​“Apocalypse (the Revealing)”, 46” x 46” (framed), mixed media/panel; available at Paragon Fine Arts, Lewisburg, WV.

I was surprised to learn that the word apocalypse doesn’t necessarily only refer to “the end of the world.” Its Greek origins actually mean “to reveal”, which gives it a much less dire inflection.  The more commonly used definition came to us through its metaphoric biblical use, which added implications about the revealing in a context about who, what, and when. 

Deny it or not, it seems clear we’re heading into challenging times. The current global political landscape is a preview of the what’s on the horizon. Our modern industrialized way of life gobbles up resources and they are no longer as abundant nor as easy to grab. At least a portion of the upper 1/2 %—many who have acquired and wield power in this type of economy—are aware of this. 

We’re beginning to sense erratic swings in what used to be more predictable natural rhythms. Most humans like the familiar, so in uncertain times we naturally aspire toward a sense of control. It makes sense people are looking to authoritarians; uncertainty is scary so false promises of steadiness appeal no matter how devious, clever, or narcissistic the ones who pretend they can provide it.

Our modern world is built on the foolish (regrettably now global) economic notion we can have endless growth on a planet of finite resources, and further, can ignore the consequences of our rapacious extractive ways. This convenient idea was made possible by fossil fuels, guided by a mistaken belief humans are separate and “above” the more than human life on the Earth. 

I think the implications and falsehood of that reality unconsciously trouble us, especially those whose identity and purpose are based on the notion owning things will provide happiness and give our lives meaning. 

In these last 200 years we’ve flourished largely because of energy-dense fossil fuels, essentially burning through a savings account that had accumulated over millions of years in a fraction of that time. We’ve had exponential human growth, offering incredible technologies and conveniences for many of us in developed nations. But we’ve never really paid the full extended price for all these. Until recently we could ignore how the way we live impacted life on earth. There were less of us, our technologies weren’t as toxic, our impact smaller, our expectations and addictions not as grand. 

We’ve affected far more than just the climate. The things our modern lifestyle has set in motion have moved seven of nine interconnected ecological markers beyond their tipping points. Surpassing tipping points means they continue on their own momentum. We cannot reverse them in a few human lifetimes; not in our time, or our kids, or grandkids. 

We’re just starting to get a taste of the erratic swings as the Earth’s dynamic systems lurch to regain their former balance. Hot this summer? I’ve been reading that this year is likely the coolest year we will experience in our lives. 

The relatively stability of ecological systems during the last five thousand years enabled animals and plants and in particular, humans, to flourish. The mostly steady web is now severely disrupted. 

Our culture remains in denial, even many who acknowledge climate change refuse to recognize that alternative energies won’t alter our dysfunctional relationship to life on earth. Solar panels don’t stop the chemically-laden industrial agriculture practices that cause topsoil loss and ocean acidification; nor will they prevent deforestation, desertification, and over-fishing, or destructive and polluting mining practices. 75% of the wild animal population on the planet has been lost in the last 50 years! That’s not solely due to oil or coal use.  

So maybe this title refers to humanity’s grand reveal, an awakening and rebirth of sorts; or maybe it fits a more cataclysmic event with a less certain human future. Maybe they’re intertwined. 

Life is constant change, death begets life, and all energy [AKA “life”] in the universe is entangled. I don’t pretend to have charted a safe path forward. I only know I want to reconnect, with people and the earth, savor the mesmerizing beauty of it all. For me that comes through recognizing and trying to be aware of being enmeshed within the unfolding wonder.

Much as we may strive to learn from the past and guide the future, ultimately we can only apply our awareness to the experience of the now. 

So I try to really notice the glow of a flower blossom at sunset, or in the senior’s eyes as we meet; the purity of a bird’s morning song, or a child’s open-hearted smile as their mother rolls the stroller past; the magical twirl of a leaf floating in the breeze; the genuine warmth of a real hug, or a stranger holding a door for another; and the profound sweetness of each breath.

In 2018, in Puget Sound, a mother orca (catalogued J35 in our scientific papers but named by those studying her and her family “Tahleqhah”) gave birth to a calf that died an hour later. She had gestated her for nearly 18 months. When her baby died, “she wasn’t ready to let her go,” writes Meera Subramanian in her essay Black and White, in Orion magazine. “She held her newborn calf afloat in the cold waters of the Sound nudging hundreds of pounds of inert flesh, blubber, and bone along the surface. Breathe. Push. Submerge. Let go. Rise. Breathe. Push. Don’t let go.” 

Exhausted after a week, other orcas in her pod joined in helping her keep the dead infant afloat. They carried it over one thousand miles, for seventeen days! The only fitting, non-scientific descriptor is grief. 

In the same essay, Subramanian insightfully explores how the Star Trek series references whaling as a metaphor about human relations to more-than-human life. In Star Trek IV, aliens are attempting to communicate with Earth, specifically, whales. Leonard Nimoy as Spock says:  “Only human arrogance would assume [an alien] signal must be meant for mankind.” 

We can’t hear what our mindset tunes out. 

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A very kind and compassionate friend recently posted about an amazing local experience. Some friends were in a drum circle near a river and heard some Canada Geese honking up a loud ruckus. So much so the folks went to see what was up. The parent geese were distressed because a gosling was underwater, held there in the grips of a snapping turtle’s beak. With much effort the humans managed to get the turtle to let go. It was a heartwarming tale. 

And yet, it made me wonder, are some species more precious? Which ones? Does age matter? While floating on an inner tube, I’ve seen an 18” diameter, very old snapper in that same stretch of river (Admittedly glad it didnt mistake my toes for a morsel to eat). When do we choose to engage in such incidents? And why? I’m not sure what I would have done. 

Many critters pass through and live in or near my small, semi-wild, inner city yard. I generally welcome them, but do try to salvage some of my vegetable garden for me by fencing it in. Something recently dug a burrow under my front porch. I have a live trap and have relocated groundhogs in the past. However, I’m not comfortable risking delivery of a skunk, which may use an abandoned g-hog’s burrow. Wandering the yard with me, a critter expert sniffed the air by the hole and instantly declared: groundhog. When I asked about a few smaller holes he confirmed my suspicion — rat holes. 

I accept rats are one of those seldom seen but ubiquitous critters living everywhere humans do. I can livetrap the g-hogs, but his suggestion for the rat holes was to toss poisoned bait into them. I was hesitant. I asked a trusted master gardener friend; she said you can use poison, but it may also kill an owl preying on a weak rat. 

We all have to choose our limits. Most of us cringe at killing an owl but are far less troubled by poisoning a rat. Why? Where and how do we define what life we will defend? Full disclosure: I opted (so far) to use mint concentrate which rodents particularly dislike, and to plug up their holes, in the wish they find other pathways. 

Another incident: While hiking in Idaho a few weeks ago, we witnessed a red hawk cresting a ridge above, with a 3 ft. snake dangling from its talons. I’ve read they sometimes drop them from a height to kill them. It had me wondering, do other life forms ever try to avoid causing suffering? 

