​Ecstasy is identity with all existence.
      ~ Peter Matthiessen, “The Snow Leopard”
 
Spring is springing out everywhere here. This year it feels like we’re more hungry for it than I can remember. Maybe seeing the buds and joyful blossoms restores a sense of order and normalcy, an assurance life is going forward. 

We’re always eager for spring but maybe we’re extra hungry because this year has forced death and transitions into our consciousness — a scary thing in a culture that does its best to deny decay as an equal half of the circle of being. Generally our society prefers not to recognize we’re engaged in an endless process of growing and aging and continuous change.

Along the riverbanks the natural toll of the winter is conspicuous. Like every year, ancient trees, seemingly solid middle-aged adults, and some young saplings all succumbed as part of the ongoing cycle and the energy they accumulated steadily infuses new growth. I write this knowing many have lost family members and close friends and in no way mean to diminish the pain and challenges of letting go of those we love. I feel it as my own mother approaches the midpoint of her 10th decade. Considering letting her, or anyone we love go, literally breaks one’s heart. This breaking and healing too is a process.

Many have also stepped up this year to take on extra care for those who are ill, attending to seniors especially, but those in need of all ages. For some of us who aren’t directly offering physical care, our wishes may translate into concern for those we know and love. I try not to let this manifest as worry. I aim toward “conscious awareness” of others that, in my better moments, might be labeled “sending intentions.” Some might call it “prayer” of a sort, though I prefer the former term (hopefully without offense to anyone) because the latter suggests mythologies interceding that I don’t require. However we name it, for me it’s a way to consciously reinforce our too-often ignored bonds to one another. 
The fishermen were out in droves along the greenway early this morning, playing their part in the food chain. I assume the waters were recently restocked. Several brought along young ones. While dad may be able to savor patiently watching his line, it made me smile and recall my own youth watching his restless eight year old boy playing his part: meandering the bank, spinning twirling twigs, hopping rock to rock, and creatively looking for any way to lessen his own boredom. Further along, a trio (dad, boy, and girl) are leaning on the wall of a concrete bridge gazing down where the babbling creek pours into the river. It’s a treat to see the gangly son fully engaged and pointing at the water toward what I assume is a “big one”, and an added bonus to catch the girl glancing my way, return my smile as she softly waves. 

The path along the river is always a mix. There were folks with dozens of seasons pushing their limbs and hearts to keep strong. From a distance I see a young couple with a beautiful lab stop. Curiously, the man has gone into the weeds by the water. He emerges and proudly hands a single daffodil to his partner. It occurs to me they may be pregnant as I pass them. 

Kids are on my mind the last couple of days. One close friend has been struggling through the somewhat expected, still challenging, melodramatic “teen-into-adulthood” moment with his daughter. Another friend’s not-yet-teen daughter contracted COVID and (thankfully) burned through a few days fever and is now on the mend. I can only offer shoulders and ears to one, and support from a distance to the other. I try not to give advice nor platitudes, having learned by past trials and especially this year that nothing is assured. 

When not distracted by people or my own thoughts, beautiful, hopeful yellow buds silently reveal their presence, emerging amid the decaying trees, dead stalks, and ever-changing river. Whether in moments of strife, transition, or joy, the best we can offer one another is an open-heart, an awareness of our shared energies, and our inextricable connection to each other and all life.

Between


To ponder the sky
And my place, I
Stopped on the bridge 
Stretched across the banks
Suspended, above the rushing 
Between water, land, and air
Determined, I 
Like the spaces 
Between


Between the branches of this tree and that
Between built and grew
Between gold, pink and blue
Between the clouds and sky
Between river and street
Between solid and flowing
Between feeling and knowing
The heavens and earth


