​Awake. It’s a drizzly Sunday morning. Foggy head and unsettled heart. Need a walk in the woods. Grab a hat and rain jacket. Only one vehicle in the lot, a red pickup. Hit the trail and try to let my thoughts unwind, do what they will, not resist but not get tangled up in them. Everything is lush and verdant, refreshed from the cleansing rains. Maybe they can rinse my heart. 

The trail is muddy. As I walk in the woods, alone yet again, I feel the familiar solitude. It’s comfortable like an old sweater, until something triggers the ache for a hug and the aloneness is instantly palpable. Just then I notice the deer prints before me, and am suddenly appreciative of the endless, subtle wonders always before us. I lean on a huge old poplar, and try to absorb some its silent steady strength. I sense an unequal exchange—as if I’m making a withdrawal and don’t have much to give back today. Mostly the trees and greenery of all shapes and sizes feel happy. Like they’ve been feasting on the loosened nutrients the rains have made available. Everything is glistening as if just emerging from a sauna. A few trees have lost their grip, and been pulled from their heights back to earth, starved by the dry spell then after the showers apparently too loaded to hang on. 

Some become trail-blocks. Scaleable hurdles; minor disruptions really. Life constantly offers them. I clamber over and for just an instant lose several decades. Was their fall awkward, like when we flop onto our keister after slipping an an icy patch? Or graceful, maybe a pirouette was involved, and perhaps even a gentle touching of the extended limbs of friends nearby as they swirled to a soft landing in the moss…?) I wonder if their final recline across the human path was a parting gift, to encourage our agility and keep us ready for bigger challenges?

Yet the turkey tail reveals they never really stop giving. Even as they slowly disrobe and disassemble their once solid trunks, all manner of life is being fostered on their decaying bodies, and beyond. Fungi freely and generously offering vast healing and restorative resources for us to boost or recover our own vitality. If only we listen, learn and respectfully participate in this endless dance.

Roots older than me form both soil retainers and steps, making me conscious of my boots pressing on them. I further soften my steps to not disrupt the gentle music of the raindrops flicking leaves on their descent with a backdrop of crickets chirping. Wet leaves radiate gold, silver, and scarlet against the soft pale jade and sea gray boulders. The vividly glowing moss seems to be expanding before my eyes. 

A buck races across the path and stops short on the hill just above me. I slow, then stop, and nod at him. He eyes me warily, and then after a pause nibbles at some fresh greens, ears on full alert to my presence. I take in a few deep breaths, and we make eye contact. He steps a few cautious steps downhill. Maybe he smells my slight sweat, or is it my mending heart? He licks his chops, gives me a last look and gracefully heads uphill. My journey, this shared journey, continues, and for this I’m grateful.
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​In the last month I’ve encountered so many animals—many deer (not so unusual—except for the one that was half albino!), and oodles of other critters (including five snakes!) while going about my normal daily routines. I live in the city, am working on an exterior residential job that’s just on the city limit, and occasionally visit the neighborhood Roanoke River.  None of these critters was “out of their element”, and all are common to the region.

Five weeks ago my brother in law passed unexpectedly, leaving me and our extended families raw. Everyone who’s experienced such loss can relate to the strange space you’re dropped into during such a time. Maybe after one’s heart has been broken open our awareness is heightened a bit. Or maybe we feel more acutely and can attune to more refined sensations of other beings that we normally ignore... 

It’s hard not to wonder if somehow, in concert with the stretching of our emotional capacity during grief, other capacities expand, as if our invisible antennae pick up (and send out) a more subtle radar. Just as I have felt a bit more fragile in my interactions with humans, I also catch myself noticing subtle things among non-human beings. The industry of spiders, the blossoming and fading of flowers, the conversations among the crows, the hawks “singing”…

There was the deer that approached my porch late at night as I wrote Scott’s obituary. Even as I wiped my tears, rose and walked down two flights of steps onto the sidewalk, it stood looking, as if unsure whether to bound away—like it had sensed me sobbing and was checking on me. It didn’t want to leave. 

There are the bats that follow me as I float — yes gobbling bugs but something about their flight patterns and willingness to veer so close to me makes me smile. 

And the wrens that flit onto the porch rails in the evening, chattering away, glancing at me in between their rapid-fire gossip, as if to say “are you listening?” then departing. 

I planted a potted tree on my return from the funeral services intentionally reflecting on my brother in law as I did, and sure enough in digging the hole uncovered two worm snakes. Last week on the job a black snake was keeping cool under some of my house painting equipment and if not for my redirection, would have continued slithering right up my ladder. 

