancient wisdom) allows us to find ways to do so. But not always, and then we’re challenged to not let the unknowns and uncertainty veer us into anxious chaos.

In the last couple years, close friends and family members have found themselves in the crucible of major challenges with their health and/or circumstances. I’ve been very fortunate yet my heart aches for them. Much as I want to alleviate their struggles, some have passed. I’ve come to sense often the best I can do is to just try to be there for them, like this river, whose flowing constancy wordlessly soothes my own heart and mind. 

There’s a subtle balance between effort and acceptance of what we are handed in this realm of lived experiences. It seems to me it’ll be ongoing until I transition from this life. Like those ebbs and flows of the tide, periods of smooth sailing and rough choppy challenges are part of the deal of being human. It’s learning how to maintain a deeper peace, to “walk on the water” during the inevitable storms as one famous metaphoric story has it. 

All we know is constantly changing: our situations, our bodies, our ever-shifting emotions and momentary desires, every breath, indeed, every tree, each river, even every mountain is rising or falling. Disturbances are never the precisely the same, even our joys come and go. Which begs the question, why does our science attempt to identify all we know as if there are separate, independent components, even as our physics has “proven” there is more space between molecules than solid substance? A cynical argument could be made that we have to identify things in order to own them! Of course to a degree it’s a useful method, naming things and conceptualizing abstract ideas, but it seems to me it can encourage, and in many ways has led, to a disastrous misunderstanding of life’s flow and our place within it.  

Whatever the reasons our science evolved this way, when it becomes dogmatic, intentionally or not, I feel it’s often masking vast societal insecurities. Whether on a communal or personal scale it feels a desperate desire for control, an attempt to block the current, a resistance to change.

We mostly live within a societal masquerade. To reveal the illusion and recognize we are NOT separate beings and that we are not separated from the world (which we’ve so dutifully catalogued and exploited) but fully integrated within  — would crumble the foundations of our modern society and industrialized world. To genuinely recognize that how we treat each other and interact with what we refer to as “nature” directly reflects how we view and treat our selves would reframe our way of living. 

To face the mirror of our age would be to accept our terribly murderous and reckless heritage. To even question, let alone embrace, letting go of our consumerist paradigm would require rupturing our collective cultural as well as our personal psyche. 

And yet, to not change the way we live and our world currently operates, seems destined to encourage evermore suffering. I dont see that the “tools” and approaches that have created our problems (sorry, billionaires club) can possibly  lead the way to get us beyond them. But it’s not as simple as pointing toward “others” who happen to have attained a certain social status. The process of accepting and manifesting change has to happen within me and my non-billionaire friends and acquaintances. Even if the path ahead is a bit mysterious and the precise methods are still murky, it feels to me my obligation and duty to begin walking it. Maybe the sweet moon is drawing me more than I realize.

Although I already intended to share this here, I have to smile when I actually pause to notice the Facebook prompt: What’s on your mind? Here we are, so fully  immersed in our abstracted, digitized-data driven world, that we need not only answers to our questions about how to get to our friends’ homes, or what a word means, or the answer to some other trivial tidbit of information plucked from a trillion data-bytes in some symbolic cloud, we almost fail to recognize these tools have begun to ask the questions for us. 

How wonderful — soon we’ll no longer need our own curiosity! We’ll instead be prompted to ask only particular questions that fit within the parameters of our interests based upon the algorithmic personalized frameworks (prisons?) we’ve nurtured by the other questions we’ve been asking for the last decade. In my desperate attempt to be rebellious, I never use Siri (conveniently capitalized just now as if it’s a proper noun by my auto-correct). I suspect this resistance is futile and matters little, as every time I’ve “killed the mystery” or made the decision to not try to use my own memory and typed something into the Gooog, it got registered and saved somewhere. Like it or not, our “online identities” have essentially become databanks of useable, “valuable” (AKA: profitable), manipulatable, likes and beliefs. Maybe it’s just as well, exposing the fragility of the concept of our uniqueness.

I do recognize the irony, that I’m not only making use of the technologies in typing this but in a more involved way, sharing “my thoughts” via social media. Convenience and technological efficiency always have trade-offs. So using this keyboard and internet connection sits within me with about the same degree of satisfaction as the convenience of driving my car a long distance does compared to the trade-offs of walking the journey. I get there faster and with less personal energy, but the convenience of my driving “costs” the world far more energy and I miss out on an incredible array of experiences and opportunities to grow. 

By typing this onto Facebook, I reach more folks with whom I may share my thoughts, but never get an in-depth face to face (or I should write in-person, "bodily presence to bodily presence" because we also have this "facetime" thing that I also almost never use) discussion using this route to communicate. Do we even consider how much is missed by sharing only via screens? What of a friend’s body posture, the touch of a hand, the warmth of their voice in response, the exchange we receive through their felt presence?  Clearly I'm a bit conflicted about it all. 

