John Wiercioch
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Reflections on the Art of Living

Silver

12/18/2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12/18/2021

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​Sometimes I find it helpful to reflect on where my painting has led me. Here’s an overview of last few months of mostly small scale paintings—the scale somewhat prompted by circumstance. In my process of making paintings, the final image or “end point” is almost never defined in advance. So coming into dialogue with what emerges is a delicate process, and more so is sensing when a work is “complete.” To a degree it reveals things to me about myself, my life in the moment, and as a physical record becomes (I hope) something for others to enjoy. 

I find it’s rare for me that a painting can’t be improved upon after the first few sessions. I often see (in my own work and others) art that has an interesting effect or shows off skill or finesse, but wears thin after a few viewings. Once in a while a piece feels wholly complete in a session or two. And for sure sometimes I’ve lessened the best qualities in a painting by overworking it.

I like journeying (via this admittedly conservative route) into the unknown, through this process of discovery in making my simple paintings. I feel very fortunate to do some exploration through this discipline. I’m not (currently at least) out to push the art world (whatever that is) in any new directions, nor alter society toward what I feel it should be. I just want to add some beauty to the world.  Each painting is a sort of physical record of a small journey, which I feel can act as an object for contemplation. 

A dear friend and patron recently mentioned she could sense a certain “engineering/musical composition” quality in my finished works—and I take this as high praise as I’ve great admiration for both disciplines. It’s my aim to make art that will still captivate me on repeated viewings. For me this often requires lots of looking and considering. I want all that I make to have “staying power” and be able to give back to the viewer continuously, hopefully for years. 

This is why I like having a studio at home. I routinely set my work up around the house to take it in slowly. When I can glance at works daily, it keeps the conversation fresh for when I can get back into the studio. When I focus on them I’m watching for what catches my eye in successful or unsuccessful ways. This lets me steadily refine or tweak a painting over several weeks. So here’s a smattering including the beginning of a larger scale one, using the small one to its right as the starting point. Even when a larger version begins from a touchstone, the end result inevitably takes its own course. I always look forward to seeing where it ends up. 
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Seeing Below

12/5/2021

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I was feeling out of sorts this Sunday morning — perhaps from attempting to digest a recent diet of info, the type we may not even realize we’re gorging ourselves on. It can be engaging and yet (especially our fear-based “news”) unconsciously enervating. So I took a walk this AM to the river and sat on some rocks on the bank. To do this from the greenway that parallels the river, you have to make an effort because except a few places (Iike near the bridges) the river is separated by a strip of un-manicured grasses. Which means going off the mowed path next to greenway, down a substantial bank where few besides fishermen and deer wander. ​

I was happily surprised to see the now dried pale golden grasses were three to four feet tall. It takes a little effort to forge through them and the light brambles and brush, up to the natural riparian buffers along a waterway—a biological term I learned from my hydrologist brother in law, who’s been on my mind. These are also in a way buffers that, once crossed, in a small yet effective way offer a slight barrier  into a sanctuary somewhat shielded from the human-built world. 

As is my habit, I let myself be guided without thought and picked a spot, where I perched on a rock. Though some might call it “zoning out” I prefer considering it “zoning in” — both to the place I am and in a delicate balance “within” my self. The time flew. I let the sound of the rippling water soothe my mind. Though the water was flowing I was aware of how quiet and still it felt on this gray overcast morning. Initially not much seemed to be “happening.” The water was cold and clear as glass, fully revealing the river bottom, but with my limbs condensed in a squatting position, I stayed warm. 


There were just a few chirps and only a couple fluttering wings within view along the bank. Slowly I noticed that little sprinklings of leaves floated down when the faint breezes blew, released like handfuls of confetti by the few trees that had any left to toss. What for a year had been receptors for collecting energy for the growing trees gracefully merged into the current and became part of the river. They were already only half visible as they floated by. I didn’t realize how long I’d been poised on the bank until until my knee alerted me it needed to unbend. Almost an hour had passed. 