Between day and night
Between right and wrong
Between noise and song
Between the notes 
Between thoughts
Between breaths
Between pulses
Just 
Be


~~~


Sunset, March 1, 2021, Roanoke, VA
​

Sunset, March 1, 2021, Roanoke, VA

What sticks in memory is a funny thing. I can reflect on a moment from last year, but the specifics are already murky. Details from just a couple of years ago have faded, especially without a photo reference. Yet, while I don’t remember every comment of that life-affirming conversation, or who wore what when sharing that much-needed precious hug, the feelings still warm my heart. It’s challenging enough to try to recall my own youth, let alone to try and imagine life in my parents’ or grandparents’ time. Can we even begin to sense life several generations further back? Harder still to fathom the life of people from a time before any of our own familial connections, or cultures beyond ours. We know from occasionally discovered remnants that folks settled at sites along the river in this photo. Hundreds of years ago they walked these hillsides, probably slogged in the muddy river plain, knapped rocks into tools, and maybe even watched the sunrise over those mountains in the distance on a chilly morn. Strangely, the “First People” of this region were mostly gone before European settlers explored these lands. 

A friend is a descendent of Colonel Thomas Walker, (of Walker Mountain fame) who documented his southwestern Virginia “frontier” travels in a journal in the mid-18th century. Already by then, the native people of this area had disappeared—whether by disease, conflicts among tribes, or simply a desire to move on remains a mystery. It’s a fascinating journal, full of details about abundant lumber, freshwater resources, and impressive wildlife (probably surging in numbers as a response to a top-of-the-food-chain predator (humans) having recently departed. He writes of great quantities of deer, bear, elk in the thick old growth forests, that were easily hunted all along his party’s route from here into the regions we now know as Kentucky and Tennessee.   

Only a handful of trees in this valley still exist that are even 150-200 years old. I guess they survived the hunger for wood by being too much trouble to access and harvest, or had the good fortune to not be desired for fuel or lumber. But the vast majority, like the humans and other creatures, breathed, added to the dynamic soup of the ecosystems as they grew, and in decay returned their energies to the earth. Just as the animal life and plant forms have changed, the precise shape of a river is always evolving. Generally the myriad creeks and streams of our watershed have poured into this river for many thousands of years. The mountains in the distance, eroded over eons, are far older. These Blue Ridge Mountains are the edge of the Appalachians, which once were among the tallest mountains on the planet. Geologic “earth-time” is hard for me to envision; cosmic “galactic-time” is almost the beyond my puny human comprehension. 

On a recent walk with this view, I referred to the sculpture of steel cylinders (barely visible along the greenway in the center of this image) as teepee-like. Though the people of this region would have lived in long houses or bark covered round-shaped lodgings, to me it suggests the form of shelter commonly built by cultures in the center of the continent. My walking partner said he thought of it like the pyramidal logs of a campfire — or maybe just a pile of pipes! What we see is determined by our time, our interests, and the focus of the discreet lenses through which we look. I imagine our vision and circumstance also has to affect our memories.  

Does the land hold memories; can we tap into them? Perhaps. Sometimes I certainly feel a presence. For billions of years the earth has spun in orbit, and for millions of years the winter sun has warmed the frosty grounds of these hillsides, constantly spurring the micro-organisms of the soil into microscopic activity. For thousands of years this river has mirrored the rays of light bent by clouds into glowing colors. Trees and plants have responded every year by slowly nurturing buds that patiently await spring thaws. During cold seasons, countless people, birds, large and small furry friends, and scaly critters have all sought clearings, perches, patches, and rocks to best absorb the morning warmth. Whether the details were noticed and stored by humans, ravens, turtles, or trout, as the wondrously interwoven dynamo of life churned on, I suspect the generous warm feeling seeped in, became part of each being, and nourished them for another day
.

It’s easy to dismiss the cold days of winter as “dead” — especially when there’s just a smattering of snow on the ground. The brisk gray days can sap of our vitality. The last few days of blustery winds took my breath a few times while I walked. When I removed my gloves to snap photos, within minutes the crisp air had chilled my bare fingers numb. If I stood still it felt like, despite my layers, the warmth of my body was being sucked away. Yet it was just this stopping, allowing a moment for the scenes all about me to seep in, that revealed more than a bleak and frozen world. 

I quickly saw there were several bluebirds, quietly puffing up their feathers as shields to the wind (no breath wasted on chatter), as they perched on chosen branches to take in the rays of rising sun. Somehow, amid the patches of icy snow they spotted tidbits of food, and darted to pluck something to eat off the ground, more intent on refueling than worrying that I watched them. The bright sparks of cobalt blue in their haunches and tails flashed against the white sheets of crusty snow, umber gray patches of earth, and ochre-toned grasses.