Yet what about books? Or handwritten notes? Don’t they also dilute the sharing? Writing one's thoughts out in any form is different from and begins to alter the experience of sharing our thoughts through speaking and dialogue. It's a trade-off that humans have accepted since we began mark-making as a way to share concepts eons ago.  

Clearly I don't have answers. But I am glad I still can formulate my own questions. And I don't intend to ask Doctor G, or that upstart new intern, AI, for a response to them. I like the type of clouds I can see reflecting the sunshine, hovering against the clear blue this morning, the kind that carry my mind beyond itself, and real water that sometimes gets dumped on me, splatters against the rocks, hushes the noise, cleanses the earth, and nurtures life. 

I prefer wandering my own mindscape and landscapes—like the ant in front of me, making his trek up and down the Black-eyed Susans that I cut earlier and placed in water from a cloud somewhere. They seem content enough, as the sunshine touches them, fulfilling their roles within the larger scheme and manifesting their duties, each in their own way, yet indifferent to their individuality. It seems it might serve me better to look to them for guidance, instead of disembodied digital voices or pixels on a screen…

Early mornings hold a soothing stillness. The night is sliding back into its hideaway. The dawn begins to spread its soft glow. Sometimes my intentions align enough with my actions and I manage to fit in a float during this magical hour. Somehow being out of my abode and breaking usual morning rituals provokes a fuller recognition of this miraculous transition. As I take it in, it seems incredible to consider it’s a daily occurrence. Somehow, strangely, unjustifiably, it’s as if the consistency of it pushes it out of my awareness. ​

During hot summer weeks, when the evenings barely let go of the heat of the day, the coolness of the morning makes even the short walk to the river refreshing. Especially so if one avoids air conditioning. I generally encounter few people at this hour, but as it’s a national holiday there are less cars on the neighborhood streets. The quiet is palpable. I savor it. 

As I put into the water, calming sensations expand. Within seconds I acclimate to the warm water and gentle flow of the current. Though only my second float of the year, the routines of the beings along this stretch of waterway are very familiar. I’m unsurprised to pass a night heron perched on the boulders near the first low falls, where I’ve so often seen one over the years. We silently acknowledge one another. 

If I float without exertion, the other beings I encounter look on, and go about their business. Such was the case with the heron, and soon after two mallards. Later on I interrupt a raccoon washing his breakfast (or dinner?). A few turtles, more cautious or shy, leave their logs on my approach. I slowly allow the serenity of the float to pervade my being. I can’t take credit for the sense of peace that begins to permeate me, but it’s particularly potent at dawn. As I’m carried beyond my thoughts, I recognize it’s “quiet” but not silent. Birds are singing near and far, crows cawing, a woodpecker rapping; a fish breaks the surface and the light slap of water echos. The river’s lapping and gentle ripples create a soothing backdrop. 

I’m aware of a gentle breeze, as I fall back into this state of being, which at once dissolves me and connects me. The massive bridge overhead on reflection  becomes a mere mirage. I notice a few leaves that have let go, doing soft air-borne pirouettes as they float toward the water. My tube nudges against a boulder just below the surface and sets me into a slow spin. I happily let go as well. In this “frame of mind”, this wordless state of being, where humans noises are minimized, a wonderful interweaving dynamic reveals itself. The clouds are shifting in a barely perceptible way, the flows of the current carry me in another, hundreds of water beetles are leaving mini-wakes on the glass-like water, and swallows swoop near in elegant arcs, twittering as they pass. 

Immersed within this world, the only world we can know, I feel immense gratitude to be a participant, to briefly access this luxurious awareness. Rounding a bend, what had been a slight hum becomes a noise. I’m jarred into thinking, unable to sustain being as a piece within the peace. Several locomotive engines are idling adjacent my take out point, the force of their engines disrupting and dominating the last bend of the river way. Even the water is visibly vibrating. As I emerge from the flow, I can’t help but wonder how the old trees along the bank, a few clearly older than this railroad, tolerate us with such benevolent indifference.

Thinking of a dear friend, who, despite the chaos surrounding her, still always manages to hold space for me and others within her kind, porous and open heart. Imagine there are more of these unassuming, humble heroes in our midst, quietly and steadfastly keeping us afloat. I’m grateful. 

“Holding Space”  12” x 12” mixed media/panel    

Sometimes fate conspires to take you somewhere unexpected. In this case it came in the form of an invitation from my sister, Helen. She lost her spouse and the love of her life, Scott, less than a year ago after 30 years of a joy-filled partnership. He was a like a brother to all of us. We’ve all been marshaling forward through grief in our own ways. For her, a recent long solo trip was particularly empowering. Soon after, she surprised us siblings by messaging that she’d decided to take a trip from her Indiana home to the Dakotas, for a few reasons. In Scott’s role with the USGS, he oversaw workers in states across the region (Michigan to Montana) so she wanted to connect with his colleagues; our nephew has an internship in North Dakota (and had lived two summers with Helen & Scott while working other internships); and the site of a family tragedy over 75 years ago is in South Dakota—my namesake uncle, Alexander Jan, died in a bomber crash while in training in 1944. She let us know we were welcome to join but that she intended to go either way. 