As I stood, right in front of me multi-colored leaves long underwater caught my eyes. I snapped a few photos. For me taking photos is often a way to get more attuned to what I’m immersed within. I became conscious of the bright reflections on the surface competing for recognition with what was below. The depths were lush and rich; bright freshness and decay were complexly intertwined. Mostly I see the immediate appearance of people, but often am too self-involved to discern what’s going on below the surface in their lives. That requires awareness beyond myself, practice in being open, and perhaps allowing space and time. 

Over decades the tough bark achieved by age-old trees becomes soft, fragrant humus; over aeons the solid rocks steadily transform into the grains of quartz on the ancient river bottom; my life’s presence is a passing shadow in this illusion time.

Although my digital device “captured” the imagery of both above and below, when I look at the resulting photo, it’s hard to find discreet disconnected objects upon which to focus. As if the flowing melange was in effect more “real” than any “things” we strive to identify. Seems a fitting analogy: we intellectually desire to comprehend and “make order” of our world, label things and people as a way to assure ourselves. Yet the “reality” is, it’s all in motion (as are we). So, even as we might desire to make quick assessments based on the “solid” input of our senses, filtered through our learned experiences, it’s mostly just an abstraction our minds create. When I tune out my mind a bit, a different way of knowing reveals the swirling waters within which we‘re all just joyful bits of melting confetti.

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Tonic

11/9/2021

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

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

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

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

10/31/2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

10/31/2021

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Harvesting in the Quiet

10/6/2021

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

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

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

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

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

8/19/2021

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

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

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

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

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

8/6/2021

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The last few weeks I’ve been gifted with many great conversations. Maybe it’s partly a result of all the isolation during COVID, and our societal desire to reconnect, but it got me wondering about what makes good convo happen.
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I’ve enjoyed sharing in rambling discussions while walking along city sidewalks, while dining at eateries, and trading in meandering streams of thought while floating on inner tubes with friends. A multi-generational community gathering recently offered our neighborhood a chance to break bread together, raise our glasses, and delight in each other’s company. I met up with several old friends but a highlight for me was engaging in a lengthy and enthralling exchange with a bright 8 year old and her younger sister. 

This week a house guest and I, each alone through the last 18 months of COVID, have had several nurturing, deep conversations (punctuated by many laugh-so-hard-you-snort contagious belly laughs) on my front porch and at my kitchen table. Clearly we’ve both been hungry for genuine companionship (and the chance to just be silly). I’ve also had witty, playful discussions via texts and some wonderful chats over the phone with siblings and nearly always with my mother. I’ve even had some lovely heartfelt exchanges via FB messenger with a friend who was literally on another continent six thousand miles away. 

So while geography can set the tone, context affects the flavor, and the means often sets the pace, there’s something about our desire and need to connect with others that seems to transcend all the above. 

In the best of these interactions trust and sincerity seem to me the foundational components. Whether engaging with someone we’ve known literally our entire life (like family members or lifelong friends) or a first encounter with someone, we want to feel safe when we share. Sometimes this need is overt, at other times it’s barely perceptible or even unconscious. I find when we can allow ourselves to be open and vulnerable and offer our authentic self to others, it makes for the richest exchanges. 

For me hearty connections also oblige deep listening, without distractions. Maybe I’m just not as adept at juggling as others, but I prefer giving singular focus to the tasks I do and to the conversations in which I share. When dialoguing in person this means tuning out all devices; when communicating through a device, it means not multi-tasking while engaged. Perhaps it’s the artisan in me (or perhaps I’m just “simple”), but I want to be fully present. There’s a unique emotional and physical energetic communion occurring within every particular conversation; I try not to miss it.

I enjoy such sharing immensely but I seem to be equal parts introvert and extrovert, so I savor my “away from humans” time as well. Floating solo on the river hundreds of trips has offered me a familiar, mostly quiet space to recharge. Inevitably, even if I encounter no humans, a “co-mingling” occurs. By not talking and quieting my mind, I become more receptive to the non-human “energies” of the world through which I am floating. 

It may be feeling the power and presence of an eons-old boulder sculpted by the currents over thousands of years; or sensing the soft transition of a centuries-old tree trunk into humus; or feeling the vitality of a seedling emerging between both, bravely reaching skyward to catch some sunlight. Often on a float I’ll catch glimpses of minnows wriggling between the waving river grass, and in doing so my limbs seem to mimetically loosen. On evening floats I may mindlessly spy swallows making flowing arcs and slow-turning pirouettes overhead. They echo the unseen breezes on my skin as I’m gently rocked on the water flowing below them. Literally floating between earth and sky, their aerial ballet amid the panoply of sensations always lifts my spirits. 

