Bird’s Breath and Green
While out with the dog this morning, a crow was atop a low juniper tree calling. It was quite cold out and a tiny cloud of breath formed with each caw.
Cobalt Blue and Hansa Yellow Light
“Something larger is always at work, something no mere hand of a gardener can control”
Bird’s Breath
While out with the dog this morning, a crow was atop a low juniper tree calling. It was quite cold out and a tiny cloud of breath formed with each caw. And it suddenly dawned on me, I had never seen a bird’s breath before. I had seen a horse’s breath on cold mornings. And a cow’s as I threw down hay from a cold loft in a cold barn. And even the occasional dog’s breath. But never a bird’s breath.
At a certain age, you tend to think you have seen most everything. And then on a cold morning, something as simple and as complex as condensation of a bird’s breath can change your whole perspective. How much goes on around us everyday unnoticed? And things we consider ordinary are anything but. It all borders on miraculous. Even ourselves. Each moment this universe unfolds amazingly whether we notice it or not. But how rich life becomes when we do.
I walked back to the house as the Snow Moon of February was about to set. And the newly risen sun was pressing on the mountains eager to begin another day. And there beside the studio wall, a sign of the seasons passing gracefully. Daffodils, like tiny green bird beaks pushing through the earth, while last week’s snow sits quietly in the shadows.
Daffodils
Green
With the vision of the sprouted daffodils still fresh, I brought out some Cobalt Blue and Hansa Yellow on my palette and mixed a glorious green. I am fascinated by green lately. (Do your color preferences sway?) I am not sure what is causing this new interest. Perhaps the array of seed packets on my desk and the penciled plans for this year’s garden come into play. Or maybe knowing I will start seeds soon and the studio will become a pseudo nursery, with seedlings taking over space and time. Whatever the reason, it feels wildly new and exciting. So, I think I will explore this verdant urge and paint some green today.
The Weight of a Season or Ghosts of Christmas Past
I REMEMBER THINGS. Small things. Moments memorized, lightly carried like tiny treasures across time.
It's hardly a new concept and I apologize to Mr. Dickens for usurping his iconic phrase, Ghost of Christmas Past. But it does haunt me this time of year (pun intended). Ghosts do indeed abound. Even the image of the painting that accompanies this blog was started in the early days of the pandemic, some two years ago, almost. It's a huge face. Hard to tame. Hard to come to grips with. It hangs on the wall taunting. Insistent. It has gone through many iterations. And just recently I revisited it. Reworking much about it. Looking for an answer.
““Who and what are you?” Scrooge demanded.
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Long Past?” inquired Scrooge.
“No. Your past.””
❄️
All that follows may be fiction or slightly true, or just tarnish on the lens of time.
“I walk every morning at first light with the dog, in the junipers and piñons on the east side of the property. The ground there is thick with pine needles, dove feathers, and deer tracks.
As we walk, she sniffs for what was, and I too slip backwards, to another woods once wandered. To a woods and a boy long since gone.
The woods deep and silent with fresh snow. The boy in awe with every step, as tiny avalanches from branches cascade cold down his neck. And not far in front, another dog sniffs for what was.”
❄️
I REMEMBER THINGS. Small things. Moments memorized, lightly carried like tiny treasures across time. And when, the distance between here and there, becomes too great, I only need to recall.
I recall things like the warmth of a December sun, as it stretched across a dusty afternoon floor. So encompassing it reached to the bone. I still ache for that warmth when the air begins to chill.
❄️
And I remember crude drawings scratched with a fingernail in frost crystals on the inside of a window glass. A child’s need to disturb such perfection should never be questioned. For even today, envious of the raw curiosity of that youth, I struggle to draw with that same intent.
And I recall a dense stand of cedars on my grandfather’s farm, where my brother pointed out a particular tree in mid July and said it would make a perfect Christmas tree. And then, come December, he remembered exactly where it was and cut it. It did make for a perfect tree that year. Surely, this is a lesson in daring and foresight.
❄️
And I still remember the way the air fills up when a fresh cut tree comes indoors. Fragrant, with excitement and possibility jostling to share the common space. And the unfettered joy that spread so easily, so naturally, to all in that room.
I remember Christmas Eve church and midnight masses struggling to stay awake, where the only real prayer was for the upcoming morning to hurry. I recall first snows and first days of Winter breaks, and classic Christmas movies that made me laugh and cry the first time I saw them, and somehow still do.
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And I remember large boisterous family gatherings and silent Christmases, all alone. And broken toys, and broken dreams, and broken hearts, all signs of just how fragile we truly are.
This time of year, memories shape shift, drifting in and out like specters. No doubt, they live somewhere near the soul. A heart could never contain them all.
