Winter’s Cloak
Winter is a time for night and dreams to sustain us. There is always a message waiting at the edge of your dream. Something more is always possible. This series of paintings was inspired by winter, the necessity of the “bigger picture” in times of darkness, and the poetry of William Wordsworth — “Something evermore about to be”.
New Exhibition: Winter Seeds Promise
I thought about not posting today, not on this election day in the USA, (my practice being the first Tuesday of the month ), but then I thought what better time to hear Denise Levertov’s poem Concurrence that she wrote during another time of cultural upheaval — the Viet Nam War? What better time to be reminded that while there may be “madmen at the wheel” there is also the timeless faultless blue of a morning glory, or a bluebird, or sky. There is comfort in unexpected outbreaks of blue — like now, three bluebirds checking out the bluebird house — or a poem that takes hold, or returning to the mystery that holds us all on this giant ball spinning on its axis in endless space. There is comfort in the harvest moon that has returned for billions of years without hesitation or concern for our trials. There is possibility in every first sunlight.
Each day’s terror, almost
a form of boredom—madmen
at the wheel and
stepping on the gas and
the brakes no good—
and each day, morning-glories
faultless, blue, blue sometimes
flecked with magenta, each
lit from within with
the first sunlightConcurrence |Denise Levertov
Study in Blue
The first question from the students in my January online class was:
What do you mean, it’s the small things that are important?
I paused. This simple question struck unexpectedly deep. What I was thinking about was beginning the new year with something small, slender or secret— rather than pledging to do something big. Rather than make a splash, make an offering. Something you can hold in your hand, or your heart. After a pause I thought, that is where the power is.
What do you mean, it’s the small things that are important? She asked.
What I found myself saying was:
I just watched my father die. When someone goes, they leave a space behind. What does one who goes leave you? What memory strikes your heart? Is it their accomplishments, their possessions, their image? I saw clearly, it was not my father’s inventions or belongings, his work, or his beautiful hand-crafted Japanese knives. It was the small acts of kindness.