Nature’s Solace

The Snowstorm, November 7, 2024

(a rather simple story from a different time)

The snows came early and stayed long, much like a heartache. Not completely uncommon, but unlikely for the time of year. The snows  fell fast with seemingly a purpose. Possibly Divine? They smoothed out the landscape like only snow can. Flawlessly covering, and calming, both heart and mind. Possibly it was an attempt to hide some old sins, or maybe to cover some new misgivings, or perhaps even, to help hold a hurt we could no longer hold. It soon became a heavy blanket in which to lean. Like a blanket we had when we were young. When we were so very little, so very trusting, and so very naive – or was that only yesterday?

But Nature often mirrors and is forever forgiving. With the snow, the trees take the weight and bow in prayer, lest we forget. The birds dance the air, reminding us there is still joy to be had, but we must move. Winds blow, shifting directions easily, saying we only need to wait, “for this too shall pass”.

Alas, the storm caught us off guard, yes, but there will be sun again. This we can trust. There will be a clarity. The snows will melt leaving us awash in a new reality. Somewhat muddied, but undoubtedly, much like the old reality. One we will recognize all too well.

On the second day of the storm, a curious fog moved in. Pushing everything inward. Holding us. Perhaps to give us a bit more time. More time to hunker. More time to heal. For once again, we move closer to the fire.

Soon you may turn your face to the returning sun. Let it help dry your tears or gather your fears. Take this time to pray your own prayers. Say your own words. Listen to your own heart. For the Winter will soon be upon us, but the cold is already here.

On the third morning after the storm, a timorous old man walked out with a shovel in hand. The morning was blindingly bright. The sky impossibly blue. But all was calm. The junipers, still snowy, had icicles hanging from their branches, perfectly spaced, as if placed by an unseen hand. It looked for all the world, like a forest of Christmas trees.

So with a heart somewhat lightened, the old man bent to the task. The morning light sparkled briefly off the unbroken snow, as he began to shovel an unsure path. He mumbled a few words at the beginning, known only to him, and maybe his Maker. Some say it was a curse. Some say it was a prayer. It probably doesn’t matter, for he was determined this would not be a directionless path. So he shoveled a path not from where he was, but to where he needed to be.

May peace find you this Season.

❄️

Patrick Spirit

Christmas 2024

Losing Control

New Growth, New Pumpkin

At best, the face emerging was uncertain. This was another desperate attempt at watercolor. In the latest pass I had added too much water and it puddled near the left cheek, and suddenly ran wild, obscuring one eye. The very eye I had so painstakingly laid in. Instinct told me to quickly mop it up with the brush or a paper towel, but instead, I just tossed it to the floor to let it dry on its own.

I love watercolor. I do. The purity of color. The wonderful transparency. The delicate beauty. But for me it can be, shall we say, a challenge.

Frustrated, I went out to the garden. Although, these days that isn’t exactly the place to find solace. It was no secret. The garden this year had been a struggle. The pumpkin patch alone had barely survived the early winds. And just as little pumpkins were setting on, the deer came one night and ate them all. Then, two days later, our first hail storm of the season,(and it was major) shredded most of the big leaves. Again, instinct suggested I rip it all out and start dreaming of next year. But I waited. And the very next morning, amidst all the chaos, the vines were blooming, as if in defiance. They were still so determined. So, I left them to see what would become of it all.

And today, a few weeks later, down among the old tattered leaves, was a new vine with new leaves and a female blossom, with the potential to fruit. And right next to it was a male blossom. Even though there were several bees about, I hand pollinated it with my paintbrush.

I know, this late in the season, even if a pumpkin sets on, it probably won’t have time to get to full size. But I felt good about the message this new growth was sending.

Even if the gardener gives up, the garden doesn’t.

I left the garden feeling differently, and went back into the studio, to the work I had abandoned. The puddle on the little painting had dried. And the pigment had somehow settled into the most amazing color cloud. An effect I could not have achieved with any brush, nor could have even planned.