❄️
Winter tends to pull us inward where recollection is easy and sometimes hard, for sadness lives there too. That is the nature of duality. Still, amidst the baggage of a lifetime, there are those tiny treasures, the good ones, just waiting to be recalled. Every year, I welcome winter for just that reason, because… I do remember things.
May your Memories be Joyful and Plenty this Season
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays
❄️
Love, PatrickSpirit 2021
Here and Now
A few days out from Halloween and I’m looking at a row of shriveled and shrinking jack-o-lanterns that look somewhat like old men with missing teeth.
#Red
“The quieter you become, the more you can hear”
A few days out from Halloween and I’m looking at a row of shriveled and shrinking jack-o-lanterns that look somewhat like old men with missing teeth. In some ways, they are more frightening than ever. And I awoke this morning with “Have yourself a merry little Christmas” stuck in my head. You know the one by The Pretenders, with Chrissie Hynde singing it slow and smooth? Yeah, that one.
Somehow, it seems to happen this way every year, more or less. Halloween comes, time accelerates, and then there is this mad rush to the end of the year. I’m ok with that, I guess. And truth be told, I am ready for the holidays and Winter. Still, the transition seems so abrupt some years. But already I find myself reflecting on this year. All in all, it was good year. I was graced with so many blessings.
And this morning it's cold. There's ice on the bird bath. The sky fills silently with another glorious November sunrise. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. And also, a feeling I haven't felt in a while - contentment. Sometimes we just need to sit quietly to realize all is playing out as it should, including ourselves.
On a side note:
A bush outside the window has turned a remarkable red this fall. And the leaves just keep hanging on. Maybe it's a sign. It does seem to be a Christmas red. I think I will hang Christmas lights in the trees early this year :)
Becoming
While picking a jalapeño and some cilantro for my breakfast this morning, I was keenly aware that the garden was starting to have a late summer look.
First Orange Pumpkin 🎃
“We become one thing, then another, until we become that one thing we were always meant to be ”
While picking a jalapeño and some cilantro for my breakfast this morning, I was keenly aware that the garden was starting to have a late summer look. Cilantro, as well as calendulas were going to seed. Yellow leaves were appearing here and there, and a little green caterpillar sat eating purposely on a kale leaf.
Looking across the desert, the wild vegetation was going through the same process — flowering, seeding, preparing for the next phase of their lives. A bit of melancholy swept over me like a cold breeze. Summer almost over?
Then a glimpse of color caught my eye. I moved a large leaf and there was the first pumpkin turning orange. The pumpkin was small by any standard, and yet, it was busy fulfilling its purpose. Busy becoming orange. What a marvelous thing. Miraculous really. I smiled.
And on the subject of miracles, I held my latest grandson a week ago. He was fresh and fragile, and trusting. As I rocked him, I looked over at his mama, my daughter, and recalled how I had rocked her similarly, in what seemed like such a short time ago. We sat there three generations locked in love. And I watched his sleeping face smile as he dreamed his baby dreams. We are born happy. He was busy becoming and it starts with our dreams. I smiled.
Back in the studio, re-entry can sometimes be difficult after a trip. So, I started a painting. The act of painting always grounds me. Pulls me into the present. I started by mixing Naphthol Red with a cool black and got this great purple-y violet color. As I was building the face, I remembered I had picked up a jar of Golden’s So Flat Cadmium Red on my trip and I wanted to see if it was as matte as they claimed. I painted a swipe across the shoulder. Against the violet, it looked almost orange. And I smiled.
On Drawing (Sacred)
The Eastern horizon is becoming lighter and the coffee in my cup is extremely fresh and hot. The paper is soft ivory in color; stark white would be too intimidating at this hour.
#DRAWINGSACRED
“Then, quite soon, the drawing reached its point of crisis. Which is to say that what I had drawn began to interest me as much as what I could still discover.”
The Eastern horizon is becoming lighter and the coffee in my cup is extremely fresh and hot. The paper is soft ivory in color; stark white would be too intimidating at this hour. The pencil is mechanical. Forever sharp and always at the ready.
I begin quickly and draw in the left eye, all sketchy and scribbly. Its importance is not lost on me however, for it determines the placement of every other feature. Still, it is an almost automatic gesture. At this point, thinking is not warranted and overthinking is not allowed. This first part of the drawing must be bold to compensate for any uncertainty.
To go from a blank page to a finished drawing is foremost a journey of discovery and a good amount of courage. Every drawing is another search for an undisclosed destination. One which you can’t easily name, but you know once you've arrived. Sometimes it is just a mark or a tone, or the swoop of a single line, that lets you know indisputably that what you're doing is worth it. And indeed, that you will attempt it again. Somewhere along the way, for the artist, drawing becomes your voice and in many ways says things you could never vocalize. It’s a subtle magic.
Drawing is an ancient language. It predates the written word. And I am keenly aware of that sacred history every time I pick up a pencil or piece of charcoal. Mark making is our legacy.
