Distilled Harmony: A Reaffirmation

 I suppose I could react to the recent Presidential election by shuffling around in sackcloth humming "American Pie" aka "The Day the Music Died." But that would really be simply a meaningless waste of time and energy. Tried hard to get a gentle, compassionate and competent woman elected, but it seems that millions of my fellow Americans are living in a pretty dark place, and used the ballot box to express their anger, fears and anxiety. Rather than rail against that darkness, I instead choose to reaffirm and suggest my contrary view of everyday existence: Distilled Harmony.

The three primary tenets of Distilled Harmony have been scattered throughout these Wall posts from more than a dozen years, to more dozens of you distributed among 8 or 10 nations around the globe. But it seems a good time to clarify and reaffirm these positive existential guidelines which I espouse, but still struggle to manifest in my own life.

The tenets are hierarchical - tenet one, Foster Harmony, dominates, followed in importance by tenet two, Enable Beauty, then tenet three, Distill Complexity. Let me break them down for you again.

Foster Harmony . In its simplest form this tenet can be stated as "play nice with others," or the old stand-by "treat others as you would be treated by them." Golden rule stuff. It is deceptive in its simplicity. It stands in direct contradiction to the currently more popular "give 'em what they deserve!" It holds us to a more forgiving, more compassionate mandate. It is the first tenet because it is hardest. Fostering Harmony - opening your life to giving and receiving love, is one of the most challenging, yet most rewarding tasks of our lives.

Enable Beauty. We are, in large part, what we create - not what we consume. This one gets a little tricky because it is far easier to buy beauty than create it. Hence the palaces of the super rich in every era of human history from antiquity to today. This tenet asks that we become creators, not merely consumers. Complicating the tenet is the notion of talent, and of course genius.

I saw a little girl sing grand opera on TV the other night. Mozart composed symphonies before his age hit double digits. Genius is not our creative benchmark. "To perform to the best of our ability" is. We need to spend a healthy portion of our lives creating something that at least strives toward beauty. Sing, dance, act, draw, paint, sculpt, play an instrument, build edifices, design gardens, compose music, perform, cook, design interiors, plan events. Whatever! But do something, anything, that makes the world around you, and the space in which you live, a more beautiful place.

Then there is Distill Complexity.  Life often seems to have been constructed by Rube Goldberg. Every task - particularly those designed to be performed in a digital environment - seems to follow a path designed by a contortionist whose favorite saying is "You can't get there from here." Or, "Your call is very important to us, please press one for, press two for, press three for, all others please hang up and try next week."

Let me indulge in a brief, but related story. When arriving on NC State's campus back in 1980 one benefit I soon discovered was the guy who could fix everything technology-related on campus. Now remember this was 1981 - no internet, no world-wide-web, no computers on desks; rather big room sized things over in the "computer building" that were fed paper punch cards. After a few years I was able to secure a UNIX computer from the college of engineering, which ran an archaic version of Wordstar - a dinosaur word processing program. It stopped working. I called guru Everett san and explained my problem. 

He asked, "What floor is your office on?"

"The fourth," I replied.

"Does it have a window?"

"Yes."

"Can you open it?"

"Yes."

"Open the window. Unplug your computer. Carry it to the window. Make sure there is no one beneath you. Now throw the computer out. Something better will come along soon." And he hung up.

And my computer problems had vanished, to be solved, later, bit by bite, by PCs and then Macs.

When we allow ourselves to get caught up in, enmeshed by, angered and frustrated by, the swirling, often negative complexities of modern life it is easy to lose sight of what is truly important: Our lives, and the lives of those we care about, and what we can do to enrich those lives that truly touch us.

So distill. Put the chaos that is confronting you on the front burner of your mind, turn up the heat, and let it simmer. Whenever anything that you truly cannot fix, or smells off, bubbles up, grab a slotted spoon and skim it off, toss it in the trash - down the disposal! Repeat until only those items that you can whip up with love and caring remain to clarify into a pleasing sauce of Harmony and Beauty remain. Remove from heat and allow to cool before serving.