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I’m reminded me of an experience a few years ago on a tour in Kenya’s National Park, which is adjacent the border of its capital city, Nairobi. Three sides are fenced and one is bordered by a river that enables herds to migrate in and out toward the famed Masai Mara.  Several of the iconic species live and migrate within the park: Giraffes, rhinos, wildebeest, zebra, lion, hyenas, baboons, buffalo, hippos, crocodiles, leopards, elands, other antelopes, snakes and hundreds of bird species. Unlike a zoo, this allows the full dynamic of life to proceed. 

We were within a car (visitors are required to stay in vehicles) with a park guide when we turned a corner and saw an impressive lioness “proudly” surveying the land in our direction. She stood on a small mound just a twenty yards from our vehicle. We stopped and watched, mostly awed by the beauty and presence of this creature. 

She stood for a long while when the guide (familiar with his park, and this lion) mentioned she was the mother of a pair of cubs, who were nearing the age to be on their own. Eventually we noticed she was sniffing as she scanned the horizon behind our vehicle. 

Another car load of visitors quietly pulled up beside ours and the cameras were aimed. To our astonshiment, she stepped off the berm and down into the dirt road, and nonchalantly strolled between the vehicles. We barely moved other than the quick rolling up of some widows, I think most of us were too stunned to breathe. 

She then walked into the grasslands behind us, got low to the ground, began stealthily moving toward a herd we had passed several hundred yards back. We could barely keep track of here from our vantage point. The guide said the lioness was downwind, making her way to the wildebeests. We were mesmerized as the scenario slowly unfolded, a few yards at a time, over a half an hour.

All at once, she bolted like lightning into the pack, and lunged as the group scattered. One was slow or misstepped within range of her claws, she caught it, they tumbled and rolled, legs flying. She emerged atop and sunk her teeth into its neck as it let out an unmistakeable last bleat of life.

The driver of our vehicle, was a mother, and had grown up in Nairobi. However she was inexperienced at chauffeuring park tours, and had never seen a kill in person. She was very upset by the scene. The park rangers are very careful not to intercede in the dynamic. Our park guide very matter of factly pointed out this was food for a week or more for the mother and her young cubs, and that without such a kill, they would not survive. 

The cubs were as much potential lunch to a mother crocodile as the wildebeest had just become. This was a routine and necessary process. It was harsh to see, yet I felt vey privileged to witness the drama of life unfold. 

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It was a stunning sight in Idaho when we saw the hawk still hovering and clutching the snake a half hour later— at least, we assumed it was the same snake. Was it still alive? Had it been dropped and not killed by the fall so plucked upward again? Or was it slowly draining the snake’s vitality while floating on updrafts? Was the hawk avoiding being bitten? Or was it patiently carrying a fine lunch waiting for some of the too many humans to vacate its dining spots? 

All these animal scenarios involved the passing and exchange of life energy. Each revealed how harsh it is to die, how difficult it is to let go. Maybe the transition, especially when such a direct exchange, is so intense, there are very few “easy” ones.  

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Many of us are justifiably troubled by wars, or horrors like the genocide in Gaza, and the destruction of human life wherever our media directs our focus. Yet, to cite just one example, few are aware far more humans are suffering and dying in Sudan, “4 million children are acutely malnourished, 770,000 at immediate risk of death.” But can we ever really quantify suffering? We all know the pain of losing a single loved one. This mass horror has been unfolding since before the “wars” US media highlights in Ukraine, Israel, Gaza, and Iran. Apparently, we’re still hardwired to notice and respond mostly to the local, even if that’s a safely abstracted version on a screen in our palm. 

We can’t hear what we tune out. How and why do we select which species, nations or people are more valued? Who directs my focus, and why?

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Will I have a chance to stave off an encounter with my own death? Will I want to do so? Will someone intercede on my behalf? Will I want them to do so? What creatures will my departed flesh feed? I do know I don’t want to corrupt my dead flesh with chemicals that vainly defy death, and ruin my body’s nutritional value to other life. 

When my death is immanent, I hope I go with acceptance — but if I’m unsure where to intercede in other lives, how will I know when to let go of this incredible personal experience of being? 

It seems easier if I can accept occupying this human form as just one phase I’ve manifested as, before merging with the Whole. Still, this gift of now is awful sweet… and challenging.

Acceptance of the dynamic of life seems wise, yet within this sentiment I feel a tension, perhaps an instinctive contrary impulse, because I want to believe I’ll act to keep another from suffering rather than stand by and see them endure pain… Maybe my inner tension arises from arrogantly assuming I’ve got control of the dynamic and somehow supposed to “direct” its flow, when in fact, I’m a teeny player with a small bit of agency within it. Which is precisely what keeps life infinitely open to nuance and evolving. 

Those lion cubs had a mother that was sustaining them. It seems the gosling had dutiful parents (and was also very lucky some humans acted on its behalf). I imagine that snapper had parents that (at least genetically) helped guide its survival (and I hope it found enough other food to get by). 

I can’t stop thinking about that Orca mother losing her infant calf, and her whole pod grieving with her. Do the kids starving in Sudan not also have loving mothers? Can we begin to imagine the depth of their grief? Who and what determines those we work to save, and when do we choose to intervene?  

Maybe that snake, like the wildebeest, lived just as long as it was meant to live. At the least, I feel throughout its life it contributed energy to the incredibly wondrous circle of life. It’s uncomfortable to apply this idea to watching a cute fuzzy gosling drowned by a snapper. 

And yet, perhaps because it’s so mind-numbingly haunting, so cruelly severe, we can’t even begin to pay attention to the human upon human suffering in places like Sudan…  

I’m sure I’ll be here just as long as I’m meant to; and I also hope to my bones that while I’m here I’m adding to the harmony of life more than disrupting it.

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​When an unexpected new friend visits it makes your day. It’s all the more interesting when I reflect on the timing. 

I’d just spent about a week preparing an application for an artist’s residency. It’s similar to a job application, putting forth a CV, requesting references, selecting samples of work, and coming up with a “proposal” that expresses why one wants such an opportunity. As a sole proprietor for nearly 30 years, the whole process felt foreign. I realized how far I’ve moved, or removed myself, from the waters in which I once swam. 

Similarly, I’ve agreed to be part of our city’s Arts Commission, where we attend meetings and try to be present at public events we sponsor. I want to support creativity and feel strongly the arts cultivate skills that will be evermore essential in the near future. I spent 15 years as an art museum professional but shifting my gears back into this realm, even within this informal and fun group, has taken adjusting. I’m not sure the old clothes are suited to the new world we face. 

I suppose we tend to prefer the comfort of habit and what’s familiar. There’s a security in  knowing what’s coming. It’s also partly why I chose to get involved in these ventures, to nudge myself in fresh directions.

In both cases it revealed some tension about where I want to apply my energies. Have I become selfish working alone for so long? Or is it maturity to have become more selective and reflective about limits to my time and energy?

I’ve got other concerns on my mind. The pressures on our ecosystems caused by our extractive and unsustainable way of life, and the suffering this is and will continue to cause weigh on me. I want to help alleviate the tragedies on the horizon. Yet I know we can only do so much as individuals. In many ways it makes sense to work with existing organizations and institutions. IE: A good friend volunteers as a City Tree Steward, and the more I reflect on it, the more important nurturing our tree canopy feels. Another has taken on raising awareness about data centers siphoning our precious fresh water supplies. All as the current federal leaders dismantle the guardrails of our government, especially those capable of addressing  large scale social concerns. 

