brush stokes to keystrokes

I lay awake at night and marvel at the artistic genius of the human body. You can’t go through something like pregnancy and delivery and the days following without being in complete awe and realization that we are made with beautiful and purposeful detail. I’m certain I’m incapable of making known these thoughts with words – it’s one of those things you just have to experience, and what a shame to go through life without doing so! There’s much there that we don’t understand, that’s beyond our ability to comprehend, I think. Even more intensely unbelievable is the power of the human spirit. Never will you know your boundaries until you’re pushed to your absolute limit – when something is so immeasurably difficult that you’re convinced the world is spinning outside the window without you. But then you start to walk faster to climb up out of the grave you thought you wanted to dig for yourself, and then jog a little, and then sprint as fast as you can to catch up because you realize that you’re perfectly capable and you have no choice but to survive, to choose to be happy, to endure. Another realization – the true power of hope. Maybe it doesn’t feel like you’re being strong, but once you get there, you turn around and see that your limits are much deeper than you ever expected. What’s the point of life without testing these limits?  Eventually death will be just around the corner and we’ll look back and realize that all these hard times were true blessings, to make us stronger, to imprint something on our souls that we will remember when, the next time something even harder comes along – and it absolutely will – we know we can handle it. 

The true power of someone, who’s only source of communication is crying, to teach an adult is nothing short of miraculous. Joy will always be waiting at the end -the kind that you feel inside and then turns into tears of release. It’s very real, and very, very worth the fight.

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calm, clear, addicting caress, stationary, star-filled, serenity.

i can feel the soft ripple

of the water move over my skin and it makes me

howl

in both sadness and joy.

i tell it to unearth everything unbalanced and it complies on the condition of favors.

i must visit often. i must hold on to the intense peace and hear my breath.

and i must do my best to open the ugly pores and make available the

rotting seeds.

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The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part    -Tom Petty, The Waiting

Some thoughts for the day:

I decided I have no idea how to wait for something when I have no idea what that something is because I’ve never known or experienced that something before. That’s enough to drive a person crazy! I must admit, I’ve been sort of enjoying the crazy so that’s a good sign. I could liken it to waiting to open a Christmas present, but those quite often come in boxes and usually if you shake it, you have a sort of inkling of an idea of what’s inside. I have a feeling I’m about to open an entire roller-coaster and I have yet to see a box something that size will fit in. And what if it’s one of those that has upside-down parts?

I was walking yesterday and thought about how we all continue to return to this same square-ish plot of land that we call home every day. Over this vast space, even over a single subdivision, we each have our very own square of grass and pile of wood and bricks. And it’s called home. It seems to have a magnetism to it that’s attached to a part of our brains. I guess I’m trying to say that the organization of peoples is fascinating. And then if you go on to think about how very little we know about those inhabiting the plot right next to us, you realize how very little we know about anything at all. Period. For as much as we know as human beings, there’s seems to be an exponential amount that we don’t. I suppose discoveries only fuel more questions…and I suppose if we really did know everything, we’d be bored…and I suppose if we were bored, we’d sit at our computers and type stuff that we really hope will come full circle but we know that it won’t…

It’s time for another walk. Maybe the wind will let me in on some secrets today and share some warm hugs.

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The wind is conducting a perfect orchestra with my wind chimes this morning. At first I worried it would bother the neighbors…and then I got over it.

I’m on the prowl for an idea for this giant canvas we bought to be placed over our very own fireplace. (The excitement the newness brings is still fairly potent.) I have a couple of ideas involving squares, but not something that’s completely geometric. It’s such a huge piece that I may have to go buy the main color I want so I don’t have to mix it. I hate doing that because it takes away from the originality a little bit, but I’ll save quite a bit of paint this way. Or maybe I’ll try it first without and see how much of a hassle it is.

The neighborhood is quiet during the day. I’m headed to the deck to finish one of my dozens of books on babies. I figure, even if there’s conflicting advice every which way I turn my ears, it’s difficult to have TOO much information, right? That may not be true. Every single stranger that has stopped me to ask about my basketball belly has vastly different advice – for which I don’t even ask for in the first place. In the end I always go with my gut anyway – and my gut is telling me not to waste my time, but for sanity’s sake, I’ll read. And I eagerly await the day that the unwanted advice stops following me around like a puppy.  

Still waiting on baby…still insanely calm…amazing. Maybe later I’ll go fall up a tree. I haven’t done that in a while.

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Ahhh, nap time. I wish I could remember the point in my life where nap time became a wonderful treasure as opposed to something I dreaded as a kid. It seems there’s a trade-off, however, and I’m not sure it’s worth it – sleeping in late. Ever since I became a vessel for life I haven’t been able to sleep as late as usual, you know, noon on the weekends at least. Now I can’t seem to make it past ten which is such a let down, but I suppose I make up for it in naps through out the day. I know, I know, fairly soon I’ll be lucky to be in bed at 7am still, but let me cherish this last month, will you?

I would liken the last two weeks to a stream of consciousness piece of work…fragmented thoughts, a sort of complicated awareness of the unaware – only after the fact…it’d be difficult to tell you what happened on what day or who I saw when…foggy waters but fairly calm waters…contradictions of thought though none necessarily false…a struggle to anchor the goodness and release the fear that maybe someday all of this joy might be taken away…why wouldn’t it since it seems to be stolen from everyone else these days…anxious excitement for the changes of the all-too-near future…smiles…disbelief…belief…doubt…confidence…blah-ditty-dah…

As far as painting goes I’m in the middle of setting up my studio here in our new digs. Our furniture has been rearranged a few times thus far so I’m waiting to unpack my supplies and get settled in. I have some great ideas though. This new environment has fueled the imagination quite positively. I was worried it would be temporarily stunted by the confusion of newness and change, which I fall victim to quite regularly.  