Not exactly sure where that came from, but I think I'll keep it in, and get back to trying to Foster Harmony, Enable Beauty, and Distill Complexity in my own life. Still much work to be done there. Working on a sister piece to Moontree and am having trouble with leaves.

Little Tiny Wormholes

 I'm not talking about those little holes that appear in your yard after a summer rain, the ones made by actual worms. No, I'm talking about the wormholes that hook various points in spacetime together. Or as Wikipedia puts it:

"A wormhole is a hypothetical structure connecting disparate points in spacetime, and is based on a special solution of the Einstein field equations.^[1] A wormhole can be visualized as a tunnel with two ends at separate points in spacetime (i.e., different locations, different points in time, or both)."

OK, now that that is clear, a wormhole can zip things around the universe willy-nilly. One moment a thingy is here, the next it is somewhere and sometime else. So what does that have to do with you and me? Glad you asked. I have a theory. No, I have no training in theoretical physics, but if the richest man in the world, with no training in political science, can shrug off the bothersome chains of sanity to shill for another purported billionaire, I figure that opens the door for all sorts of idle speculation.

So here is my theory. Most speculation regarding wormholes is cosmic in nature - black holes at the center of galaxies, galaxies crashing into one another creating universe-wide gravity waves, mysterious entities light years away. Really huge Star Wars kinds of stuff. 

My theory brings the idea of wormholes into a much smaller conceptual space, like your house, garage, kitchen, etc. Let me cite an example.

Yesterday I was organizing stuff in the garage. Yeah, I know we moved months and months ago. Another year and we might get "moved in." Anyhow, I was moving a couple of items from one corner of the garage to another. I carried them in a plastic container, removed the items from the container and placed them on the shelf. Then I turned around and the plastic container had vanished. 

Now I am aware that another phenomenon could be in play here, the "where did I put my keys" issue. This occurs when we misplace an item that reappears minutes, hours or days later. "Ah ha! There you are!" This "missing keys" phenomenon occurs with increasing regularity as we move through our maturity. The "Tiny Little Wormhole" phenomenon, or TLW for short, is a completely different animal. Items that get sucked into a TLW are gone for good, never to be seen again. 

Think about it. You have your own examples, but were perhaps unaware of what was going on. That favorite sweater you looked for last week as the weather began to change. The flat head screwdriver you put on the bench. The Winnie the Pooh PJs with the footies. You name it - gone and never ever to be seen again.

There are some ramifications to TLWs that we may not have considered. When these things disappear from our place in spacetime they reappear somewhere else. There is a common trope in sci-fi literature that earth is in a sort of probationary period that will determine whether we are invited to join a highly sophisticated inter-galactic community. Most of these narratives do not end well for us, usually because of our tribe-like arrogance which culminates in violent genocide of some type or another.That may just be a cheap-shot plot device. 

There could be a more subtle reason for our exclusion: bad TLW management. That more advanced community has long learned to manage the TLWs. Things that disappear in the Greater Galactic Community (GGC) are actually funneled to specific regions of the universe in need of specific items: think recycling. We, however, just let things zip away. Think letting your dog off-leash to do its business wherever and making no effort to clean it up. By failing to understand and control our TLWs, we are trashing random parts of the universe.

That gets entered into the debit side of our galactic ledger, along with global warming, genocide, and the ever-increasing web of satellites we toss up blocking the communication paths of the galactic observers. Whew.

So what do we do to reverse this seemingly negative spiral? I think there is great potential benefit to addressing the issue at the TLW level. It seems logical (well, as logical as anything in this admittedly fanciful ramble) that TLWs are encouraged by our neglect. They snarf up random things to which we are not paying attention. So we need to keep our stuff better organized. Clean out the junk drawer. Put your tools, spices, clothes in planned spaces. This, I believe will thwart the TLWs and increase our chances of being accepted into the Greater Galactic Federation.

I must, however, admit to doing none of those things I advise above. I lean sharply toward the slovenly. Which is, no doubt, why TLWs swarm around me like mosquitoes on a summer evening. I suppose that, in order to increase earth's chances of GGF membership, I should clean up my act.

OK, I will. Starting tomorrow.