Within a short time, three other siblings decided we could fit it in and would join her. I was keen to go; my intuition compelled me. It wasn’t that Helen needed me (or us) to support her on this journey, but I suspected it’d be an emotional trip for us all, as our mother had passed last year as well. I’ve come to learn we’re a bit rare, in that our family enjoys being together (including the fifth sib, and all partners, who weren’t able to come). We don’t live in close proximity, so we always look forward to being together. While the trip to the crash site was heavy, the adventure was mostly joyous and even percolated with laughter. It was a brief four-day excursion, yet brimming with so many feelings. 

My Uncle Jan, “Johnny” to his six sisters, was the only son in the family. My mother was his closest sibling, and referred to him as her big brother. They walked to and from school together. Two years apart in age, he “looked out for her.” He was bright, “good at math”, kind, helpful, and had a gentle sense of humor that put others at ease. By all accounts he was adored by everyone. He enlisted at 18 and spent a year in flight training in the fledgling, not yet named branch of the Army now known as the Air Force. His training class began in Texas and he was stationed in Casper, Wyoming in the fall of 1944. 

We learned of the crash site only in the last decade. His family was informed of his death, like too many others during war, by a knock on the door. It’s a hard to comprehend the reality that more American planes (over 5,000) crashed in training in the US than were shot down overseas in the years 1942-45. We have copies of handwritten letters Uncle Jan wrote to home, right up to a few weeks before his death. Reading them tugs at one’s heart, as he teases about his sisters and humbly shares about his achievements and hopes to his parents during the severe global challenges of 1944. They confirm all the attributes I listed above. It’s impossible to imagine the pain of my immigrant grandparents and aunts getting such news that October day. It was also difficult for me to not equate his affable and beloved personality with that of my brother in law Scott, whose colleagues we met on the trip, who repeatedly pointed out all the ways he’d nurtured the growth of everyone with whom he came into contact in the USGS.

My mother could barely discuss the incident that took her brother, and for the rest of her life became uneasy whenever she heard “Taps”. Though she was 17 and the family was given details about the crash (six of ten in the crew survived), uncharacteristically her sharp memory blocked out what state it had happened in. Through the help of a friend (John Hammill) I was able to learn how to access the military records, and slowly learned the crash occurred near a small town in the farmlands of northern SD. Somehow, this information was important to me and I shared it with my family several years ago.

About the same time, my brother in law Scott (also a pilot) was promoted to work with states in the same region. He happened to have a conversation with a friend who was into “Geocaching”. Through some unknowable karmic plan, his friend discovered that in 2010 a plaque honoring the crew and marking the site had been installed. Suddenly, we had a concrete physical place-holder for a lingering, decades old, sad family mystery. A quick scan of maps revealed that Lemmon, the closest town (pop. 1100) is about 4 hours from the nearest major airport, and for me a drive was a 1600 mile, 25 hr. trip. Not an easy trek. I stored the idea of a visit away as a “someday” journey. A few weeks ago my sister brought that day forward. 

We all flew to and met in Minneapolis/St. Paul. From there it was a four hr. drive to Jamestown, ND where my nephew is working. Then another 3 hours south to Lemmon, SD. The landscape, on the edge of the famed Badlands, is rolling green hills. Though scenic, it felt conspicuously sparse. There are croplands, and cattle, but seemed to be very few homesteads. Perhaps because of this it held a strange presence. One gets the impression the farming must be on a mega scale. We quickly were gaging distances between gas stations. 

Following the trail of the creation of the plaque, eight years ago I found and spoke on the phone to the octogenarian who, with his VFW group, had funded and gotten it installed. He’d actually heard the plane go down that night in 1944 when he was a young boy, as the engines were alternately back-firing and one caught fire as the pilots struggled to regain control in those fateful last minutes of flight. Three crew members parachuted to safety. Another failed to open his chute in time. Another perished after jumping when the plane was too low. My uncle was the navigator, and by the account from the pilot, had stayed on (typically) attempting to assist and only prepared to leave when ordered. Sadly, he had on his chute but never jumped, as his body was found 50 feet from the crash, bombay doors open. Another crew member died on impact. Miraculously three lived through the crash, the pilot and copilot survived despite not having their safety belts on “we braced our legs against the cockpit dash…and the plane skidded on its belly.” It slid over 200 yards, knocking off all four propellers before tipping on its nose. A local farmer helped extricate a gunner from the wreckage.