On an inner tube float following heavy rains, as I approached some falls I noticed a stick was swiftly passing before me in the murky water— but strangely it was moving cross-current?! I then realized it was a snake (garter or water snake I’m not sure) headed to the opposite bank. That same excursion I happened upon a great grandpa of a snapping turtle. I see it about once a year, with its enormous shell as big as two flattened basketballs. It lay unmoving (except for its eye watching me) merging perfectly with the boulder on which it was warming. 

Yesterday, again looking to settle my heart after work, as dusk was approaching I went for a float. I passed a quartet of happy friends singing a cappella under the bridge where I put in. Their joyful harmonies rang in my ears as I hurried past hoping to beat the coming dark. Their voices echoing in the concrete arches made me pause intentionally for just a second before popping my tube in the river at the water’s edge. As I took a breath and gazed at the river, another leg-less critter swam up from the shallows just in front of me! I snapped some pix and watched it move along up the bank. 

While in the water floating, I came upon three types of herons (Yellow-crowned Night Heron; Great Blue; and Green). The night heron just watched me approach — literally hand paddling toward it, I came within ten feet. Further along I was lost in thought and almost floated right past the great blue, which, most unusually, never took flight. And lastly, a normally very shy green heron stood its ground on a bank while I spun nonchalantly past. 

Does all this have any significance? IDK. Does anything in our lives have “significance”? It’s all part of the story we tell ourselves, so it seems to me, sure — as much significance as we choose to assign to each experience. It’s my impression there are vast worlds of communication happening among other species (and between species). Other cultures have long recognized this — ours is just barely beginning to accept there’s a constant dialogue. Similarly we’re finally acknowledging “communication” among the plant and fungi realms. So it seems to me as valid to claim our interactions with other beings are laden with meaning as to say they are random occurrences. Why not tell tales that reinforce our connection to other life forms? What if our belief in separateness is really the “fictional story” obscuring a more true view. 

I DO know that I dearly miss and am working to come to terms with the loss of my good friend Scott. He loved the natural world: caring for it, being immersed within it, and interacting with animals in particular (incidentally, he used to volunteer at the Indy Zoo in the reptile and snake center). So for me, of late, I’m perfectly happy to accept all these encounters as sweet vital affirmations: nonverbal meet-ups, connections with supportive non-human friends checking in on me, implying I (we all) also ought to pay more attention to them, since while we are here, we’re so very much all in this together. 
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We’ve all experienced (especially the last couple years) how the roller coaster of life can toss us unexpected challenges. I’m learning it’s all about how we respond to them. Sometimes the challenges are embodied in relationships. Inevitably there are those we lose. Sometimes our orbit overlaps with other folks and an energetic dynamic occurs but never blossoms. Other relationships can literally carry us beautifully through times when we are unsure how to move forward. Sometimes the mysterious threads that bind, though invisible in the moment, reveal themselves decades later.

I had a friend in graduate school, Bill, who, like me, was focused on painting. We both were headstrong, somewhat insecure, and driven to learn our discipline and grow. We respected each other and routinely squabbled as we struggled to articulate our art paths and how they fit into the complexities of both the art world and the world at large. As we achieved our MFAs, our art lives were each suddenly redirected by our relations with intimate partners and young lives for which we were responsible.   

We then were out of touch for about 25 years. Living, holding tightly yet tenuously to our individual versions of an art life-line amid all sorts of other concerns and struggles. I reached out when FB was born and we made light contact but never really broached much conversation. There was so much life that had passed for us both, and so much I wanted to discuss, share and learn! It was never to be. 

Planning a day-trip to Richmond, I reached out as I’d done before, and typically got no response. The night before the three hour drive I looked him up one more time on FB and to my great sadness his son Miguel indicated he had passed in between when I’d sent my last message to him and that evening. I wrote a brief note of condolence and suggested perhaps one day in the future we might meet up to share stories and maybe work through grief a bit. To my surprise, Miguel wrote back while I was on the way to Richmond the following morning. We hastily arranged to meet, along with his girlfriend Christine, and instantly bonded. 

Or I might say, further bonded, as I had met him when he was a toddler, just a few times for brief encounters, as his father and my grad school days were ending. Miguel is a brilliant painter and teacher and Christine has focused on film but both have a breadth of understanding in several fields and wisdom rare for their age. They struck a chord in me with their broad intelligence, clear-eyed sensitivity, compassion, and deep desire to contribute to a better world. In a word they give me hope about our future. I was honored to be at their wedding a few years later. We have been in touch ever since, and in dozens of small yet profound ways they have helped me grow and added a special richness to my life. 

Yesterday they made the trip to Roanoke to see an exhibition of my work. An extraordinary bonus was for the first time meeting their five month old son, Nico. We don’t get together often, and the pandemic exacerbated this, yet as usual without hesitation we can effortlessly engage in fun, interesting, and heartfelt discussion for hours. We spoke about family, prejudices, loss, moments of insight, loves. I thoroughly savor their company. Clearly we are all starved for intimacy, touch, and hugs despite (or because of) the questionable, awful notion that these most primal of human needs are something we’ve been told are nowadays to be feared. I’ve also had some recent loss in my family, and have friends who lost dear ones in the same few weeks. The undefinable heavy clouds of grief shadow my recent days. 