Lending the Sisters a Hand

The Image

Lending the Sisters a Hand

Story Behind the Images:

We watch a lot of BritBox mysteries. Sort of "popcorn mysteries." Plots pretty predictable, cast drawn from what we contend is a cluster of 25 to 50 actors who have lifetime contracts to appear in several movies each year. General "chill out" stuff. However there is one repeating aspect that makes us a bit crazy - the domiciles.

It seems that every home - unless a period manor - features floor to ceiling glass walls, wrap around vistas, isolated conversation nooks, glass coffee tables. Very hip, very what? 70s?

An inevitable result of dressing scenes in this manner is that there are virtually no walls upon which one can hang art. While our new abode does have decent wall space for art, it does not have anything like our previous home. As a result we have far more framed art than space to hang it. Add to that the fact that I keep creating more images. Very OCD, I know. But the situation demands that we reign in our inclination to hang art just where we felt it looked cool, and begin to think about what images informed each other - made a joint statement.

These variables came to result in the image above. You have seen all the images before. The steal from The Sistine Chapel debuted as Mike's Hands. The left hand image is "Masque" from several years ago, while the right hand image is the recently created "Pearl." While Hands was professionally framed, I framed the Sisters by deconstructing a couple of older professional frames and casting the Sisters in them. And the three images seemed to come together conceptually in a bit of vacant wall space across from the entrance to my bathroom. An added benefit is, obviously, a unique view from the throne.

Tangential Thoughts

About the whole OCD thing. I find comfort in Van Gogh's life. He too kept painting image after image throughout his life despite having sold only one inexpensive painting to a follow artist. Upon his death, a relatively short time after his lifelong champion, brother Theo, all of Vincent's paintings became the property of his sister-in-law Johanna Bonger. It was the largely unrecognized Johanna's insightful shepherding of Vincent's painting and letters that gave us the creative genius we enjoy today.

Although I have already tripled Vincent's lfetime sales figures - sold three during a one-man show in a coffeeshop back in the 90s. I have not figured out a way to market my images that would not detract unacceptably from the time that I wish to dedicate to creating them. Sigh.

 

Moontree

 [Schrag Canvas is how I have decided to designate posts that are exclusively visual. Apologies for some format glitches. I am dodging between platforms to get this post out to y’all!]

My history of image-making has had about as many different stops as the New York subway. OK maybe I exaggerate. I haven't changed visual emphasis 427 times, but sometimes it feels like it.

From doodles in library books (for which I was deservedly chastised), through photography and my undergraduate senior thesis film, into video and now digital media, always including some aspect of marks on paper - it has been a kaleidoscopic ride. Here is the most recent stop.

Moontree

Today's canvas blends a few of the stops along my visual subway. The tree began as my current standard: hand drawn and colored in a 14x21 inch format. 

But then I fed that image into my computer in a 21x28 format at 150 dpi. I went into that image in photoshop and "cleaned and brightened" the image at the 4 - 5 pixel level.

Next I added another layer and "borrowed" an image from NASA's collection of images of the "super moon" from several months ago. I then merged those two layers together and made everything except the tree and the moon transparent.

 

OK. Next I added another layer behind those two merged/transparent layers. I went back to a sunrise image I had created some 20 or 30 years ago for an image I called Tequila Sunrise. I cut out a piece of that sunrise that "felt right" and copied it into the Moonrise image third level so it floated behind the tree and the moon.

You will have do image that old image, it is two computers and a hard drive away from me right now 🥴

And that completed the composition. Only problem is that when I had the 21x28 image printed it came out huge! 21x28 covers a lot of real estate which quickly shoves the cost of "appropriate" framing into the "I don't think so!" level. So Moontree will live with a more prosaic backing for the time being.

Today We Have the Naming of Parts

 In my mind I was quite certain that this was the first line of a somewhat suggestive poem by e. e. cummings with a matching title. The Internet demurred, returning instead a poem with that title by a guy named Henry Reed about weapons. I queried Dr. Coyle, my oldest bud and go-to guy for English poetry, who sadly confirmed the Reed citation. I will not, however, allow this reality to stand in the way of one of my favorite more fantasy-like activities. Hence we can consider the better title of this post Today We Have the Naming of Things.