Creativity, it seems, happens rather easily when we get out of the way. Perhaps the hardest lesson for any artist, or anyone for that matter, is to just trust the process.

Meanwhile, outside the studio, around the corner, the sunflowers are starting to bloom bright yellow, and the sage, a lavender purple — complimentary colors choosing to bloom at the exact same time. Coincidence? Perhaps or maybe creativity at its best.

Note: The little pumpkin did indeed form and is now growing among beautiful new leaves. (See the photo above 💚)

Winter So Close

Wintering, the Process

This time of year, stirs so many feelings and memories for me, as I’m sure it does for you. So, here’s my annual address for the Season — the Winter season, the Christmas season. And for something a little different this year, I have added an audio of me reading my thoughts and musings. Try it out below.

I hope this season holds something special for you. 🤍

“They were tangled one upon the other, indistinguishable, so much so, ideas like beginning and ending made little sense.”

— Patrick Greenwell, Spills, 2025

It was so close to Winter, with trees mostly bare and morning frost common. And warm days were becoming rare and cooled early. Pumpkins were still laid about, conspicuous but comforting. It must have been their color, so intense, in a landscape that was rapidly browning.

It was so close to Winter, but not quite, and I awoke from yet another flying dream. I have them often, but these days they seem more frequent. And there’s nothing angelic or avian about them, for no wings are involved, just me flying around under my own power. This time though, in the dream, I consciously decided to analyze the process. How exactly was I was able to fly?

Initially, it felt a lot like swimming underwater. Of course, the arms were vital in controlling lift and forward motion, but also a lightness in the chest and abdomen was necessary. However, it was not a matter of holding one’s breath, but more an awareness that one needed to maintain, in order to stay aloft. It was simply a natural means of locomotion. And I seemed to spend a lot of time at the tops of trees.

So, with all this fresh in my mind, as soon as my feet hit the floor, I thought I should fly straight up to the ceiling. Something simple at first. I mean, I knew how. I had analyzed the mechanics. I was completely confident. But I must have done something wrong, because I couldn’t.

Still, it was so close to Winter, and this time of year awakens so much in us. It’s a liminal space — this transition between seasons. It’s a hesitation needing to be pondered. It’s the time of year when the seen and the unseen are closest. It’s the time when spirit and corporeal remember. It’s a time when the landscape and our hearts are bared, once more.

We celebrate it, and rightly so. Most cultures at this time of year, call for a renewal of faith and hope. A suspension of disbelief. Perhaps my flying dreams are nothing more than that, an individual testimony to faith and hope. A stubborn belief in what may be possible. In my dreams, my flying seems normal, nothing miraculous. But isn't it in normalcy where we find most miracles? All of our stories and myths tell us as much. We are surrounded by the miraculous. Our very existence is proof enough.

As far as flying, that’s what dreams are for, but maybe I will try again later today, outside, where there’s more room. I probably just need a running start.

Merry Christmas and a Joyous Season to all,

❄️

Love, Patrick Spirit 2023

A Couple of Notions

Journaling

Sometimes, actually often, there are thoughts that seem to occupy more than their share of my mind. So, I write them down. Let them loose. That’s how poetry comes to be. It’s the bridge between here and that other place we can’t aptly name.

💙

Blue-ish

I didn’t know anything about the blues. I just liked the way they made me feel. They were inclusive when nothing else was. They could wrap themselves around you and lift you, maybe a little closer to God? Kinda like a prayer. Makes one wonder is God sad. Maybe so. There’s a lot of hurt in creation. This thing eating that thing. All sorts of unpleasantries. Was that truly intentional or just the way it had to be to fit everything in.

💙

Lay me down

In dreams there is no age. No time forced upon us. Years pass in seconds, and seconds stay still, forever. Seems as we age, we move closer to that dream world, as if, it’s all tangled up with destiny and ever after. All the things we can’t really sort out when we’re awake. Besides, where else could/should heaven be, but in a dream.

💙

Blue Moon Blue

The moon thinned like paper with the coming of the morning. Light overtaking light. A beacon slowly erased. A Blue Moon fading into the blue of a new day.