I realized after they departed that sweet Nico is the first baby I have held in nearly three years. There are no words to express the potency that the light in an infant’s smile brings to one’s heart during such times. There’s no better reminder that the Light is there glowing in us all. We only need to allow ourselves to notice, let our guard down, open our hearts, and let it touch us. 
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[Exhibit on view at Alexander/Heath Contemporary Art Gallery, ROanoke, VA]

There’s nothing necessarily extraordinary about the trail I was on this morning. I’ve relished my river time the last few years, but recently realized lately I’ve spent very little time in the woods. So I took advantage of the cool morning, set aside other tasks and wandered up our local Mill Mountain. There was a time not long ago when this was a Sunday morning ritual for me, and it felt really good to go back to my “church.”  

I encountered no one on the hike up, and this allowed me to more fully immerse into the environs. I was pleasantly surprised that despite not hiking for several months my legs were up to the ascent. A sense of peace steadily washed over and through me. I became aware how much I missed the familiar trail and multi-sensory forest experience. The steady rains this summer had nurtured a solid canopy of rich green foliage that kept me cool and in shade. Chickadees and nuthatches chattered and a few woodpeckers could be heard tapping away. I noticed my breathing adapted to the pace of my steps. I enjoyed the slight challenge of stepping over decades-old roots and small rocks. I recognized a couple of landmark boulders like familiar friendly faces I hadn’t seen in a long time. 

I felt a presence in these woods, I suppose mostly from the trees. It’s a peculiar, hard to define sensation. The soil isn’t especially rich, mostly shallow and rocky, and so lots of the trees are a foot or less in diameter; a few are double that size. Occasionally in my life I’ve felt the power of a particularly large tree — especially potent in old growth forests — but this morning what I felt was not that. It was more like a communal energy emanating from these hillsides. It is impossible to walk in a forest left to its natural course and not come upon hanging limbs here and there, fallen trees, decaying stumps, fungi, moss, and sprouting saplings. The full process of life is conspicuously on display. And prodding our other senses as well with scents of pine or decomposing wood, the texture of smooth bark we and a thousand others have grasped to round a switchback, and even the varied feel of moss, sandy patches, mud, or pine needles crushed beneath our step.

Though savoring the trail, my mind floated to recent news of yet another friend’s passing. Does the opening of our hearts after losing a loved one make us more sensitized to the death of others? Are we as a culture insensitive to death? Do we act this way to avoid dealing with it because we are so lousy at facing it? Unlike the obvious cycles of life in a forest, it often feels like our culture wants us to deny that aging even occurs. If we remove convenient yet quaint ideas of an afterlife provided by our dominant religions, are a cynical atheism or a clinical adherence to “science” the only alternative? I don’t have answers; I only know I sometimes sense an awareness that transcends my experiences. 

As I made my way to the top, I noticed a young doe very near the trail calmly, innocently, munching on some greenery.  Even as I stopped and stared, it continued, life eating life, listening intently, ready to spring, yet delightfully unafraid. We may not be able to articulate everything we know in words. But somehow, our brief encounter and exchange of presences, our communion, for me felt deeply reassuring.

Even after hundreds of floats in my slightly discolored, slightly misshapen inner tube, few things bring me such peace. It’s been in the 90°s here and I’ve been working outdoors. After a hot workday, cooling my limbs off while gently carried along in a slow-flowing river is exquisite. Encountering a few other beings seeking refuge only adds to the delight. And if they aren’t noisy humans (with noisy mechanisms) disrupting the serenity of the moment, for me, it’s as good as it gets.

​I happened to notice the female yellow-crowned heron in the branches of the tree on the right. We eyed each other as I drifted past. I’d already passed a couple of males upstream. It occurred to me the setting sun might make a nice counterpoint to the bird’s silhouetted form in the branches. So, unusually, I managed to quietly back-paddle with my hands against the current, toward where she was perched. Though she watched me warily, and hopped within the branches a bit, fortunately I didn’t scare her off. As I worked to hold my place paddling with one hand and fumbling for my phone with the other, clouds wafted in front of the golden sun, and I felt further lucky.
 
I snapped a few photos, let go of resisting the flow, and as I drifted downstream, contentedly absorbed the whole shimmering scene. The vast 60 foot piers of the Elm Avenue Bridge framed it all even as I felt everything (including me) merge into the gorgeous and ever-mysterious unfolding. Gifted beyond words to be part of it all. 

​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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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.