And I do, I name things - and critters. This goes well back beyond the significant time we spent coming up with a name for the Black Labrador puppy we hope to purchase in the Spring. Dickens won out over Euripides - in part because we couldn't imagine hollering "Stay Euripides!" Or "Sit Euripides!" But I also name critters whose relationship to our lives is more tangential.

There is a chipmunk that lives, at least sometimes, beside our frontdoor or under the pine tree just across the walk. I have named him - or maybe her - Rasputin because he or she, is, after all, a monk! Rabbits live in the row of dense pine trees that separate our backyard from the church parking lot just to the north - well, at least one rabbit does. He silflays most evenings in the dusk. If you recognize the verb, you will understand why I have named him Hazel and his occasional smaller companion Fiver. (Spoiler: think Watership Down.) And then just last night our security camera caught a coyote sauntering across our patio in pursuit, no doubt, of a midnight snack or assignation. I immediately named him "Wiley." Who else could he be?

You get the idea. But I take it a bit further and name inanimate objects as well.  A couple pertinent examples, first, Boswell. There is a backstory.

Many years ago, when my older daughter was attending college at George Washington University in DC, I was visiting Dr. Coyle who lived in the area. During the night a thunderstorm swept the area and I became aware of a dog scrambling beneath my bed. I got up, thus releasing the tramped canine who scampered away. As I began this post I contacted Dr. C, who confirmed the identity of the trapped pouch with this composition:

My Boswell                                                                              

 Faithful companion, devout biographer, 

beloved spaniel, my Boswell. Attentive 

to all particulars, you reconstruct my day 

from trace evidence on pants, underwear,

and boot soles, record my comings and goings

from the opening and closing of doors,

my moods from modulations in my voice.

You store all this data in a capacious brain,

a sensory registry rich beyond words.

 

Pheasant flusher English-bred to rouse grouse 

from the gorse, contented now to plod 

about the house with a rag puffin 

in your fluffy cheeks, you lie down opposite me 

in the den each night, one eye closed,

the other on me. If a hand extends beyond

the chair’s arm, you pad across the room, 

nudge my fingers with a wet bulbous nose, 

drop at my feet a snot-covered bird, 

sit on your haunches, awaiting my praise, 

looking immensely proud.

 

I have tried ignoring you—it never works.  

Such is the nature of English breeding.

You jack up my hand with your snout 

so it rests on the plateau of your head, 

nod to bring on strokes of affection, then slide 

the length of your body under my hand

so I drag my nails across your coat 

withers to rump, loosing dander and dry skin 

your own nails can’t reach. As hind legs 

give way in spasms of joy, you lift your muzzle 

to the heavens, move your head side to side, 

eyes shut, thankful the world provides 

such bodily pleasure for the gift of a cloth bird 

you give up gladly each night again and again.

 

And now you sleep, your legs twitching, still running,

still retrieving across the fields of praise.       

 

I returned this inadequate bit of doggerel:

My Boswell

I too do have a Boswell

Tho’ my Boswell is a bear.

A black and white small panda

Draped in cloth instead of hair.

His daily tasks are simple,

Naught for a bear to dread

Especially when you realize

They are all performed in bed.

Therein he must support my head

At just the right incline

To read my book or tablet

‘Til Morpheus I find.

Thereafter he is free to roam

‘Cross bedclothes, here and there

And on the rare occasion 

He rests upon his chair.

I have also named our new Acura TLX, purchased after the sale of our North Carolina home and a loyal but tired 2009 Yaris. Our new gleaming white vehicle is named Shadowfax. (Think Gandalf, Lord of the Rings.) My sculpture and images are usually named after the people or places that served as either models or inspiration. I chat with them in passing or as I compose their successors:

Pearl - of course.

Here's Lookin' at You Kid - Casablanca 

Roan Inish - Google it.

So what is this inclination to name inanimate objects, and to indulge in one-sided conversations with them? I dunno. I suppose Freud would have multiple fantastical explanations for the phenomenon. Having studied media for nigh onto half a century, my explanation is more simplistic - the habit fulfills a communicative need. 