So, tell me something real. Something other than fog that I can focus on.

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Oh good gracious! I’ve been so preoccupied with cursing the world for not allowing me to bilocate, fighting off labor terror and coping with my inability to tear my eyes away from my books that I missed the birthday of the wonderful Billy Collins! It was this past Sunday, which was also my sister’s-in-law birthday. I’m jealous she gets to share it with him.  Happy Birthday, Billy, sir. Thank you for spawning my love affair with words and their majesty born from uniting with each other.

It’s also been quite the long while since my last post, for which I apologize as well. See aforementioned list for my excuses. I have another blog whose sole purpose is to keep my sanity in check, which nobody on this great earth reads (and actually, now that I think about it, makes it not a blog at all), that I have wrongly ignored as well. That one is much easier to speak to though because I know that nobody will read my words…a diary, if you will. You will never see it either, my friends. Unless…I’ve always contemplated making a book out of it, a memoir of sorts, but I have yet to find enough courage to do so. That’s as personal as it gets for me, sharing your thoughts and insides just as they are – stripped of any sugar and any worry that you might offend hundreds of thousands of people or even just one person. It’s a lot easier to share my insides via canvas because it’s open for much interpretation and the way it’s viewed has much to do with every person’s reality….different ideas can surface and one “story” can read like fifty different ones. That’s another tale for another time.

It’s windy today and it’s having an effect on my ability to focus. Who knew the wind could blow your thoughts around the way it makes leaves fly in circles and, well, though not as poetic, call to attention the amount of trash littering the streets?

I’m nearing the finish of the great blue and foil collage. I’m quite happy with it, though it’s one of those pieces nobody else is going to understand, but that’s my right as an artist, is it not? And since I included bits of a poem for which I can’t find the author, I can’t post it online for fear of copyright infringements, etc. This piece is going in our bedroom. It’s one I would feel a little lost without.

Next up is a recently commissioned piece involving the spirituality of windmills, green landscapes and the colors of meditation. I haven’t quite put the whole thing together in my head yet, but hopefully it won’t disappoint!

I think it best to end here before the wind picks up again…

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A while back I had this delightful surprise in my inbox from a family member. I’ve been meaning to share it with you, gracious reader. 

The Artist

A tribute to a dying day
was hung upon the wall.
In a hallowed spot it caught the
thought of every passer by.
A common sight, familiar light
held motionless in time.
Color put to canvas
brought to life by the artist hand.

-Carol Conlin

Until we put to work our thoughts and play with the abstract, or real, we just won’t realize how much power we each have within ourselves to create beautiful things; with words, with paint, with pencil, with music, with ingredients, with car parts, with light,  even with our very own breathe. If we can create something as miraculous as a human being within ourselves, think of the possibilities! And if we were to merge together and share single, amazing talents, think of how much more beautiful our worlds would be. There’s an eternity of unknown, and if we don’t get crackin’, we won’t have time to discover even half of it.

Inspiration in itself is what fuels discoveries, capabilities…we have a responsibility to do our part to inspire and to be inspired, every chance we get. Now, break!

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I’m alive, astonishingly so. There’s little hope when you find yourself flattened on the frozen pavement by a collision-hungry semi going 90 mph. I can’t remember the last time I was knocked so hard on my tookus by a measly cold virus. I believe at one point, probably 3am when I’m struggling to breathe and cough up whatever is clinging to my chest like duct tape, I actually convinced myself that, compared to this struggle, labor would be easy cheesy. Today is day 8 and I’m certain I’m finally being peeled off the road though a cough still lingers. Poor baby probably wishes it wasn’t growing in the center of an earthquake zone. The good news is I finished the first two and a half books of the Evanovich series surrounding Stephanie Plum the bounty hunter. They don’t have much literary anything, but entertaining nonetheless.

Now onto more pleasant of musings…due to the reoccurrence of a dream last week I’m going to have to put off the trio of similar Yellowstone paintings. In my sleep I saw a collage of blues mixed with lines of this poem I have on my refrigerator. Not only is it a collage of paint and words, but also of foil and stationary. It’s not too terribly often I remember images from dreams but this one has stayed with me for several days. I was anxious to start after the first viewing but that dang cold bug won the battle. I also found it interesting because I haven’t ever incorporated anything onto my canvas other than paint.

So now I’m off…I hope I have enough blue paint. This one’s going to be big.

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…that can’t be good, omen-wise.

I must say, this home-buying business is more intense than expected. I can’t seem to concentrate on much except maybe not breaking the ice I feel like I’m tip-toeing across. I think baby can feel my anxiety/excitement because he/she has been hosting a rodeo of sorts in my belly. It helps me concentrate, though, on things other than this giant investment on our door steps and, besides that, sometimes it tickles and laughter is a major source of relaxation. Especially since I can’t drink wine. I’ll admit to sniffing it on occasion… 

So I have this plan for a series of paintings for my next project. The Yellowstone piece seems to be a favorite so I think I will try and duplicate it, making one at dusk and one at dawn. Maybe a third in colors you wouldn’t normally place in the sky. I’m excited to begin, though I’m sort of waiting for this tenseness to pass. Maybe it’ll make me better, who knows. I suppose I’ll have to “shit or get off the pot.” My grandma was so wise!

Even as a lover of winter I will admit I’m enjoying this tease of spring we’ve been experiencing lately. Still, winter smells so much better. As it gets warmer the air always seems to smell of wet, dirty, slobbery dogs. Come to think of it, maybe I just associate that smell with spring/summer because my brothers would always smell of that particular scent during that entire particular time. Stinky boys.

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