The high waters of the river flooded my ears with a steady, gentle backdrop roar. The soft metallic-jade color somehow made the clear water feel dense and rich. The powerful currents and swirling flows took on a hypnotic rhythm, framed by trees posted into bluish-white snowy banks. The cool tones dominate in the early morning hours, but they also make the random, humble, rust-colored leaf glow by contrast. 

The leafless tree branches show off the directions of their warm-weather striving. The stalks of the grasses and brambles act like directional hashmarks that have chaotically yet carefullly recorded the wind flows over the landscape. And then there’s the patches of water, now frozen, revealing its resistance to solidifying with its tell-tale lines and ridges and lone twig, leaf, or blade of grass surrounded but bravely standing firm. The surface offers a strangely soothing dynamic of ovoid geometry that glimmers and sparkles on its edges. Here and there offering frosty views of the clouds and pale blue sky, and even glimpses of the warming golden sun. In so doing the static ice confirms the movement of the earth, the steady inexorable march of the seasons, the constant and rich current of life pulsing forward.
 

​When I’m receptive to it, the webs connecting us seem everywhere and my days often seem to unfold in an almost magical fashion. A little over a week ago I made the 600 mile trek to visit my mother who lives on a tiered campus that includes an assisted living facility where she has an apartment. She’s doing remarkably well, considering the challenges of nine months of COVID-19 isolation (for her safety) and the fact she’s 93. The first “visit” was through her living room window. I perched in the snow next to the bird feeder while we spoke on our phones. Our family has figured out this is an option requiring no permission, administrative logjams, or scheduling and our mother can stay warm (in her jammies if she wants) in her space. It’s a bit tougher in the cold, but you do what you gotta do. Plus seeing the person who brought you into the world and has always cared for you unconditionally is worth any effort. 

We also scheduled a couple of safely masked and distanced indoor visits in person. One was intentionally timed for us to be able ZOOM—watch her granddaughter (my niece) get married (her wedding had been virus-postponed twice!) It went smoothly and despite the damn virus we all still got to feel like we were part of the ceremony. I’m grateful all around: for the facility that cares for her, for the digital WiFi  technology, the much-needed boost of seeing two young people forge forward in a commitment to love, and the shared time with my mom.

I also took a couple of paintings off my walls for her so she could have something new in her simple space to enjoy. I figured she’d only want one, but this way she could choose. I brought the unselected one, titled “Crocus” home with me. The morning after my return was the Solstice, and since that painting has a sunny feel, I decided to post it on FB. I also took a river walk at dawn after posting it. While strolling I happened to offer intentions about my future. My talisman, a great blue heron, synchronistically responded on the walk. 

Immediately following the solstice walk and essay writing, by chance (or not?) I had a long heart to heart conversation with a new friend who happens to live in Kenya. She’s made me aware of a wonderful non-profit that works with “street kids” who, largely through their own grit, survive the hardship of  living within a huge dump near Nairobi. The organization uses the arts as a means to empower these scrappy young people and tries to instill in them both the skills and the self-confidence to one day be able to move beyond this challenging place too many of them were born within. Amid COVID the pressures on them are all the more heavy, and for those offering helping hands finding the resources to change lives is so much harder. I invite you to look into them via the link. 

That afternoon, a dear friend, (we bonded during the terminal illness of a mutual friend who collected African art), saw the “Crocus” post and decided she enjoyed it so much she’d request it as a Christmas gift from her husband. It’s always very gratifying when something I’ve helped bring into the world is appreciated by others; she generously confirmed things after I delivered and hung it yesterday. A purchase by a close friend, to hang in the warm home of a couple whom I love is exponentially all the more special. They live in a gorgeously furnished home, full of several African works (from our now gone mutual friend), as well as other very beautiful objects, so I’m further humbled.

I rarely define what I’ll paint beforehand. That evening a small painting came forth of a floating heart— for me it related to the conversation with my friend in Kenya, or reflected a shift in my own heart-space. I shared it on FB and was surprised and honored when, within hours of my post, another person I greatly admire messaged he wanted to purchase it. He embodies service to others, and again I was very touched. Such support is always appreciated, especially this year. 

I’m very eager to embrace more time making art, but I also know I’ve been blessed with good fortune to have had steady house painting work throughout this virus. While these art sales are a deeply felt validation of my yearnings toward my future, which I will honor, I also firmly believe in paying forward. I recognize there are very many folks in heart-rending situations locally and across the globe. Given the ring of participants in this magical week, it felt perfectly fitting to me to be able to pay some forward from these sales to www.Alfajiri.org. 

I can imagine no more appropriate or satisfying way to add some light to the circle and help us all move past these dark days.

​Like it or not, 