We knew we needed more directions to locate the plaque, so were happy to learn there was a public library in town and stopped in. Not only were we able to pull actual newsprint papers with local accounts of the crash, the lone librarian said “Oh yes, we have a file,” and pulled a Manila folder from a cabinet. It was filled with crash photos, copies of documents, paperwork, images of the plaque, and a hand-drawn map to the site. Stunningly, there within the file were also emails from myself to the farmer who’d heard the crash and initiated the plaque, forwarding another from my brother in law Scott, corresponding with his friend when we were first verifying the plaque ten years earlier. The librarian also mentioned that old farmer was her great uncle. 

With a sense of destiny we headed down the state roads toward the plaque. The gray, rainy day somwhow enhancing the mood of this hauntingly beautiful landscape. We followed the map to single lane dirt roads, marked our way to within a few miles, but reached a point where the scribbled “landmarks” weren’t helpful. We had longitude and latitude coordinates, so my math-minded sisters in the back seat tried to guide us with those, but Google wasn’t available. We called the old farmer, but we had no cell service. The emptiness of the land and sheds matched our frustration. We saw one sign at one adjoining road for “Storm Ranch,” but there was no way to know how many miles off it might be. 

We knew we were to cross a gate but hesitated to go anywhere on foot, especially when further along a sign declared  “PRIVATE PROPERTY. No hunting. Do not trespass! Do not fuck around with us!” There were no homesteads visible. The few buildings we came upon seemed abandoned. Doubt crept in as we sensed we might have to accept we’d not find it. My brother, driving, said several times “let’s try just one more hill…” Having driven seven hours beyond our flight from Minneapolis, we were determined to push on. We reached an impasse and reversed course, heading back to the Storm Ranch sign. After cresting a few more hills, my phone suddenly worked and I reached the old farmer’s home. A woman cautiously answered and said he was out getting the mail. I tried to convey I was not selling anything, and trying to find the plaque, but we were cut off — possibly intentionally. 

We pressed on. Another mile and we found a cluster of farm buildings and a small ranch house. Pulling into the long drive a mangy dog appeared, while another barked from within an off-road 4-wheeler. I hesitatingly opened my car door and tried to calm the dog, when an older woman came out of the garage. I greeted her (the line from the Dylan song “by the dirt ‘neath my nails I guessed [she] knew I wouldn’t lie” in my mind). My siblings climbed out as her husband, still in stockings, stepped onto the porch. “I know about the plaque. It’s on our property!” We had a delightful chat, learned the previous winter had tested even their grit, “we couldn’t get the house to keep warm—one day it got to -56°!” They provided explicit directions, a few miles back to the road we had been on, and through a closed gate. “It’s good thing its been raining, I worry visitors’ low cars might catch the fields on fire” Ms. Storm had told us. We opened it and followed the tire tracks gently nudging cattle (cows, calves, and bulls) off our just visible route. Another mile and we parked, as suggested, and walked the last half mile. 

The gray clouds still hung, but the rain had graciously stopped. The wind seems constant in these Dakota hills and had a strong presence. We walked through thistle, sagebrush, low grasses, and cow patties. Finally a small, discrete metal plaque, mounted to two metal posts along a fence came into view. Off in the distance was an old homestead (or schoolhouse?). We’d made it. It felt like an achievement, but our journey really masked a deeper one. 
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​“Echo” 24” x 16” mixed media/panel

I’d just returned from a month in Kenya and was in no hurry to fall back into set routines here. Sifting through what I’d left undone, I saw there was an art show I’d considered entering. I’m not a big fan of artists competing; as someone who has also worked as an art educator, there’s something distasteful to me about personal expressions set up to vie to be better than each other. Yet we live in a competition-based society, and this is one of the options to share our efforts, and so every year or two I enter some things. I’m old enough to recall sending in slides as entries. Having worked on all sides of such shows (coordinating them at a cooperative art gallery, receiving works and installing exhibits as a museum staff person, and as a participating artist) I’m well aware of the many limitations and impositions built into the process. Over decades I’ve entered or been involved in dozens and take the whole process in context. 

So I set about entering this one in early March, and then had a devil of a time formatting my entries as required. I’m not technologically expert but usually not incompetent. Thanks to the patience of the staff at the Bower Center for the Arts, in Bedford, VA, as I muddled through, my entries were eventually received. Two months later I learned a piece had been selected. It was one originally done a few years ago. This year I began re-looking at older works, discarding some, and revising ones that I felt I could improve. The accepted one happened to be one of those, and was a satisfying validation. 