In my residency proposal, I reflected on my own quandary regarding where the energy I invest in making art balances with living in a world whose crucial ecosystems we’ve pillaged and foolishly are shoving out of balance. I’m enough of a creative optimist to feel it’s possible to reconcile these, I’m just not sure how. 

Some like-minded friends and I are reading “True Human, Reimagining Ourselves at the End of the World” to explore and sort out how and where we can humbly play our part in healing our imminently shifting world. 

I literally was reading a section in the book about cultivating awe into our lives, when a catbird alighted on a table nearby. I looked up and our eyes met, it cocked its head a few times, sizing me up as I made a few soft clicking sounds, and for an instant, we felt each other’s presence. Then, to my great surprise the usually shy bird hopped onto the table where I was seated. It lingered long enough for me to snap a few photos. 

Among the suggestions by the True Human author, Samantha Sweetwater, is that we cultivate relationships with the more than human world. I’ve randomly done this for years, but the timing and forthrightness of this unsolicited encounter with a wonderful winged friend pushed me to give it more heed. 

The next three days in a row, I returned to the same spot at lunch (knowing that birds too like familiarity). Each day she and her more vocal male partner paid me a visit. I learned fruits are part of their diet, and brought some treats. The female arrived cautiously, alighting on the seat, making her way onto the table top, and quickly gobbling up the raisins I’d set out, one per visit.  The male usually perched on a branch a few feet away, robustly singing a part of his repertoire and then listening very intently as I whistled a few phrases it had never heard.  It was clearly intrigued, either trying to figure out how to mimic me, or curious  just what this strange, unfeathered creature that makes bird-like sounds was all about. 

“They Silently Changed the World”, mixed media/canvas, 23” x 23” available at Paragon Fine Arts, Lewisburg, WV

Like so much of our world, we can see things and enjoy experiences and never give consideration beyond our self. I’m glad that at times I can get lost in the moment and fully experience life with my senses and tune out thinking. Color offers me an easy means to let go of my tendency to name, categorize, and analyze. Like a mini-state of awe, it removes the veils of separation and lets my being shine with all else. 

Of course flowers are the embodiment of chromatic sensation. Perhaps initially we found them attractive because millions of years ago we came to understand that their presence indicated future fruit, to most humans they still elicit an unforced smile. 

Yet I also find it fascinating to consider that flowers are a relatively recent phenomena. Plants existed for millions of years before flowers evolved. But when they got a foothold, the “success” of their unique design steadily transformed and affected life on the entire planet. 

The whole system of pollination is among the countless “miracles” in this grand circle of dynamic life, involving as many life forms. The seeds and “food” of flowering plants are further dependent on the steady decomposition and composting of life by fungi, which we finally are beginning to see as its own wondrous process. No mud no lotus, as they say. 

Roughly for the last 500 years, taken to an extreme by modern industrialized culture, we’ve been so entranced with the prospect of indentifying the parts and initiating and documenting discreet reactions between them, making use of these energies, it seems we’ve often lost track of the whole and our place within it. 

IE: Take this medication and it stops your body from processing fat but has a dozen other affects; spray some Round-up and kill the plants we don’t want, but ignore its impact on the micro-organisms and ecosystems thriving within the topsoil, or the latent effects of “once called safe” glyphosate within Round-up on our bodies; or similarly ignore the disrupting results of convenient and profitable PFAS chemicals in all manner of products on our endocrine systems; or the run-off of synthetic fertilizer that spur crop growth on life in our streams, rivers, and oceans. 

How is it homo-sapiens, we “wise apes” could create a world that accepts such foolish short-sightedness? 

I’ve recently learned more about how our brains function through the work of Dr. Iain McGilchrist, who’s studied and articulated the distinctions between the two hemispheres of our brains. It seems the more recent research and understanding is that both hemispheres participate in all tasks—not, as was expressed a few decades ago, that language is the sole domain of one side of the brain, music the other, the right-hemisphere is imaginative, the left is rational, and so on. 

Rather, they work in overlapping tandem. The more accurate distinction is that each hemisphere provides us (and the brains of nearly all animals have a degree of bifurcation), different ways of relating to the world. In humans the left tends toward a narrow focus, defining discreet aspects, identifying “things”; the right sees the larger perspective, provides a broad overview, is alert to the unknown. The left names parts, the right grasps the relations of the parts—including our self—to the whole. 

Both were and remain essential to our survival. Since the way we see the world shapes our sense of reality, it deeply affects how we see our selves, our world, and how we interact with life. As McGilchrist suggests, with ample evidence, our modern culture and the global economy are so overly left-hemisphere dominated it’s created a great imbalance. The laughable notion we communicate fully and clearly with texts comes to mind, or the more extreme and disturbing quest for super AI is the epitome of this. Yet technology of any sort will never be able to grasp simple yet crucial organic and mysterious concepts like friendship, trust, wonder, and a sense of purpose and awe and love, the profound unquantifiable notions that make us human and are integral to wisdom. 

Driven by a right-brain dominated culture we focus on parts, so often miss the interrelationships. Most of us can recognize the health of our bodies can’t be separated from what we eat, or the nurturing or toxicity of the environment in which we live, or the degree of stress or peace we cultivate in our lives. Similarly our ecosystems are impacted by the ongoing, woven interplay of forces. We can’t treat our bodies nor our environment as “fixable” as if we may take one medication or add a chemical to the land and not have it affect the dynamic of the whole. 

In some aspects physical processes can be likened to the way simple machines work, but Life is never an isolated mechanistic “thing.” Each part we isolate is always an organic piece within a whole. “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe" said John Muir 115 years ago. Most indigenous cultures, especially those that thrived for far more than a few hundred years had a similar understanding and ethics baked into their society. Our bodies and our minds, the bugs and the trees, the clouds and the oceans and the soil — all that we can know — exists in dynamic relationship with all else. 

Which, if incorporated into how we treat life on the planet, flies in the face of our extractive, “earth is a resource for our use”, consumer-oriented society. It creates quite a bitter pickle for a world where private property is a foundational concept. As systems science reveals, the cascading impacts of say, mining ore, or damming a river’s flow, or clear cutting a hillside, or burning coal have far-reaching impacts on everything else as the planet (and universe) are always seeking equilibrium. 

The momentum and impacts of this Frankenstein monster, this Gollum of our own making that is modern society, worries me more each year. I struggle with my participation in it, swept along by the sheer force of its current. All I know to do is continue to adjust my behavior, try to consciously do less that’s toxic or causes current and future suffering, and more that’s nurturing and loving. 

Painting affords me a way to settle my mind and (perhaps in a sideways contrast to cliches of ego-driven artists) briefly tune into something beyond my self. Maybe this is why my being seeks and savors the balance that the unadulterated, irrational experience of flowers and color brings to my soul. 
..