Attempt to deny and defy it, 
March about it, scream about it,
Shout about it, wail and flail, 
Proudly wave your pitiful grasp of patriotism;
Pretend our laws don’t apply to you 
or your privileged few;
Tweet your toddler-like fingers off, 
Still won’t matter.
We’re not better;
We are more. 
More colors. 
More resilient. 
We’re all imperfect, 
but we can admit it.
Our roots hold fast even in storms
Because we go deep down
We know deep down 
We’re all intertwined. 
And we are growing 
Our shared future, even for you,
Like it or not, for all.
Soon you won’t matter;
A new day is dawning.
.

Among many gifts that come to me, I get to work in the homes of extraordinary people. Three days ago I happened to get a call about firming up the date for some house painting loosely planned last summer to happen this January. I’d worked for the kind elderly couple in 2019. (I’ll give them pseudonyms.) I texted about a possible start date “that could work for you and Dan” and Mary, his wife, wrote back informing me that her husband had died in September. Ugh! I was heart sick and expressed my sadness and concerns. She assured me she was doing ok, and we promised to talk about it in person in a couple weeks.

As we ended the chat a flood of tears burst from me. I really didn’t know them well, only worked for them twice, each time for about 10 days. But they’d struck me for several reasons. Dan, was tall and distinguished-looking, but had an informal manner,  and a friendly twinkle in his eyes. He was a former electrical engineer and had a brilliant, nimble mind. I learned one day from his daughter (visiting from NC), he’d been THE primary architect of the electrical systems for nuclear subs! His devoted spouse Mary had been a vibrant public school teacher, and still was a petite ball of energy. 

She needed to be, as Dan had experienced a couple strokes the last few years. These had left him wheel chair bound and he’d mostly lost his ability to speak. His mind was fine but he could only speak simple words with great effort. Mary had a capable part-time helper, a wonderful young man from Malawi who was indispensable to them, even still she had to handle a huge amount of his care. 

Besides all this, they both were extremely sweet and gracious to me! But what stood out from the first day I began working for them were their interactions with each other.  The last few years must have been extremely frustrating for them both: a vigorous body now barely able to stand, and scintillating mind, barely able to speak, and at a time when many have retires into a life of ease, a non-stop regime of work for his spouse, ever-trying to understand his needs, pains, and thoughts through barely perceptible mumbles. Yet even in the thick of exhausted moments, they retained amazing patience and grace. 

It was the second marriage for each of them, and came late in life, after kids were grown and they both were widowed. Mary was forthright but never bitter with me about their current circumstances and the challenges they both faced. Characteristically, they had me painting in order to prepare their home for the market, having accepted they could not stay there much longer. 

Yet what an inspiration they both were! Throughout my time in their home, their deep love for each other was conspicuous! It shined in big and small ways. It’s impossible to convey the feelings of witnessing a brave under-five foot tall 80 year old woman support her determined 6’3” husband as he leaned on his walker, summoning all his efforts as step by step they made their way together down the hall in their warm home. I recall seeing Mary gently stroking his semi-paralyzed hand, or sweetly wiping his cheek at lunchtime; other times watching Dan’s eyes glowing fondly while looking at her as he listened to her share a story with the soft focus of intense and sincere interest; or hearing him agonizingly struggle, through immense effort, to softly but clearly enunciate something witty that at once complimented Mary and made her laugh. 

Obviously, before his stroke and then beyond it, they embodied love. I’ll return to their home soon, to help brighten some of the old tones and spruce it up for sale. Hopefully Mary has felt a small measure of physical and emotional relief as she marshalls forward through her grief. But what will never fade is the energy of the bond they forged, the love they radiated, the way their true colors sustained them and, just as with me, surely touched and enriched so many other lives by their profoundly beautiful, genuine affection for each other.

​The night before last, a friend and I walked to a local eaterie and shared in a dinner (outdoors, beside a heater that didn’t put out quite enough therms to keep us warm), and then we walked the long way home, to enjoy the Christmas lights, conversation about our transitions over time, and mostly to get our blood circulating again. So there was every excuse to stay in bed this gray, chilly morning. But I mustered the gumption to rise, put on an extra layer, and wandered forth. As usual, when I approached the silvery, pre-dawn water my senses heightened. 

Every day there are amazing views to savor, unexpected delights to discover, and joyful colors to revel in. Breathing in the scents and feeling the softly crunching icy grasses underfoot, losing one’s self in the rhythmic soft rumble of the rushing river just as the golden sun crests the hillside, hearing the dull thudding of the small woodpecker on the frozen hollowed trunk, feeling the crispness of the air on fingertips that take the photos and the warmth in one’s pocket afterward; everything contributes to bringing one alive, here, in this moment. Indeed, the presence of the whole revives me, cradles me within its bosom, and nourishes my soul. The day feels complete before it has even begun.