The delivery date was a weekend and I happened to accept work on a rare out of town project, four hours from home the week before. Yet while on the project for my good friend, John Aubrey Garland, I soon saw there was more work than I could get done in the week, and the weather wasn’t cooperating as I planned, so on the Friday before delivering art weekend,  I had to accept I needed stay in Hampton the full weekend, and might even have to forego getting my art to the show. I wrote the Center for the Arts and they graciously said they could accommodate a delivery the Monday after the weekend. I dropped it off as they allowed. 

An email reminder came about the opening event, where awards would be announced. I’d planned to attend. It was implied I was on a list of those granted an award and we were generously invited to dinner after. I was delighted to accept. As it was an hour drive, and began at 5 PM, I quit my workday early, cleaned up, put on decent clothes, and even brought a sport jacket. As I headed out of town, a warning signal flashed on my dash “Brake Failure! Stop Safely”. I was just a few miles from home so I turned around and headed straight to my very trustworthy mechanic. It was late Friday and he was kind enough to give it a brief look-over. Of course the warning had shut off when I reached his shop and refused to return while there. We agreed there seemed no issue with the brakes, but I should be wary en route. I headed back on the road. Five miles in, amid busy end of the week traffic on a busy road, the warning returned, and then all the gages on the entire dash quit. Exasperated, I pulled off onto the shoulder.  

I was grateful Walter Williams accepted my call after closing time at his shop. The essence of our conversation came when he said: “If it was me, I wouldn’t risk it.” So I resigned that I had to deal with the car, and given the time frame and distance, knew I wouldnt find a ride in time to make it to the event. I called and emailed the Center leaving messages with my regrets. I called a friend who had a piece in the show, to ask her if she could let the staff know, but learned she was out of town and not attending. I cautiously got my 20 year old XC-70 to his shop, and handed him the keys. I began walking home. I called the center again and happened to get hold of a person, so felt a little better they were informed, and wouldn’t be holding a dinner reservation for me. 

I decided to follow the river on my path home and took in the pleasant evening. I’ve been doing a deep dive into our global ecocide, how our civilization is built on viewing life as a “resource” instead of us in relation to all life forms. And how as a consequence, for hundreds of years we’ve been depleting and “overshooting”  available resources in every direction. The earth will of course rebalance, but it can’t possibly replenish what we “require” for our modern industrialized lifestyle in human-scale time. 

The major disruptions from our human-centered view, wasting precious fresh water supplies, washing away topsoil, acidifying the oceans through synthetic crop fertilizers; we seem to keep clinging to a foolhardy belief technology is the solution —but the root is our ideology promotes an unsustainable way of life. We’re leaching chemicals across the globe, toxic residues of mineral extractions, micro-plastics now within most life forms, radioactive elements carelessly spewed globally, extreme loss of biodiversity, over-fishing, sea-level rising… all throughly-documented the last 25 years. All in addition to climate change events. A brief spell of poor air-quality is but a glimpse. Yet we (especially in more industrialized nations) dither, socially and politically, refusing to relinquish our conveniences. I appreciate the irony of my typing and sharing this on an ipad, requiring many of the issues listed above. It seems time to face the reality: we’re no longer capable of “turning things around”— even if all humans died tomorrow, many of the cycles we’ve spurred into hyperdrive the last 200 years will keep moving on their own momentum. I don’t have answers but preparing for adaptation in the near-term seems the only sensible option. 

So admittedly I’ve been in a funk about where my art-making fits into the mix. I mused about this and accepted I’d let the answers reveal themselves. After making dinner I looked up the event, and saw they had a video online of the award presentations. I was surprised (and mildly excited) as my work wasn’t given an award of merit, and then stunned when it received Best of Show. It was all the more humbling, as the juror is an artist and professor (Ray Kass) whose work I’ve admired for many years (and even installed during my museum career). I still don’t know for certain how making paintings assists our global crisis, so am taking this as a nudge to not overthink, and simply be, in the now.
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It was a coolish Sunday morning, perfect for reading well beyond breakfast with an engaging book and a warm mug, nestled in the rocker on the front porch. It turned into a perfect-temperature, overcast afternoon for a stroll through the neighborhood. Naturally enough, returning via my alley, I began puttering in my little garden beds. Which led me, just like the vines I was pulling, to clearing some that were creeping up the Dawn Redwood at the back edge of the yard. Called “a living fossil”, the species was only “discovered” and “classified” in the 20th century. Though now planted as an ornamental worldwide, the only naturally occurring groves are in China. It’s considered an “endangered species” in the wild.

I love the look and feel of its elegant soft bright green fronds, especially in the springtime. True to its ancient origins as a species (at least 150 million years ago) it’s between a deciduous and coniferous tree, (technically a deciduous conifer) with neither typical leaves nor needles, much like a bald cypress. It also has contrasting rusty-toned twigs, and a beautiful scumbled, red and warm-gray bark. This fellow’s done remarkably well; an 18” gift from my sister Helen, a little over a decade ago, it’s now at about 25 feet in height. This isn’t entirely surprising since they’re known to grow to 115 feet within fifty years. We know it could grow to astonishing size, as semi-preserved logs 26 feet wide at the base have been found in rice paddies in China!