“Windows”, 40” x 30”, mixed media/canvas
Available at Paragon Fine Arts, Lewisburg, WV

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​They offer just enough privacy to help us feel secure in our homes, with that peculiar luxury of seeing but not participating in the wild world beyond.  I can assess the climate and scope things out before committing to directly engage.

It’s also fun to take advantage of their limited veiling. Walking in the evenings in a neighborhood lets me glimpse into interiors and for an instant gain a peek into how others arrange their homes—the wall colors, the lighting, the art, the furnishings. Is their taste spartan or flamboyant? Antique or sleek styles, focused or eclectic? I never noticed that piano…

Even the simplest window humbly embodies near magical, multi-sensory options beyond sight. Safely perched in our room they let sun or moonlight flow in, keep snow out and retain warmth during chilly seasons, can gift us with sweet birdsongs in the morning, and cool fresh breezes on hot evenings. 

I love how from the street view the interior light glows through the panes. Blinds or curtains can intensify the contrasting tones. The dynamic is further influenced by the sunrise or sunset, the street lights, the shadowing of the trees, and the lay of the land. 

The windows of a cabin nestled in a hillside radiate a wholly different effect from those of a home reflected across a lake or an inner city penthouse on a snowy evening. Broken windows in any setting evoke an unconscious pathos or concern in us. Like a broken mug, something useful we’ve all enjoyed has been rendered unusable. Worse than a mug, there’s an implication a violation has occurred.

"To thee I do commend my watchful soul, Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes," ~ from “Richard III” by Wm. Shakespeare. 

Smudged and soiled windows suggest a lack of care and make us uneasy.  Clean windows, like clear eyes, feel “honest,” maybe because nothing is hidden.  Although made of the same elements, just as a glance can be chilling or kind, a clean window can generate coldness or warmth depending on how it presents itself to us. 

Windows are a unique portal, a passage through which we don’t physically trespass, yet they generate a felt experience within, through our intellectual and emotional selves. 

I’ve always responded to color. It moves me without thought. Like eyes may “flash”, glow, or absorb us, I’m intrigued by the way certain chromatic tones affect us. It’s challenging to articulate the visceral way I respond to color. I suspect we all may have a predisposition to lean toward certain harmonies and arrangements. 

I have a set of 1500 paint color samples, each on an 8” x 10” sheet. They’re pure chromatic “tastings” and at a rudimentary level, seen independently, they all glow and not one of them feels “ugly.” To proclaim a color ugly to me seems akin to a musician claiming a lone note, experienced on its own as dissonant. Disharmony is entirely related to context—the dynamic with other notes, their varying intensities, how much of each, the overlay, the arrangement, even the environment in which they are experienced. 

How much am I influenced by the accumulated noise of views that are not based on my direct experience? Can I keep my being free from thinking, stay open to all those souls I encounter? Recognize there can be immense depth felt in even instantaneous exchanges through the window of each other’s eyes? In my daily encounters, can I refrain from judging the color of a soul “ugly” or “righteous”, and instead look to feel and understand its presence in context, as one tiny piece in this grand, infinite mosaic? 

Rather than staying falsely separate and insisting on keeping distant, can I unlock some of my own boundaries, allow the presence of others to flow in a safe exchange? Are my own windows free of accumulated dirt, are they clear, warm and welcoming? Am I using the window of Awareness, this mysterious gift of being and profound portal, to nurture the glow of our connection to one another and all life? 

Here’s to keeping our windows clean and open in the year ahead. 

Life has a way of provoking us into Awareness by disrupting our routines. 

I was hard at it on the job, keeping track of the overlapping coats of stain I was brushing with my 4” brush as the sun neared the horizon. It can be challenging when seasons are shifting: the wind was blowing twigs and debris atop the deck. One has to work in an efficient and considered way, maintaining a wet edge yet not creating puddles nor leaving sloppy drips. 

The second coat adds to the durability of the protective covering, extending the life of the wood. We’re keen to keep our homes looking good, and our investment in them secure. I like to think maintaining a home isn’t entirely about vanity, nor investment, but also a desire to care for and preserve places that have nurtured us. 

We were in the last days of warm fall weather. Amid the noise of constant gusts of wind, I was trying to sustain my focus as I brushed stain on the large deck. Oak leaves rustled in the trees overhead and then again as they dragged across my work surface. The fierce winds released them ahead of schedule from the grand trees nearby.

A loud thump on the glass startled me; I knew my clients were not home. I turned to the sound in time to see a small bird roll onto its back and twitch. For a moment I was hopeful it might just be knocked numb, and recover, as I’d occasionally seen other birds do. Within seconds a stream of blood poured from behind its neck, and a small pool formed on the deck. Its feet clenched a few times, then sadly, it lay still. 

I retreived my hammer, clawed a small hole in the soil, and found a few large pieces of bark. Crouching next to it, I couldn’t help notice the elegance of the subtle taupe and gray tones on the feathers of this no longer alive cedar wax wing, named for the tips of yellow on its wingtips. I gently collected it in the bark, and carried it down the steps, placed it in the crude hole, and pushed the soil over it.  

It rattled me for a bit and guided my ponderings the rest of the day. In our culture, we rarely witness this most profound of transitions, life into death. But is such wording accurate? Over the years, admittedly with some effort and not without grief and sorrow, I’ve come to understand these “events”, aka Death, as a small process within a vast cycle. 

In the moment I felt a pang of sadness. Then later wondered, where does this emotional tug come from? Why should this small bird elicit concern, while I barely regard the millions of life forms that died the same day, or even the same instant elsewhere on the planet, including thousands of humans? What amount of sadness is “appropriate?” Can we measure outpourings that spontaneously flow from our hearts? Should we? Where does “life” begin and end? Where do species or individuals start and stop?

Recently I’ve been reading about fungi and lichens. It seems clear our scientific boundaries defining “species” and distinctions between life forms, while helpful for us to name, categorize, and sort out the incredible complexity of life on earth, have a tradeoff. In the quest for accuracy and order, our carefully defined data may blind us to the larger unfolding. We tend to “see” and focus upon details and tune out the rest. Our minds literally work by tuning out sensory input lest we’d be overwhelmed in an instant. Helpful in many ways, yet we can forget that we all find what we are looking for and rarely open our vision up to take in a broader view. 

Social media makes shrewd use of this useful, instinctive tendency. Helping cement our insecurities by encouraging echo-chambers, vilifying those different than ourselves, selling us all forms of “protection,” and when we’re overwhelmed by the onslaught, offering distractions. 

We follow the lead of our language, which defines all as subjects and objects. Heads down, with an intense focus on singular “things” we can acquire information within the spotlight of our view, but often miss the overall dynamic. We end up imagining life is a cluster of nouns when in reality it is a verb. We identify discreet objects but ignore their ephemeral nature and temporary role in the flow. Not only do we tend to pay less attention to the flow, we often fail to recognize that we are not outside entities documenting, but are also participants within the current of life. And short-lived ones at that. 

Our labels enable us to assign and arrange lots of information, but they don’t necessarily engender understanding about life nor the experience of being alive. Can lists of data convey the feeling of flying? Can heart monitor readings and realtime brain scans really record what a much-needed warm hug offers our being? Can the most advanced AI analysis define and quantify the affect of a loved one’s kiss?
   