With all that is going on around us these days, (and I won't go into the specifics, because you are well aware of what they are) I think it is important to go inward at times. There are many ways of doing that, of course. Meditation, yoga, inspirational reading are just a few that quickly come to mind. But I think drawing is another way. Drawing, making marks, doodling, or whatever you wish to call it, shifts our thought patterns. Drawing focuses our concentration and taps into our individuality. And at some time or another we have all drawn. So, whether you consider yourself an artist or not, pick up a pencil, a pen, or a marker and rediscover that part of yourself. Go inward. Make your own sacred marks today. See how it makes you feel 🖤
A Season of Good
I spent the better part of a day stringing colored lights on junipers and white on piñon. Some would question the timing. It was only November, after all.
#Snow
“Every year I write a Christmas letter of sorts. This year it was difficult to find the right words. I was so uncertain about exactly what it was I felt. Sadness? Disappointment? Grief? But eventually, the words did come and at the most unexpected time. But I won't question that. So, here are some thoughts as we move into this special time of the year.”
A Season of Good
“There’s no telling how snowflakes simply tumble out of blank sky. And tomorrows fall through tomorrows the same way, a different tomorrow for us each.
Most mornings now, I walk out among them without wondering which might be mine. ”
I spent the better part of a day stringing colored lights on junipers and white on piñon. Some would question the timing. It was only November, after all. But I felt a strong need to cut through all the darkness of this year.
“Light and dark. Good and evil. These are simple concepts at the very heart of the human experience. And yet, we struggle, as if they were ever shifting sands changing over time. They are not.”
A wind sweeps a dust cloud down the road, as I kneel to lay out the luminarias. In the north here, we call them farolitos — a small lantern, symbolically lighting the way for the Holy Family on Christmas Eve. This year that symbolism feels more like a prayer. And for a second, I gaze up and think of snow and easier times, although, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s dry. Drought dry. And another dust cloud rises.
“In a dream, I paint canvas after canvas with angelic forms. Cherubim. Seraphim. But as I look back, all the paint runs off onto the floor. Before long I am awash in a sea of paint and indecision. Do I dare paint them again? I know this is a question of faith. But I wake to yet another reality.”
With the lights lit, I walk out into the night to check my handiwork. The lights on the ground briefly mirror the desert night’s sky, with its endless stars. Light touching light, touching soul. It’s cold, but my heart warms. We are often aware of transcendence, even when we can’t name it.
It is this unknowable, unnameable wildness at the center of it all, that brings hope and confirms that the miraculous is possible. Dark turning into light, one season turning into the next — the cyclical nature of everything and the assurance that we are a part of it, gives credence to the promise of this season year after year. Simply put, there is good still, and we are a part of it.
Stories define us, it’s true. And they matter, though they always leave so much out.
I like it that way, keep telling them to desert, and desert keeps filling in whatever it is we’re missing.
— David Hinton, from Desert Poems
An Afterthought: A few days later, after hanging the lights, as if in answer to a collective prayer, it did indeed snow. Not a lot, but a restorative gesture, none the less. Change is always in the offing.
A most joyous Christmas to you all!
PatrickSpirit 🖤
Christmas 2020
Wrap My Head Round It
I woke with a dread. Needed to make a grocery run.
#StayHome (This painting no longer exists)
I woke with a dread. Needed to make a grocery run. I pulled the neck gator up over my nose and mouth, and took a quick glance in the mirror. I looked like a bandit, like an unknown thief. But it did coincide nicely with the way I felt. Like something had been stolen. Like something was missing. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. You know, something nameless. Then again, maybe it was just the lack of normalcy. That place just this side of nervous humor that seems to turn into fear fifteen times a day. Yeah, that place. They say it will still exist when this is all over. It will still be there. I suppose they're right. But my phone just sounded an alert. The “Stay At Home” health order has been extended until the end of the month.
I still look like a bandit.
Run, Paint, Repeat
It had been windy for days. It was irritating. The wind chimes on the porch were playing an awkward tinny tune that was also irritating.
It had been windy for days. It was irritating. The wind chimes on the porch were playing an awkward tinny tune that was also irritating. And the man talking on the TV was especially irritating, as much so, as the empty shelves at the grocery store.
So, there was only one thing to do. RUN. The more irritated I was, the faster I ran. And it worked. I could outrun the irritations. And suddenly I was running almost everyday. But I couldn't run all the time. However, I could paint.
I didn’t paint in my normal way, though. I started to finger paint. Of course I wore gloves, but I painted fast, aggressively, and was making marks I could never make with the brush. It was exciting. It was helpful. It helped as much as the running.
One day this staying at home and social distancing will be over, but we will be changed. Maybe we will be changed for the better. Perhaps what we choose to do now will help us on the other side of this crisis. Find what helps you cope. I hope you find your version of running and finger painting. Stay safe.