There’s minimal soil on this hillside plot of a city lot, maybe an inch or two deep on the majority of it, and below that a rocky mix or solid rock. So when I moved in fifteen years ago, whenever I established a garden bed or planted anything, I had to add to the mix to get more fertile soil. We’ll see how this “Metasequoia glyptostroboides” will fare in the coming years, given the circumstances. That’s also why I wanted to clear the vines around its trunk, to enhance its opportunity. In clearing the vines and other encroaching privet roots (from my own foolhardy planting years back), I was happy to be reminded that a few feet wide, running along the back of the yard, there’s a band of substantial topsoil. Actually a few inches. And unlike the orange-clay I find everywhere else, this is a rich black, reminding me of my younger years, digging in familiar, lush Indiana earth. I suspect because over the one hundred years of since this hillside became a neighborhood alley, the downward slope from two perpendicular directions (up the alley and facing streetward) the topsoil and natural debris tended to be washed and accumulate along the slight ridge that’s the edge of my back yard. 

I’m very happy the soil in the veggies beds established years ago, is steadily improving. I learned a while back there are a good number of others that like to feast on what they seem to feel I have sown for their delight. Groundhogs, raccoons, rabbits, possum, deer (I encountered five on a walk in this alley the other evening, likely heading toward my diner—I mean yard). There are also occasional chipmunks, rats (not sighted, but I assume), mice, voles, moles, some skunks, and probably other critters. Admittedly, the local birds are much more polite in their dining habits, mostly preferring the bugs, similarly the rare toad or snake that I come upon. But I swear if turtles were passing through, they’d catch word and stop in at the salad bar if possible. So I now have fenced in every bed with 30” hardware, and at least until things outgrow it, am obliged to cover most beds with chicken wire. 

I pretty much always begin the spring with good intentions and a zest for planting, but depending on the other life priorities that get revealed in any given year, my gardens may or may not be well-tended and bountiful. So far this year I have been reasonably responsible and the weather and plants have graciously responded. After my walk and a few hours ripping vine roots, I was getting hungry. 

It seemed a nice cool evening to enjoy some warm pasta to close out the day. I figured I’d use some of my vibrant greens (kale, basil, parsley, and snow peas) which had in the last few days sprouted in impressive fashion. I began boiling some water and strolled up to a delicious-looking bed and plucked a few leaves and goodies from the list, consciously grateful for the bounty they were making available. As I pinched off the last leaves to fill a handful, I was startled by a fuzzy brown form next to my hand. It stayed perfectly still, a small bright brown eye staring. Only when I directly nudged it, did it shoot, like a rocket — obviously small enough to zip directly through the 2”x3” grid of my “critter fence” without hesitation — in seconds scooting across my entire yard before diving into bushes in the neighbor’s.  Clearly I’m not the only one who thought this bed was looking delicious this evening.
 
C’est la vie; we all gotta eat. 
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​A robin was poking the ground around the bird bath when I brought my breakfast onto the porch this morning. A mockingbird veered toward it and they surprised one another, and with a squawk and sudden change of flight, the robin held its ground. Crows cawed high in the upper branches of the trees across the way. A small cluster of house sparrows and finches cautiously flitted all around the front yard pecking (I suppose) at mites invisible to my eyes. A blue jay shot like an arrow across the street, chased by a pair of mockingbirds ushering it away with authority. Squirrels hopped about, a few cats ambled into and out of view. Every one (including myself) enjoying the soft start of an extremely pleasant Sunday. It was extra nice no lawns were mowed, no weed-eaters et. A mockingbird alighted on the line nearby, and began singing his heart out with a half-dozen other birds’ songs. I played with him, whistling a few sounds he’d never heard, and watched him eyeing me, tipping his head side to side clearly trying to gage and absorb these odd new calls. I like to imagine he was percolating how he might incorporate them into his already impressive repertoire. If he was, he flew off without sharing where he’d fit them in. 

Though the weather here from February through April was pretty erratic, the last few weeks have steadied into an incredibly beautiful Appalachian spring. The recent light rains have every possible green thing glowing and all that’s meant to blossom is either burst open or seems readying to do so this morning. I love staying still long enough to take in the steady motion of the earth spinning, as revealed by the morning sunlight pulling shadows along. The shadows of the utility poles (I’m old enough to recall when we called them “telephone poles”) painted a medium-toned, faintly lavender blue swath on the old warm gray sidewalk across the street. On the newer, lighter cool pale gray sections, the same line of shadow shifted to a striking glowing azure that somehow miraculously seemed to reflect the clear morning sky.