I read recently that many serious thinkers feel it’s likely we’ll soon have the technological capacity to keep a human alive for well over a hundred years. Corporations are racing to figure out how by replacing parts, adding infusions or catalysts that will enhance or renew worn organs, systems, and tissue, we may be able to do this “infinitely.” The marketplace of our consumer culture and capitalism are potent addictive distractions from the flow. 

We’re focused on one-off, mechanical cause and effect. Especially regarding technological “advances” and “progress” it seems to me we don’t ask “why?” often enough. Increased convenience is a lazy rational. When do we consider the longterm consequences, the uncertain, emergent results beyond the parameters of our projects? All life is connected. To paraphrase John Muir, tug at any one thread in nature and one finds it is connected to all else.

Bring back a dire wolf or woolly mammoth? Cool! Bravo! How exciting! Think of the gaps we’ll fill in our understanding of these lost species by doing this! Plus the irresistible attraction to seeing a mammoth — imagine the profit it’ll generate! But if we inadvertently bring alive an extinct virus from their world that kills other existing species (or say, the majority of mammals) who no longer needed the resistant genes, well, oops! That’s the risk of progress, there’s profit to be had! Inject a protein that will self-generate to conquer a newly spawned virus, great! Consider the longterm effects on bodies as it carries on in its host post-virus— not so much. 

Wood rots, oak leaves stop absorbing carbon dioxide and let go, the intricate beings that are waxwings and humans stop breathing and expire. Even though life is a process of continuous change, it seems our selfish society often promotes ways to control because we so fear change. I’m in the club. While I agree with the Buddha that most of our discomfort in life is related to resistance, I’m still learning to let go: whether simple frustrations I feel when folks dont meet MY expectations, or deeper sorrows when people abuse others or the earth, or when loved ones change form.

The sadness I felt as the bird died was not entirely about resistance. It wasn’t entirely about clinging or wishing against fate. I wasn’t attempting to will the waxwing alive, or sad because it felt unjust. It somehow touched a deep aspect of my being. Even though it was instantaneous and brief, it was a more profound. 

Maybe such moments are a brief engagement in the fullness of being alive — what we might call “Communion.” In this sense, the compassion I felt, maybe all genuine compassion, is not necessarily sadness (or joy). These are fleeting emotions that come and go with the wind. I liken it more to opening an energy conduit, a momentary shift that revealed the usually veiled connection to another seemingly separate life form. A hint of Awareness of the larger view. 

What is it about our culture that wants to insist we’re not part of the flow? At what cost to the life on earth do we make “technological advances” happen? How can we not consider the effects of any economic goals on the global ecosystems, the real “banks” that we ignore and yet rely upon and which harbor all life? They’re already on the brink of cascading into turbulent changes—how can so many in our era ignore this?! When did our society become incapable of reflection? 

Our arrogant, modern dysfunctional lifestyle falsely assumes it’s separate from the cycle of life. The web of AI can’t exist outside of the universal web of life. In pursuing purely intellectual “knowledge”, detached from the heart of wisdom, we keep seeking more distractions to avoid facing the insecurities our screens cultivate. Now we’re supercharging our desperate quest via ever more “techno-solutions”. It strikes me as pathetic. 

Is this really the path we want to embrace? Can we even find the courage to reclaim our fuller humanity, our Communion within life on Earth while living within this culture? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I recently had the honor to travel with a friend to her parent’s gravesite. It’s in a beautiful wooded landscape, surrounded by an intentional community of homesteads. Her parents happened to be Muslim, and my friend attends a mosque and considers herself Muslim. She appreciates and respects rituals but is not confined by one set of them; rather, she is guided by her heart.

Inspiringly, she also attends other places of worship, including lately a fundamentalist Baptist church — “mostly because I love how committed they are to doing community work in our area!” In another exchange she explained: “Yes, I’m a Muslim, but first, I am a Sufi.” Sufism openly embraces the notion all life is One, and is not restricted by names, labels, forms or categories.  

As we strolled the grounds, we passed squirrels, donkeys, and ducks, each being instantly eliciting soft coos toward them from my friend. In the graveyard, as a few deer passed, I realized she wasn’t just making sweet sounds, but saying something: “Jun, jun, junam.” She explained it was Farsi (the native language of her homeland, Persia). It essentially meant “life.” “It’s a thing we Sufis say as an acknowledgement and reminder.” Implying indirectly, they (the animals) and we are all part of this wondrous, ongoing Circle.

A local resident came to visit. We sat together on a small bench and talked quietly as my friend lovingly washed the headstones. As she cleaned, she spoke about her parents and shed a few tears. When she finished her task, she came to join us but the bench afforded no room. Rather than sit on the wet grass, she unselfish-consciously sat on her own grave marker. I smiled. The contrast with our death-defying culture was too striking to not recognize. She laughed and with her permission I took a photo. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was working on that deck, despite my attempts to focus on my brushing, I was forced to be aware of the unfolding beyond my self, first the wind, then the trees, then their leaves floating past me in the gusts. I could only smile as some inevitably landed in the fresh stain on the deck. They came from centuries-old oaks that had grown to majestic heights. Ancients that thrived through the complementary support of minerals and fungi and topsoil from previous oaks that had come and gone for eons, and sunshine and water and all manner of animation and expiration. At first I imagined it would be hard on the trees letting leaves go so early (oaks usually retain them into the winter).

But then I recognized not all were released, and the variations each year increased their capacity to adapt. The leaves also blanketed the forest floor. There they’ll contribute to harboring other life. Ever so slowly these leaves as well as the waxwing (feathers, blood, flesh and bone) will continue to transform and in doing so will vitalize the topsoil. They ensure it will be teeming with microscopic activity, paying forward a network of processes on a scale we humans can barely comprehend. Steadily, quietly, rejuvenating our world. Maybe there is no “life” nor “death” but simply continuous changes in form. 

Our intellect can miss or tune out what our hearts feel profoundly. The compassionate connection we sense when we open our hearts is always accessible. But it’s routinely covered by the limitations of a life in a culture that’s come to be ruled by our intellect and distracting surface emotions. I want to cultivate a balance of heart and head that enables my being to access and absorb an understanding larger than the sum of either. 

It seems to me we’d all benefit from more openness and acceptance of our role in the larger-than-human scheme — embracing and appreciating our purpose in sustaining this grand cycle of life — including both tears and smiling, amid the wonder of it all.

Notes in a Forgotten Language, mixed media on board, 7” x 7”
​

​​Early sunsets and cool nights have me spending more time indoors. Which has me noticing all the projects I aimed to do in my living spaces in the warmer months. Several boxes of small paintings caught my attention. 

Making art objects offers the opportunity to look at physical things over time and (hopefully) see one’s growth. It’s part of the appeal of the discipline. I routinely paint over what isn’t successful; occasionally I tweak paintings from years before. I try to only hang onto work that has achieved an inherent harmony. 

I’m fortunate to have a substantial body of work in a couple of galleries. The paintings shown were on view at Paragon Fine Arts in Lewisburg, WV (albiet shown here without the crucial sense of scale, screens being a barely recognized distortion of direct experience—one of these paintings fits in my hand, another is as wide as the reach of my arms). 