On a float in the early morning, a few days ago I spotted a smooth as silk, svelte critter darting among the rocks along the river bank. It was a mink. Within an instant it scampered over a branch, plunged fully into the river without a splash, was out in a wink, gave a split second shake, slinked under and then over a limb, and pausing, for just a second, looked my way and our eyes met, before it continued along its mercurial journey. The brief encounter lingers far beyond the experience.  No sounds were shared in our exchange, but passing it instantly quickened my senses. And the memory still resonates—the sleek critter’s speedy, seemingly effortless movements, somehow unconsciously inspiring my muscles to emulate its efficient grace. 

A bit further, there’s a form far off downriver (barely a speck in the riverscape, really). I know at once it’s a great blue heron. I’m 500 feet away, and already it turns its head and acknowledges me. It takes flight passing overhead upstream before I’m anywhere close.  It conveys by example: be watchful, notice details, yet stay aware of the broad world in all directions with “soft eyes.” 

Moments later on the float, its mate extended great trust, allowing me to get very near in these early hours of the day. Abruptly, this enormous, gangly yet supremely majestic bird pushed itself upward into the morning air, long legs dripping, it defied the boundaries between earth and sky, even while defining the boundary of our intimacy. I was awed by the sheer beauty of the whole: the glistening water, the fresh new foliage, scents of the river on the cool breeze, the heron’s powerful departure from river mud into the atmosphere. Consciously yet without thought, I absorbed it all — my being merging within all aspects of the instant. I sense and intuitively feel the heron’s presence has imbued something more potent than words within me as I climb the bank to head home, grateful for the gift of yet another rich conversation.

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Blessings

7/27/2021

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Sometimes over a period of time, we are privileged to come to know a dear friend. They’re so engaging and wonderful, you find yourself wanting to share pictures of your time with them, and end up talking about and considering and musing over your experiences together when you’re apart. It’s so appealing and calming and vitalizing to be in their company you feel fortunate and grateful and are happy to share them with others. 

This is how I feel about the Roanoke River in my neighborhood— the inconspicuous, mostly unobtrusive life-blood and ancient lifeline through this valley. I was floating the other evening and from a distance saw a young woman on the bank. There was something about the way she was walking, slowly, with a reflective air that caught my attention. Somehow from afar I could feel she was consciously connecting to the river. As the current carried me close, I recognized her, and she me, and she shouted over the light rumbles of the falls “We’re FB friends!” But in seconds we were too distant to talk and that was it. 

I thought I knew her name, and FB (despite its deserved negatives) helped me verify my foggy brain was accurate; it was Katie Trozzo as I thought. We have many mutual friends and yet as far as either of us could recall after, until this instant had never met. So I sent a quick note and, spurred by some unspoken sense during our brief crossing, invited her floating. She was immediately game, even for a pre-workday, dawn float. 

We embarked as the sun was rising. One of several delightful surprises was seeing that she had brought a cache of sunflowers and set them to float in the river when we entered the water. It was a genuine, heartfelt gesture of admiration and “thank you.” This first “flower blessing to the river” for me, felt somewhat akin to lighting a candle at a shrine. I very much appreciated it in every way. 

From this lovely commencement we shared in rich, sincere conversation about her daily outdoor singing ritual, the possibilities of granting a river rights in our society, ecology, COVID, vaccinations, aging parents, and the many challenges of finding our own path and our tribe in this ever-more complex world. It’s so very heartening to me to engage with smart, sensitive young people who are willing to consider hard questions and further, are concerned about life beyond their own, recognize the interconnections, and who are in turn actively engaged in forging communal paths on their own courageous initiative. 

We also shared several sweet silences, encountering or floating past no less than six herons — two great blues at the start, two not quite mature adults (black-crowned night herons, I think), a green heron intently focused on breakfast, and another great blue (very possibly one of the first pair that had flown downriver) just beyond the bridge where we came out, which beautifully and appropriately bookended a most serene morning. 
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    ​John's Blog

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

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