💙

Hot Enough

Crossroads

I went down to the crossroads
Fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above for mercy
"Save me, if you please!"

— Robert Johnson, Crossroads 1936

I walked out into a cooler air this morning. It was as if someone had finally found the switch to turn down the awful heat of the last month or so. I stood there in relief and took the deepest breath I had taken all summer.

Overhead there were high thin clouds—lace like. But below them, heavier, darker clouds moved fast in contrast, within some unseen stream of air.

The little dog beside me stopped abruptly and watched two coyotes move across the landscape, dark and at a good pace. She growled softly deep in her throat. More in awareness than aggression.

The world felt in transition. Like a whisper of Fall had leaked in. But there was still a lot of Summer to be done, so maybe it was just a pause. Like how one pauses when you approach a crossroads. You have to stop and make a decision. Do you turn left, turn right, or go straight? Or maybe even turn around.

I have encountered more than a few crossroads in my life, so I was only slightly shocked when suddenly a barrage of questions entered my brain all at once.

Had I lived fully enough? Had I tried hard enough? Had I dared often enough? Had I loved deeply enough? I guess the key word was enough.

I would like to think this morning’s pause was just for me, but I think we are all offered a pause here and there. Crossroads litter our paths.

---

The coyotes moved on. The dog headed for the house looking back only once. The clouds began to dissipate, making way for another hot day.

And I headed into the studio to practice a bluesy riff on a blue guitar.

💙

Winter Prayer, Morning Song

Winter stars once again circle the heavens

At this time of year, I usually write something about this season we are entering. And looking back, I noticed I tend to bounce between two themes. For the most part, it’s either memories of my childhood at this time of year, or my heightened awareness of Nature as we approach the Winter Solstice. Why those two? I’m not totally certain.

But this year is no different. I am once again drawn to the behavior of both plant and animal life as we approach Winter. There seems to be a sacredness in each and everything around me. An undeniable presence connecting all. So, here is my reflection on this special time of year. — Patrick Spirit 🤍

“Believing there must be more is the origin of prayer”

❄️

Another Winter morning in this desert and clouds gather again to await the sun and the ever changing color of its brush.

Each morning is remarkably different, but with so quiet a fanfare, it often goes unnoticed. But in my oldness, I see. And birds see. And they sing long love songs to the morning, with never a wrong note. Building on a song and an ancestry only they recall.

And grasses, faded to the color of fine papers — whites, off-whites, and ecru — genuflect before the slow rising sun. Frost laden, they sparkle their praise for this new winter’s day.

Sparse brown leaves left on crabapple trees turn and shake like Sufi dervishes. In the cold air, they cling to branches and memories of a summer that moved on too quickly, like the hummingbird.

And small tawny birds huddle in naked bushes chirping tiny prayers, when the hawk’s hunger takes to wing. While black crows gather to speak of indifference and black crow things.

Cacti, patient and long-rooted, stand waiting for a promised snow. And winter stars once again circle the heavens and seemingly measure our souls.

With a deep green knowing, juniper and piñon embrace this silent season — their season. This season that coaxes a move inward away from the dark and the cold, where we intermingle the warmth of now and long ago.

All creatures sense the cyclical nature and know this is just a rest. So, it becomes a season of trust, a collective season of hope. The time of growth will come again. This we need to believe. So we celebrate with lights and ancient tales of birth and rebirth. For this is the promise of this oldest season. This is the whisper of the Divine.

Seasons Greetings

❄️

Love,

Patrick Spirit 2022

An August Palette

Sunflower and Sage

“Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends
into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.”

— Mary Oliver, from Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

I equate the monsoon rains to benevolence. A kindness. And if they are absent? A cruelty?

This year the monsoons have been very kind. Abundance is everywhere. Overflowing actually. It's loud and wild. And across the desert, yellow is manifesting, as if painted overnight by a secret hand. Miniature wildflowers sparkle with an intense yellow amidst the ever growing weeds. And heavy-headed sunflowers scream a brilliant yellow as they line the ditches and roadways. This yellowing is a true sign of late summer, but it's also a visual blessing.