Yet even with dozens of works in galleries, paintings seem to pile up. I suspect this happens to most art makers who stay active. I was just considering what to do with the paintings accumulated in my home. These contentious and troublesome socio/political times have me wondering if making paintings is an appropriate way to apply my limited free time.  

~~~~~

It’s a peculiar thing, tuning inward, in a discipline driven by personal growth, but then being obliged to share with others the record of the path one takes for the cycle of creativity to flow forward. 

Art making pushes me to stay aware, open, and objective. It feels important to explore and embrace all aspects of life and death. I like to consider concepts of beauty, what conveys it, and how. This has led me to challenging myself. Years ago moving from painting the view before me to imagery that has steadily let go of narrative story-telling. For decades I’ve been intrigued by the power of wordless and object-less paintings, eager to discover their emotive potential. 

The rhythms, tones, textures, and harmonies of music without words move us all, especially when we stop seeking the “story” and allow ourselves to be touched in a non-intellectualized way. A walk in the woods can often be more satisfying and touch something deeper in my being when I cease cataloguing the species on the trail. I want folks to experience my paintings with the same attitude. In modern society this can be challenging due to the incessant literal-minded focus of our educational system and culture. Can we appreciate the bird’s song without trying to identify the type of bird? It’s hard to tune out a habit we barely realize we have. 

I can still very much appreciate art that is narrative and tells stories through imagery. I don’t like censorship, “art police,” or placing Puritanical limitations on what can be made or shared. Everyone should be free to express themselves and enjoy our world as suits their unique experience and perspective. 

Sincere experimentation is one of the hallmarks of creativity. For me a challenging work of art isn’t necessarily the same as art whose primary purpose is to shock or provoke fear. I try to recognize each has a place. And to consider that works may encompass several aims. 

Some art strikes me like a billboard—one or two viewings and I no longer gain from re-visiting it. Something that catches my eye isn’t necessarily something I want to repeatedly give my attention. 

We’re hardwired to notice things that are disturbing because noticing a lion mauling a companion once aided human survival. Our modern world is full of media aimed toward this end, in our “consumerist world” largely to manipulate us in some way. Plenty of art made and sold also takes advantage of this ancient instinct. 

Such an approach has little attraction for me; it smacks of “Garbage in, garbage out” as Thich Nhat Hahn and others put it. I like the notion that rather than consumption, the purpose of art is Communion. Yet we live in a society where nearly every aspect is focused on the former. 

~~~

Exhibitions allow artists to share their work, but it’s momentary; at most we spend a few minutes taking in the art on view in galleries. My goal is to enable something to come into being that’s sustaining and life-affirming longterm. So I prefer my paintings are in someone’s home, where they can reward viewing slowly, over months and years. 

It takes practice to learn to turn off our ingrained “what’s it supposed to be?” lenses. It took me years. So I accept that only a minority of viewers appreciate non-narrative work. Still less are able and willing to compensate one for the energy invested in the study and making of paintings that don’t instantly offer a storyline.

Hence the boxes full of paintings. When I pull them out, each in their own way is a trail-marker of sorts, along my wandering path exploring these creative woods. 

Every so often a connection occurs, someone shares in the delights I was fortunate to help reveal. Then the joy of discovery and the circle of creation are fulfilled. When a patron purchases a painting, I like to think of it as a unique sort of investment, one that’s not exactly transactional. 

They offer their congealed energy (money) to the myriad energies that brought the work into being. But It’s also a commitment, a support of the arts as a concept of communion, hopefully not just to me, but to the broader concept of our shared connection with all life.

It encourages me to keep at it, verifying that even in these fraught times, there’s something essential and affirming about the mysterious and connective power of beauty. 

So, a belated thank you to Joshua Adamo (gallery owner) and the supportive patron who recently purchased the three paintings shown from his Paragon Fine Arts Gallery in Lewisburg, WV. I’m honored and very grateful for the chance to participate, in a small way, in our shared communion.

Reverie, 46” x 57”, mixed media on board/ panel 

“This Rich and Precious Earth” 46” x 46” (framed), mixed media/panel


I’m very grateful to Joshua Adamo, owner/director of Paragon Fine Arts Gallery in Lewisburg, WV for his support. About a year ago, Josh gave me the opportunity to share my paintings at his beautiful space. It’s fulfilling to share my art in public. A wonderful bonus is that he’s secured several sales, most recently, these two paintings. 

It’s restorative for me to create things. I like to use the process of painting to wordlessly  reveal feelings and sort things out I may not be able to articulate. For 45 years it’s been a way to better understand and center myself. Making art balances my intuition and rationality. 

The psychiatrist and neuroscientist Dr. Iain McGilchrist speaks about the unhealthy and unsustainable dominance of our left hemisphere-oriented society. They’re deeply interwoven, each plays a crucial role in affecting our lives, and to a degree they overlap guiding our behavior. The key difference is in the lenses they offer to interpret life, and perspectives they generate, which then reflect how we experience the world. 

Both have been essential to our survival. The left leans toward labels and control; it’s very good at narrow focus, discerning discreet parts, categorizing. It’s view is incremental, mechanistic, linear. He postulates it evolved to aid us in “acquiring things” — like food, materials for warmth, or plants to heal. 

Our right hemisphere offers a broad overview, less the parts and more the whole. It’s fluid, recognizes patterns, and senses emotions and the energy of relationships. It “reads the room” and takes in the ambiance of situations or places.  

Given how I approach painting, I don’t like to claim full credit for what emerges. I try (in the “Zen” sense — that is, without applying effort) to be open to what unfolds. I aim to be a “rider” as much as the “driver” and don’t know the destination beforehand.  A degree of logic and intellectual consideration inevitably comes in, but in the successful, most vital works its role is lessened. 

I’m guided by an intuitive sense,  responding to the materials with minimal conscious thought, allowing things to flow. My loose aim is to “take a painting to its point of maximum ripeness,” as Picasso said, and to do so in a harmonious way. Through painting I’m trying to retool my awareness by offering room to “listen” to my right hemisphere. 

Modern industrialized society is driven mostly by the left hemisphere. We’ve blissfully and ignorantly ignored the larger view of the interrelationships of which humans are a part. We’ve clearly pushed the balance of the Earth’s ecological systems to a brink.

The earth will go on, but we’ve initiated a collapse of the ecosystem balances established over millions of years. We’re radically altering the world we’ve always known. The earth will adjust, restructuring of these systems will happen, but not in our human lifetimes.  

Essentially, the foolish notion we’re separate from “nature” and each other has put us in a broken relationship with life on this planet. The grand irony is we may not be part of the life that survives.

It’s hard to hold disparate points of view without having a compromise at hand. I live within this materialist culture, make use of its unsustainable conveniences, and the paintings I make are also objects for sale in an extractive consumer society. And I study and can sense the tragedy unfolding because of our domineering beliefs, societal ways, and disconnected relationship to the earth. I’m trying to live the questions toward my own harmonious resolution. 

I doubt there’s a simple rational “answer.” I’m deeply affected by my relationships, with people, animals, and all life forms with which I engage. Painting is a way for me to gently probe all this indirectly, without necessarily following a logical linear path. 