My wife need not hear my exhortations to Boswell, "Where the hell are you? Ah, ha! Hiding under a pillow again!" Or my query to Wiley, "Where are you off to sneaky, Dude?" To Pearl, "You comfortable in those new glad rags?" Roan Inish, "Still a seal today, huh?" But these "uni-versations" amuse me and are somehow comforting.

Ironically, given that you receive these posts online, the internet rarely contributes much to my desire for feeling a connection to folks. When I open my iPad in the morning a communication from a person that I know is a rarity. Corporations, marketers, pundits, candidates, conmen and hipsters fill my inboxes with drivel - from the inane through the meaningless to the offensive. Even to stay informed about friends and family one often needs to visit some corporate site or another - Facebook, Reddit, LinkedIn, Instagram.

Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete, delete, d d d d d!

I do recognize the irony of this being yet another message cluttering up your screen. But I would assert it differs from most in significant ways.

First, we know, or have known each other on real, often quite significant, levels. So I remain actually concerned about your life. 

Second, as should be clear from point one, there are not many of you. How could there be? Despite my adolescent conviction that one's capacity for love was infinite, I now realize that a heart can be divided into only a limited number of spaces.

Third, I will never ask you for money for cause or campaign.

Right, Boswell?

Right, Big Guy.

Why Every Painting is a Prayer

While listening to Pandora you often hear artists make comments before a song actually begins. One day recently while listening to one of my "awesome female folky" vocalist channels - maybe Joni Mitchell, or Judy Collins, or Joan Baez, one of the "flower children" types - I heard her complain about the fact that audiences always wanted to hear their favorites. "Nobody ever said to Van Gogh, 'Hey! Paint Starry Night again!'"

Well, maybe nobody actually asked Van Gogh, "Hey, paint Starry Night again!" But he did. Most sites quote 21 versions of Starry Night, different weather, times of year, angle of view, but all the same framed patch of sky. And then, of course, there are the sunflowers - 7 to 15 of those depending on the criteria. "OK," you say, "but wasn't Van Gogh painting a lot of those works while a patient in a mental institution?" Yup. But before we write off these multiple versions as fixations of an unbalanced mind, consider this.

Munch painted 4 versions of The Scream, which thieves kept stealing. Rembrandt did some 80 self-portraits - versions of the same subject, not? Even DaVinci did two versions of his Madonna on the Rocks, and, of course, Monet painted some 250 works featuring water lilies. "What," I said to myself, "is going on here?" The answer I came to tends to natter on a bit, so get comfy.

First I need to clarify what I mean by the divine and the function of prayer. The long version of that clarification can be found in my 2008 book, The God Chord: Physics in the Landscape of the Heart, which I just learned can be bought through Amazon/Goodreads for four bucks! But I'll try to save you digging through my search for a "theory of everything," in that book and cut to the chase.

The God Chord rests firmly on string theory. In it most basic iteration string theory persuasively asserts - in my mind, and the minds of others far better versed in theoretical physics - that virtually everything in the universe is made up of incredibly tiny vibrating strings, far too small to be detected by contemporary technology. In The God Chord I assert that the idea that vibrating strings - no matter how tiny - make music. Hence, everything in the universe is made of music.

OK, I realize that may seem a bit of a stretch, but consider the fact that we were largely blind to much of the universe until we invented telescopes that enabled us to see beyond our eyes. It does not seem to me unreasonable to assert that we will remain largely deaf to the vibrations of these tiny strings until such time as we are able to invent the technology that will allow us to sense, if not actually hear, this pervasive music of the spheres.

Furthermore it seems equally plausible that, just as the current tools of cosmology allow us to peruse the cosmic microwave background (CMB) -which is a faint glow of microwave radiation that fills the observable universe and is a remnant of the Big Bang - a bit down the line aways technology could allow us to discern a kind of celestial symphony that would reveal the Central Organizing Harmony of the universe, the COH, or as I more whimsically call it the God Chord.

Alright, if you are with me so far let us take another step down this road. If everything in the universe is made up of these tiny vibrating strings, that means we as well are made of vibrating strings - are made of music. That is one of my favorite suppositions, that we are made of music and hence do, existentially, conform to certain aspects of music theory - we are in harmony with some other individuals [their strings] and may find ourselves discordant with others. But that is an issue for another time that I play with rather extensively in The God Chord.