And the sage and verbena continue with their ceaseless violet blossoms for a complement that vibrates. Together this combination of yellow and violet creates a palette Van Gogh would envy. A palette that excites the pollinators to a frenzy. The air hums.

And the ground is continual movement. All manner of creatures hurrying about. For over a week, caterpillars in the hundreds, no, maybe thousands, have searched relentlessly for purslane to eat. Purslane is a small succulent plant akin to the Portulaca and the caterpillars leave nothing but the stems in their wake. But it has been plentiful because of the rains. And for the caterpillars, it's a race to begin metamorphosis. A race to become Euscirrhopterus gloveri, the Purslane Moth.

All the hurry and haste, all the seeding and flowering is prompted by a need to continue. Annie Dillard, in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, said, we are appalled by fecundity, this pressure of birth and growth. Maybe not so much with the plant world, but definitely the animal. A field overgrown with sunflowers is quite appealing. Whereas, an over population of crawling, flying, swarming things, leaves us somewhat squeamish.

Still, for sometime now, I have used catch and release mouse traps in the garage. They are a green see-through plastic thing, with a spring door, that leaves them totally unscathed. This season to date, I have caught 36. I used to use the old snap traps, but the the brutality of those mechanisms and the spirits of those tiny creatures began to haunt me at night. I couldn't sleep.

Now I catch them overnight and release them first thing in the morning, out by the juniper tree where the Buddha sits. Most, when freed, just run away quickly into the underbrush. But the other morning, number 36 ran to the Buddha and perched in his lap. He turned briefly to stare at me. What were his tiny black eyes trying to say? Was it gratitude or something I couldn't even comprehend? But for that moment, we saw each other. Two creatures connected.

Our interconnection to everything is knowable. We are a part of the whole. Our sense of separation is only found in our minds, our ego. We need not look far to see our connection and its influence. Our world speaks to us. Weather patterns speak loudly to us now, everywhere. All Nature speaks loudly now.

So, is this an essay on climate change? Of course. Is it an essay on responsibility and compassion? Most assuredly. But it is also a treatise on wonder and resiliency. Three months ago this desert was dry and seemingly lifeless. Now, it is the picture life, of abundance. The world around us is speaking. Are we willing to listen?

All Nature quickens now.

Water Clicks

English Channel

Water

The only painting I have done in the last week is some house painting. Well to be specific, the trim on the porches of the house and the studio. It’s a maintenance thing really, but also oddly satisfying. Most of it has to be done on a ladder 10-12 feet in the air. Consequently, it’s important to be aware of where one is at all times. So, I try to paint consciously.

But I do stop occasionally to take in the view from that height. At twelve feet off the ground, my familiar world looks somewhat different. Horizons expand. Neighbors houses, normally obscured by vegetation and whatnot, seem closer.

Looking at your world from a slightly different angle is probably a good thing and at times necessary. Seeing a different point of view, seeing all sides, seems to be sorely missing these days. Solutions to most problems are probably inherent in the problems themselves. Maybe the real problem is the point of view.

The color I am using for the trim is a blue called English Channel. The irony, of using a paint color named after a large body of water in this seemingly never ending drought, is not lost on me. But I take it as a sign of hope. And maybe a prayer. It also matches our desert skies. And hey, the monsoon season is only a month away. And there will be water.

🖤

Clicks

On a side note, the desert is clicking. No, it seems to be the trees. The trees are clicking. Of course, a closer look shows there are hundreds of cicada on every juniper and piñon tree. A fast flip of their wings makes the sound—the click. In the heat of the day, they slip into the traditional hum of the cicada, but at the start and end of the day they click. It seems anticipatory. As if they are marking time. As if they are waiting for something to change.

Sometimes, I believe the world merely exists on hope and a strong belief in change. And so, the day heats and the click becomes a hum. Just listen. Maybe it's the sound of hope, or maybe it's the sound of change.

🖤