At times it offers me a way to “ask” unformed questions. Looking at the paintings upon completion, I like to allow a title to come forward in response to what they reveal or suggest in that moment of my life. 

“This Rich and Precious Earth” felt like it was at once addressing the deep beauty of our wondrous world, the terrible storms we’ve unleashed, and the current losses and pending changes on the horizon. The ongoing drama of Death begetting Life.

“Her Warm Embrace Parted the Clouds of My Winter” was completed not long after the ending of a brief and sweet friendship. Its closure was the result of an unexpected rupture. It too, was a death of sorts. 

But in the months after, I came to recognize how that short yet potent relationship had nudged me beyond a previously safe, falsely stoic mindset that I’d adopted for security. It reawakened me to a more vulnerable, more fully engaged life. 

Change is challenging for most of us. Yet mystery, openness and spontaneity (all of which our culture abhors) are also what gives life richness and vitality.

I’m always honored when others find resonance in things to which I’ve applied my energies. Purchasing a work takes that one notch further. For me, in a way it reveals and validates our unseen, unspoken, undocumented connections. Especially in these frazzled times, seems we all could use more trustworthy connections.


“Her Warm Embrace Parted the Clouds of My Winter”, 38” x 38” (framed) mixed media/panel .

Life is always full of joys and challenges. The world can seem tilted toward the disturbing when our experience of it is based on what’s projected at us via media. It seems an unhealthy diet, designed to agitate us and cause concern. There’s a grand illusion screens can fulfill all our social needs. I don’t buy into it. 

We live in a culture of conveniences and exciting distractions and dopamine hits, that avoids direct human interaction. We’ve built incredible technologies and immensely powerful weapons, yet we still deny that our lives are interwoven within the Earth’s systems. The gratifications are speedy, the trade-offs seldom considered. Our societal patience has atrophied and our ability to focus is fractured, even as so much that makes us human is being starved.

It may not garner a thousand followers or a million likes, but I feel how I act among the people directly within my sphere has the most impact. A simple genuine shared smile is far more nourishing to my soul than a popular post on some forgettable platform. It’s not always easy to allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and more complex in person. I still blunder and make mistakes, at times even hurting with my friends. But in my experience, those miscues, when addressed with sincerity, can be the foundational glue that builds trust.

I mostly work with my hands, but a primary benefit of my work life is the opportunity to meet and interact with clients. Occasionally, extraordinary encounters happen, often from the least expected directions. Maybe that adds to their potency. 

Recently I’ve been painting a large set of built-in bookcases. To my clients’ credit, they’ve changed things up in a gutsy way, switching the off-white color to a handsome grassy green. This obliged a bit more discussion. It’s crucial to try to understand what we’re aiming toward even when we may not be able to articulate it. 

We all like to think our words are fully understood. Texting reinforces this falsehood. Even in person, discussing something as simple as a color choice, requires slow conversation and lots of questions to clarify we all mean the same thing.

We snuck up on selecting the tone (they set a client record for sample colors—over a dozen variations of green!) but it was worth it. Courage and patience pay off. The result speaks for itself. It’s been a fun project, transforming what was a comfortable large room into a stunning new space that’s not too formal yet vital and elegant. 

They’re a young family and it’s been a pleasure to get to know them all. The three kids (five months old, three yrs., and four yrs.) are all wonderful, kind, and fun, just like their parents. Truman, the amiable large dog (who takes his family guardianship seriously) and I are becoming acquainted. After a recent sweaty afternoon, I enjoyed some nice licks after my workday. 

The first few days on the job the elder kids were occupied at camp so our paths barely crossed. Apparently they’d looked for me though. The day I finally was still working when they got home, the eldest, a boy, raced to find me. Wherever I am, if a child is interested in chatting and I’m able to offer a bit of friendly interaction, I want to do so. I’ve found simply meeting kids where they are, gently going with their interest in the moment, quickly minimizes barriers. (Actually the same’s been true for all ages and species.)

I was wrapping up my work, doing nothing special and he was, of course, completely fascinated by everything I was doing. I fielded at least half dozen inquiries in about two minutes. To catch my breath, I tossed a few at him: What did you learn about at camp today? “Bodies and Skeletons!” Oh wow, thats exciting! “Yep! And they’re underneath in all of us!” Really?! “Yep. Even sometimes in,” (stammering a bit from excitement) “sometimes in dogs!” No kidding! “Uh huh,” nodding with solemnity appropriate to the miracle we are, but most of us old folks fail to give it.
 
On we went for a few more minutes as I packed up my wet brush, closed up my toolbox, and grabbed my water and backpack. His parents came to check on the day’s progress (and subtly make sure I was not bothered by their inquisitive child). “How old are you?” I asked him. “My birthday is September 23!” he said proudly. Oh that’s soon! “Uh huh. I’m four and a half and three quarters!” “Almost five,” I said, barely stifling a laugh. 

I was carrying my backpack and water bottle, about to ascend the steps to head home. “Are you leaving?” “Yep, heading home.” I saw his eyes darting between my tool box (which I’d left behind), and me. “What about your toolbox?” he asked. “I’m leaving it here tonight.” But I sensed his real question. “I have a feeling you asked because you wanted to help me carry it.” His eyes answered. “Oh that’s so nice of you but this is all I have to take tonight!”

When I reached the top of the stairs, my new friend and earnest helper suddenly wrapped his arms about my legs (he’s all of 36”) and with a squeeze and utter sincerity said “I love you.” Touched and flustered, I mustered a thank you, and said “I love you too.” (Really, what else can one respond?) As I walked to the car he hovered closely, attempting to hold up my backpack from the bottom. Luckily I had one small bag of shelf brackets I could hand him, easing his desire to assist me on the short walk to my car.

~~~

In my off hours I’ve been hanging out with a friend and her son, he’s twice the youngin’s age mentioned above. Amid this fear-filled world he’s also somehow managed to retain an open-heart. When his mother and he taught me how to play Skip-Bo a few weeks ago, as the game began, his comment was “I really hope you win!” His unprovoked generosity reveals itself all the time. 

On a playground a last week, a three year old rushed him to see the yo-yo he was spinning. Without hesitation he gave it to him to play with it. Recognizing the young one’s mother may not have wanted her son to have it, it required a bit of gentle persuasion to nudge the nine year old to collect it again when we were departing several minutes later. “I really would be ok to just let him have it.”

~~~

The mom’s of each of these kids expressed the same concerns. Their worry that the uncaring, competitive world will rebuff them and may eat these genuine, sweet, open-hearted kids alive. It’s an understandable fear, and relatable desire to protect those we love. For sure they’ll have a few illusions shattered, inevitably have to absorb some brusk treatment, and learn some harsh lessons here and there. But we can’t totally prevent any of these random situations (even online!). And it’s a very delicate trick to “caution them” against such an instinctive (and sincere) desire, or to temper their generous hearts. 