Right now I want to focus on our relationship with the COH, The God Chord. Think of resonance, of a tuning fork. You hit a tuning fork and rest it agains any surface, a table top, whatever, and that surface resonates with the pitch of the tuning fork. Obviously this works best if you place the tuning fork against the sound board of a musical instrument, a piano, violin, viola, whatever. And then you adjust the strings to cause the instrument to vibrate in concert, in harmony with, the vibrations of the "tuning" fork. Get it? Tuning it!

And now another jump. We are the instrument and the COH, the symphony of the universe is the tuning fork. And it is when we achieve a "state of grace," "nirvana," "inner peace," call it what you will, that we exist in, are at one with, we resonate with The God Chord.

Continuing to jump along. Our lives chronicle our relationship with The God Chord.  Any life, any occupation, either resonates with, or mutes, the influence of the god chord in our existence. This notion could take us down any variety of paths, but for this post I want to focus on the special relationship that "creatives" bring to the process.

"Creatives" seems to be the current term to define folks whose life is devoted to the arts - painters, poets, sculptors, dancers, musicians, photographers, writers - in short anyone who sees the major activities or expressions of their life as "art."

So now, let us jump back up to the title of the post, "Why Every Painting is a Prayer," and consider those multiple, seemingly redundant, images created by those most excellent artists. Why paint, seemingly, the same thing over and over? It is an attempt to get "it" right. And what is "it"? The symphony of the universe.

It is commonly said of creatives that they do not chose their art, rather their art chooses them. Their parents and partners often ask when they will get a "real" job.  And except for a - sure talented, but mostly lucky - few, creatives are not fated for fame and fortune. Consider Van Gogh who is said to have sold one painting in his entire life, and for what would, compared to his current market value, have been less than pocket change. But he kept painting those Sunflowers, and those Starry Nights. Monet kept on painting waterlilies, over, and over, and over, and over. Why?

It is my belief that "creatives" sense the symphony of the universe, The God Chord, more deeply than most. It is through their art that they seek to express, and hence become one with, that symphony. Yet in their minds they often fail to "get it right." So they continue to try again and again, painting after painting, prayer after prayer.

 

Time to Breathe

 It seems to require either exceptional courage or an intense inclination to sadism to attend to the "news" these days. Journalism has always been a slave to a "if it bleeds, it leads" mentality, but the digital nature of today's world allows the industry to rake up any political conflict,  military mayhem, or natural disaster - large or small - from anywhere on the globe with truly depressing immediacy. I don't know if humanity is really striving to descend to new lows, or if our ability to follow the pessimistic storylines just makes it seem so. Either way, I feel a pressing need to take a breath and focus on that which is good and beautiful in the world.

Fortunately, such things still do exist if you seek them out: a walk somewhere green and peaceful, a taste of poetry, or poultry! an art gallery or museum, and, of course, music. And it was in this musical bastion of beauty and tranquility that we most recently sought refuge.

Friends often ask why, upon retirement, we headed north rather than flock with the snowbirds headed south. It seems as though they felt we were going to be running a trap line in the tundra up by Prudhoe Bay. No. We were instead attracted to the restaurants, galleries, museums and concert halls in the little burg a few miles east of here called Chicago. Oh, and my, did it come through for us last weekend.

The event was the season opening of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. We refrained from springing for a couple of tickets in the mid-four figures to attend the Opening Ball at The Four Seasons, but did opt for a couple of less pricey seats for the concert itself. Worth every cent - including car service to and from the venue, for just a bit more than the cost of parking!

Does the name Lang Lang ring a bell? Don't be embarrassed if your guess was one of the pandas at the National Zoo. Classical musicians don't have quite the following of current pop stars. I mean "Langers" just doesn't have the same marketability as "Swifties." Lang Lang simply is, to quote one review, "the best concert pianist alive today." He is a 42-year old Chinese genius who sometimes frustrates purists with his flamboyant style. And he was the guy who opened the Chicago Symphony Orchestra season, and we were among the sold-out audience who sat transfixed by this generational talent.

