Stars and Light and Captured Time

Stars, Light, Time

❄️

The soft gray of predawn covers all, as colors await the light. As Venus awakens in the east. As all this happens, yet once again.

On occasion, I wake in the early hours, not knowing the exact time. But I have found, if I cock my head just so, I can see the stars out the window at the head of the bed. And at this time of year, there is one particularly bright star, which once it has reached the corner of my window, I know we are in the third hour of morning. That hour, where it seems the brain can go rampant on endless to-do lists, or reflect too heavily on life choices, or engage in senseless worry. You may know this hour yourself. But then, I digress.

That bright star is Sirius, from the constellation Canis Major (the Great Dog). It’s the brightest star in the winter sky. It’s 8.6 light years away. And it takes 8.6 years for its light to reach my window. Such distances are hard to wrap one’s head around. And yet, I use that aged light for something so mundane as telling time. I could just as easily turn my head and look at the clock on the nightstand. But then, there’s something special in using starlight to mark one’s place, in space and time. It’s past informing present. It’s ancient and innate perhaps. And there’s a certain comfort in knowing one is a part of something larger.

A pink blush starts in the eastern sky slowly, but quickly spans all the way to the northeast, tinting clouds even in the far west.

When I was a younger man, I was labeled a photographer. And recently, going through some things, I came across some old black and white photographs I had made some 30 years ago, or so. Strangely, I remembered in detail the whole process of making them — from exposing the film to making the prints in the darkroom.

I recall, I was testing a new lighting system for portraits. And with a long cable release attached to the camera, I used myself as the model. Today you would call that a “selfie”. But as I looked at that young man in the photograph, who was intently looking at me, I started to drift back in time. That young man, with absolutely no gray in his hair, was my past, and I his future.

It took me back to a time when cameras were large intricate marvelous machines. Machines designed solely for the purpose of controlling light and capturing time. Fractions of seconds frozen. And darkrooms, with their subdued reddish light, were the culmination of the whole process — the inner sanctum. It was little bit craft and a little bit art. It was alchemy. Creating a photograph back then took time…a lot of time.

And now, I look over at my phone, and with a press of a finger and a few swipes in the app, I can do in seconds what took that young man hours to do. I look back at the photograph and wonder, would he be amazed or would he be saddened.

Suddenly there’s a small twinge, and I find myself missing the old ways. But a closer look at the photograph and I see I have bent the edge, or did I bend it 30 years ago? After all, it was just a test and images can be such fragile things.

The clouds in the East suddenly explode in all manners of reds and golds and colors that change so rapidly they would be hard to name. And if this action had sound, it would be deafening.

Light holds memory. We understand night and day because they repeat. We understand seasons for the same reason. We can comprehend a lifetime, because we remember.

And here we are at Christmas again. That season which is all wrapped up in lights and time. And stars, of course, come into play. I am so grateful that my mind has retained so many bits and pieces of Christmases past — snapshots. Some come back to me as vintage black and white and others as uproarious color. But they all play a very special part in the making of this Christmas. I now know, that time is not linear, for I move back and forth in my mind so easily this time of year. And everyone, past and present, is still there, again. So, here’s wishing you all a very Merry Christmas and let’s all make good memories, once again.

At last, a star breaks the horizon, our star, the Sun. Its light sweeps across the cold, warming as it goes. It is sunrise on another Christmas morning. And the light has returned.

❄️

Patrick Spirit, Christmas 2025

HEAVY

Artist’s Midden

This morning started cloudy and cold, with clouds that looked weighted and anticipatory. But then, much of February has seemed heavy and filled with anticipation. We are 60 days into Winter, but it feels decidedly longer. So much is swirling about these days, it’s hard to stay above it all. The air is so thick. So, I will narrow my focus, away from the news of the day, and start with something significantly lower. Something nearer to the ground. I caught a pack rat last night.

He started building a nest (which I found out is called a midden) at the base of a small juniper out front, earlier this month. With time, this particular midden has grown and is made up of twigs and pieces of cactus and whatever else the rat finds interesting. The bits of cactus are supposedly to keep predators at bay. I suppose they work. But he was also breaking off small branches from the juniper, as well as stripping bark from it to add to the nest. I was beginning to fear for the health of the tree. So, I decided he had to go, cactus or not.

I sat one of those Havahart ® traps. Baited it with peanut butter. And caught him the second night. But he was trapped early in the evening, just about dark. I discovered him shortly before 9 p.m. And I knew, with all the creatures that roam about this desert at night, I couldn’t leave him sitting out there exposed in that trap until morning. The consequences could be rather dire. So I moved him and the trap into the garage for the night. I’ll admit, my sleep was a bit broken as I woke up a few times and thought of him there in the garage, alone.

But, at daybreak this morning, under those heavy clouds, I drove him a few miles away and set him loose in an open field. He ran a couple of yards and turned and looked at me. Stared actually. I have seen this reaction more than once over the years from rodents. Upon release, they often seem confused or surprised. Second chances don’t seem to be in their DNA. Perhaps his stare was one of gratitude. Or perhaps it was just a question like — What now? I whispered to no one in particular — just Live, damn it!

I drove home silently, as the sun peaked out briefly. It was bright in my eyes for a moment and then was consumed just as quickly by the same heavy clouds. I so wanted there to be a hero in this story. Possibly the rat or possibly me, but all I felt was empty.

Sometimes choices in life are clear. Clear as day. Sometimes they’re not. Do you turn left or do you turn right? Do you build your house under a tree? Or do you take a rat for a ride? Alone in that car, I repeated my pseudo sage advice — just Live, damn it!

Note: Later, as I was about to start work, I looked around my cluttered studio. Recent drawings and watercolors strewn about everywhere, and it dawned on me — an Artist’s Midden. The rat and I were kindred souls, I suppose, and his haunting stare suddenly made perfect sense. 🖤

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