My house faces south. If I were to hang out all day on my porch in the right season, I could follow the sun’s arc left horizon to right, from just a few minutes after dawn to the glowing colors of sunset as it falls behind the trees up the block. This neighborhood is about half a mile from the river settlers named the Roanoke. The river has been here several thousand years and long before people, rains carved the geography of this area. The street my house is on was likely established along a natural terrace that would have been convenient to make use of in the pre heavy-earth moving equipment days of 1920’s. The lots on the opposite side of the block slope downhill, and on my side, beginning at the sidewalk, the land rises steeply. This means I walk up a flight of concrete steps and further up a sloping small walkway, in all rising about ten feet, just to reach the base of the steps at the side of my porch. Another flight puts one on the porch. Although at the close of a long workday it can feel a slight annoyance, the miniscule trek continuously pays back in spades. 

I recognized from the first time I wandered up the porch of this now 99 year old house when it was for sale, the siting of it has an added bonus. The front porch not only puts me well above any vehicles passing by — my rocking chair perch is at the level of the 2nd floor of the homes across the street — but the home directly across has a double lot, offering a clear view to the alley and trees behind. It’s hard to convey how this little expanse of space, which is essentially a mowed “empty” lot, discreetly eases one’s mind. The effect is further enhanced by a lovely pyramidal stone fireplace and eight feet of gently curving stone wall flanking it located toward the back of the open lot. The low seats and built-in shelves aside the grill area are topped with thick slate. In addition, the brick home occupying the other half of the lot incorporates stone into its porches in a quaint style, and there’s a low multi-colored stone wall which borders the sidewalk. All of these were hand built just shy of ninety years ago by the father and uncle of my former neighbor. They hauled gravel and stones from the river, and initially had a triple lot, with the house built on the slight rise in the center. Billy, who was born and lived here for his entire 70+ years, inherited the house from his folks, regrettably passed a few years ago. I’m grateful his kind and sweet spouse has chosen to stay.

Since I moved in 19 years ago, other old guard neighbors have died, and the block continues going through a natural transition of human inhabitants. Similarly, many of the original trees put in when these homes were built were planted directly under power lines, and over the years were carved back to the point of weakening them, and so have also died. Maples like those cut down can live several hundred years, given the opportunity. It seems a shame, we almost never have allowed the possibility of old growth trees within American cityscapes… I hope young mindsets are open to a human culture that’s more integrated with life. I hope we haven’t squelched their opportunity. On such a calm, peaceful morn it’s hard to see the environmental costs levied that have allowed me this momentarily serene setting. 

Yet the reality is we have borrowed from the earth far beyond the inequalities  now being debated regarding our abstract national debt. Our way of life has overtaxed and overshot global ecosystems in every measurable direction, and the debt will be collected, soon. Despite this (or to ensure we wont give this attention) we seem fed and content to dine on constant distractions. I don’t ever watch what gets presented as “news” — so much seems the endless promotion of narratives which I can no longer digest. 

My neighbors and I don’t all agree, but we generally get along and look out for each other. When I had a flat tire a few weeks back, and couldn’t get the wheel to release from the hub, neighbors from three houses came to assist me. One in his 50’s grew up across the street, another friend in his 60’s moved here 30+ years ago, and a young man in his 20’s moved in just 3 years back. They embody the unfolding evolution of life on this block, which of course echos transitions of everything: from ant colonies thriving and declining to mountains eroding or gaining altitude. 

I try to be aware of the process. It’s sad to hear of a neighbor’s passing, and a delight to see new kids zipping down the street on their bikes, sidewalk strollers with babes, and couples walking their dogs (or vice versa). A few weeks ago I had a lovely chat with a neighbor taking her invalid cat for a walk by carrying it in a sling. Yesterday I was graced by a lemonade stand on the sidewalk down the block, where a teenaged neighbor was raising money for the Roanoke City Tree Stewards. Gestures like hers seem like a small candle of awareness about our shared future, where collapse of our ecosystems is undeniably now upon us, and will impact her generation far more than mine. I’ve been challenged of late to absorb the enormity of it. It’s a struggle to genuinely face our shared reality with honesty and not succumb to fatalism. Appreciation of what is, in the now, coupled with service toward a future beyond my self, seem to me among the best tonics.  

I hear, and then locate, a proud song sparrow piping out his melody, barely visible among the lush long newly opened leaves of the sourwood in my front yard. Fifteen years ago, I was gifted it as a one foot tall sapling by a friend; it’s now over 25 feet tall. As I write this, it occurs to me several birds singing their commentary have been attempting to convey I need to get those lost old trees on this block replaced.
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We all do things we later wish we could revise or adjust. I recently revisited this painting from a few years ago. I enjoy how this discipline allows the opportunity to rework things. I hate the notion something I let into the larger world isn’t as successful or beautiful as it might be. Many of my less-successful works are the result of my losing track of the dialogue that constitutes the process of working on a painting. The final result seems less vital if I’ve allowed the process to become a monologue, imposing a pre-determined vision. I appreciate how paintings offer us a record of the exchange. Seeing one with fresh eyes that isn’t working is like rereading a text sent to a friend and realizing you didn’t quite convey what you really intended. 