We agree it seems best to guide them to be aware that sometimes others are not of the same mindset. We all want all kids safe from harm. However, contrary to the bias of our time, rather than see their kindness as a danger for me it feels critical to nurture and help them cultivate it. I want to strengthen their resolve to where they can grasp that being sensitive to others need not stifle their earnest intentions. We can learn to apply restraint as needed, but still honor our true nature. (Good friends have made me aware I still have to work on this myself!) 

For me, even if we may sometimes need to temporarily compromise the connection, these kids reveal an unspoken, instinctive awareness that at the core there’s not really “us” and “others”, but life is just “we.” 

They’ll have challenges, but I really think they’ll move beyond any hurdles. They’re each coming from supportive households where they’re cherished for who they are. They’re both bright beyond their years, and already in tune with their hearts. I see the latter as a profoundly powerful skill we can help them cultivate: living love. 

Our extractive, competitive transactional culture may thrive on and promote the opposite, but whether acknowledged or not, Mother Nature has made clear we can’t sustain it much longer. It’s a reality more conspicuous to me every day. Far more crucial than achieving high grades, status, or influence, for me these two (and all the others of their generation like them) are beacons of Light. Sustaining their glow against the prevailing winds seems far more important to our shared communal future within Life’s web.

They’re already changing the paradigm, learning how to connect rather than divide, respecting differences yet treating all with kindness. They are precious in every sense of the word. We have a role in guiding them, but I also feel they’ll continue to teach us by example. As I see it, they’re already the leaders of the world to come.

​The hanging plants and flowers boxes on my front porch help create my slightly-removed sanctuary. I can sit in any of three rocking chairs and observe the world from my perch. It’s just high enough, two flights of stairs above the street and sidewalk, that most passersby don’t notice me. Dogs walking their owners, kids excitedly racing bikes, parents I know with strollers, retired couples chatting, joggers sweating stress, a teacher on his phone sorting out students’ issues—they all parade past. I can choose whether to engage with them or just watch; at once private yet can be communal. A delightful space to be alone or with guests, sharing in life’s nourishments, concerns, and joys. 

The last couple of mornings have been cool, and a wonderful array of birds has also made their presence known, rejoicing with sweet songs before our neighborhood is fully awake. Today I saw goldfinch alight on a not-yet-blossomed cone flower poking for seeds. You have to give it some time, I whispered to myself, it needs room to grow and blossom. It pecked a few times then zipped away.

I enjoy watching things grow. I plant veggies and have a “wild” yard — a mix of wildflowers and whatever else is in season. It’s been fun to watch the cycles of what sprouts or blossoms when, and as much, what’s edible. Many city critters feast upon my veggie beds (primarily rabbits, groundhogs, and deer, with occasional sampling by skunks, birds, raccoons and possum) usually before anything’s had time to ripen. I’ve noticed the way “weeds” grow so well without any care and don’t seem to be on the hungry critters’ menu. It has me wondering if I should be fighting these battles or simply alter what I enjoy eating. Especially when the “weeds” are more nutritious! 

So often when I stop to reflect on what and how we do things in our culture, it feels like we are off-course, resisting the current, or using an approach that costs more (time, energy, money), and human or natural resources! Innovation and convenience aren’t bad things, but recognizing when to control and when to be patient, as well as the trade-offs seems crucial.

About a month ago, while I gently watered one of the hanging ferns on my porch two house finches abruptly popped out of the center! I discovered a nest in it.  Very soon after, the nest cradled four eggs. In a few weeks there were fuzzy hatchlings, the epitome of cute. They were amazingly self-disciplined about keeping silent as I watered each day, even as their folks were raising a harsh chirping alert from branches within eyeshot. This went on a couple of weeks. Eventually becoming a high-pitched, incessant, cheeeep,-cheeeep! I’d watch the parents dutifully fly over, again and again, endlessly trying to keep four gaping mouths attached to bottomless baby bird bellies satiated.

Lately I’ve had the great pleasure to spend time with an adolescent and his mom. We often share dinners and it’s similarly surprising how a four foot tall kid can put away a plateful equivalent to an adult. He also routinely melts my heart as effortlessly as those tweeting birds piled atop one another in their ever-smaller nest as they grow. For the most part, he’s brimming with physical energy, intermixed with creativity and curiosity. Sensitivity and kindness naturally radiate from him. 

Naturally there’s occasional squawking as this youngin tests boundaries and a worn mom has to assert her own. It brings back fond memories of my own son’s coming of age, and even at times mine. The rare bits of tension don’t phase me at all. I’m not sure if I’ve mellowed or matured, regardless why, these days I simply smile and find myself sincerely savoring all my time with them.

I was having dinner with the mom above on my porch and the wind was fierce. The gusts were potent enough that all the hanging plants were swaying. In the same moment, we were discussing a previous moment of lost patience. She was trying to convince me that past circumstances and responses to her verified she wasn’t very kind. I could only offer I hadn’t seen it, and disagreed on the sentiment. As if on cue, unaware of the irony, she pointed out her great concern for the fledgling finches whose home was swaying like a pendulum. Before we left the porch, her compassion had nudged me into securing it with bungee cords. 

We’re all works in progress. I seem to be less troubled by situations that years back might have had me wound up for a long while. Maybe I’ve grown a bit in some ways as well. 

I’m certainly no unflappable saint nor ego-less yogi. The other day as I attempted to order a subscription online, it got flagged by my bank, and in sorting it out, my debit card was not put on hold, but cancelled outright. When I found out I let loose with several choice words that might have burned a saint’s ears. I did catch myself in time to apologize to the utterly innocent recipient, the bank’s customer service rep on the line with me. But I’d like to get to where I could more quickly turn such frustration into an stress-relieving laugh at the absurdity of allowing such things to bother me instead. 

The same day, as I was watering my porch plants, and gingerly pour some onto the fern with the nest, an explosion of four birds shot out in different directions! One remained, looking a bit comical. I’m not sure who was more bewildered, the slow one left behind or me! By the following day, all the fledglings had flown and the nest was bare and silent.

It was inevitable, and clearly on the horizon. As I ate a quiet breakfast on my porch that morning, I thought about the amazing dedication of the parents of those finches. And of my friend, a single mom I’ve already witnessed growing so much through her own challenges, even while raising a bright and big-hearted son. 

And the many other parents I’ve known (including my own), who literally keep reaching deep down into those inner reserves to hold it together, keep their homes steady, get the kids fed, make those little nests work, enable them to keep growing. They get them cleaned up, rested, and then are back up and at it again, day after day. 

I thought about my own long-empty nest…and how nice it feels now, directly helping others grow, if only in a small way, and to recognize that through participating with others rather than safely keeping a distance, I grow as well.

The rhythm of this dance of life has counterpoints and shifts that insist on constant adjustments and flexibility. Life is often bewildering. To be rigid seems to me to invite suffering. To leave our safe nest is scary—getting involved takes a leap, is a risk, and makes us vulnerable. Yet to not be engaged in order to avoid potential pain truncates life’s joys and stifles our own blossoming. 

It seems the trick is in finding that sweet spot; navigating a balance between floating with the changing currents yet at times steering our kayaks (or guiding another’s) just enough to avoid the rocks yet not resist the inevitable flow. No matter what path we select before we’re gone, we’re all being swept along in the stream. These days I prefer making the trip with hearty company.