One reason making paintings suits me well is the “forgiving” nature of the materials. Paintings can be almost endlessly reworked; previous marks, passages, even layers can be scraped away, and new ones redrawn, built up, accents added or emphasis shifted. I do this continuously when first involved in creating a painting. One benefit to not selling things is that by having older work around, I get to discover a few that can be made better. After decades of making paintings I’m more discerning about which ones can be improved, and how, and more willing to tackle them. 

For me whether a painting sells does not measure its success. Prior to that possibility it’s about whether it has an engaging dynamic and offers a sustaining vitality to the viewer. In the arts, our work is a direct reflection of our integrity. Most of us strive to do and share our best (which may be why it’s so hard for some of us to meet deadlines or call a work done). Considering how I might improve a painting seems an ongoing part of the discipline. 

A light analogy might be to imagine preparing and sharing a dish one has invented. It’s tasty and folks enjoy it. Afterward, when time allows, you try adding new ingredients or spices, maybe change a few proportions and discover this makes it especially delicious. Rather than serve the adequate recipe, I suspect most of us would prefer to offer the more satisfying improved version to our guests.

There’s a mild risk involved—it’s possible to take a reasonably successful work and through revision, end up with a less desirable mess. Yet pushing to excel seems integral to all in the arts. I feel I’m more successful with revisions as I age, but it’s frustrating that I still can get in the way of the process during the original creative effort. Sometimes I get too excited or rigid about directing where a painting should head. Or contrarily, I may lose focus while in the creative act, and waste time going through the motions without being sensitive to the process or the whole. In either case I’ve tuned out what’s trying to emerge or come to life in the painting, preventing the inherent harmony and vitality from shining. 

It seems to me if we are genuine in our endeavors, to some degree the energy we put into our work will reflect who we are. As our tendencies are revealed in our art, correspondingly, sometimes our art can reveal habits and tendencies in our life. Sometimes we are in the flow of life beautifully. Other moments I’ve seen my desire to help or to “solve” what I see as a problem, disrupt the flow in my relations with another. As with paintings, driven by my enthusiasm, its easy for me to eagerly dive in, only afterwards realize best intentions don’t always make for the best, harmonious results. Or my ego-driven assertiveness, interwoven with my dogged persistence, can insensitively ignore the inherent beauty of the moment, or overshadow another’s opportunities to grow. It’s tricky to learn to step back and let things unfold. 

Being too near or physically close to a painting for too long while working on it obscures the overall effect. Often after intense effort, it’s only when I’ve paused and get back that I really see the dynamic at play. Similarly, sometimes in my impatience to assist someone, I realize afterward how my heavy-handedness has precluded really hearing their voice, or being sensitive to the fuller circumstances beyond my own vision. When I lose objectivity in looking at a painting, or while engaged in a friend’s concern, if I get wrapped up in my view of what ought to be, it truncates everything. When I listen more deeply and openly (to the painting or the person), taking in the view without filtering things through pre-ordained ideas, the path ahead is inevitably smoother and things move naturally toward a sustaining resolution. It’s about being actively engaged in the conversation without directing it. I’m trying to be a bit more judicious about the need to contribute, to listen attentively without adding commentary; to allow the beauty of what is, be.

Visual art’s helpful that way — the trail of the process in a painting can document a physical record of emotions in the making. It’s another way to look at art that goes within and beyond the subject matter depicted. Though some artists put down each stroke just as they wish, because I encourage letting things happen, I’m generally less precise. So I tend to bring paintings  to fruition through “trial and redo.” I can put down color after color until the tone is just so, or collage a section and move it in a whole new direction. Regrettably, our exchanges in life, person to person don’t always allow for do-overs. 

So in terms of disciplines, it’s good I’m not an aircraft pilot or surgeon — I am more suited to the pursuit of learning through the malleable tableau of discovery that’s my way of painting. In terms of disciplining my self, the arts offer a helpful, endless training ground for refining life habits. I’m certain I’ll still make some paintings muddy through my impatience, or might lose track of an unforced harmony by nudging things in a narrow direction. Just as I’ll also doubtless still have occasional interactions where my insensitivity intrudes on another’s sweet song. I suppose at times it may even seem I’m unconsciously expecting my friends to be as forgiving as my paintings — which is of course very selfish of me and unfair to them. All I know to do is keep aiming to be aware in the moment, and hopefully through attentive witnessing, allow paintings, and others to blossom. 

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