 I won't try to do a "review" of either the man, his musical ability or charitable activities, you can seek him out online. Although the recorded versions pale in comparison to the live experience. Let it suffice to say he was incredible. Truly a once in a lifetime moment.

But, move north? Oh, yeah.

Holes in the Fabric

It wasn't as though we had known him that long or all that well. Before moving here permanently he was the "unique" neighbor. He always wore shorts, no matter the weather. Seemingly a bit disdainful of the efforts of the grounds crew he fenced off a few square yards of the lawn between our homes and mowed it himself with a little electric lawnmower. He would nod and wave.

After we moved in permanently he quickly became our "go to guy" for the tools and assistance necessary to fine tune our new space. When a bed didn't fit just right, he provided the know-how to get it right. When we wanted to figure out how to put our outdoor lights on a timer, he provided both the timer and the labor to get it installed and working. He seemed a man of indeterminate age and boundless energy.

We swapped stories and emails, joked across the driveways. He became our closest and most constant friend in a neighborhood that seemed rather challenged when it came to neighborliness. And then he was gone. A pretty young woman rang the doorbell and introduced herself. She was his daughter, still of the "smile-wave-nod" variety. Her father, she sadly reported, had had a massive heart attack and died the previous evening.

It did not seem real. His death was so unexpected, it was hard to believe. Sad, of course, but not the profound grief of the death of a family member or a close friend of many years. It is more, I am coming to believe, like a hole appearing in the fabric of our life in a new place. Something warm and inviting had disappeared. Like a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing, what was growing into whole, complete and normal, took a step back.

Now several days later, watching the flurry of activity in what was previously a calm and peaceful place, I have been thinking about that metaphor - death as a hole in the fabric of our life. There are, of course, many different types of tears in the fabric. Some are devastating, leaving deep scars, like wounds stitched up by an incompetent surgeon. They mar the fabric for seemingly forever. We are damaged. Yet in many ways time really does heal all wounds, not with forgetting but with selective recall. Trauma recedes a bit, and the memories of a smile, a voice, a shared song, float to the surface allowing an answering smile. A piece of peace.

Then there are less agonizing holes. Perhaps no less painful in the moment, but with a more gentle aftermath. We had to have a beloved, 14-year old black lab put down. And no, there is nothing trivializing about considering the holes the death of a pet leaves in the fabric of our lives. Consider this; who is more constant, more loving, more forgiving, more comforting in our lives than your pet? The holes they leave are constant, but somehow gentle. The pets still manifest themselves in the corner of our eye, sleeping in a favorite spot, their paws echoing down an empty hallway. A quiet presence.

So what do we do with these holes that death leaves in the fabric of our lives? We restore them, as we would any precious work of art. We were in Italy a few years ago, maybe Venice, but I think Florence - we tend to settle into one of those two cities for the art and the food. Not sure which this was, not important.

What was important was that as we were leaving a museum there was a rather large area, portions of which were brightly lit - spotlights on a huge canvas, and perched on ladders before the artwork were several restorers. In their hands were improbably tiny brushes making what seemed invisible touches on the canvas. Gently, softly, and oh, so quietly, healing the fabric.

And so we must approach the holes that death leaves in the fabric of our lives. What did the departed entity contribute to our lives? Humor? Industry? Compassion? Love? Honesty? Sensitivity? These are the memory brushes we can take to the flaws that death has insinuated into our lives. We apply them "gently, softly, and oh, so quietly" to the holes, to heal the fabric of our life - turning something "holey" into something holy. 

Playing with Poetry

 Walking the Circle Path - 2024

Earliest beyond planning

Almost without awareness

Routes of exploration 

Sights and sounds

Within each precious moment

Until, quietly, sleep intrudes

And then waking sends one

Again to senses newly formed

Somehow down around 

A curve or corner

We discover the first faint

Awareness of a glimpse

Called destination

Perhaps maybe possibly 

Could be should be is

At least for awhile

Until concrete asphalt 

Highways byways

Bridges parking lots

Detours shortcuts

Cloverleafs round-abouts

And occasional dead ends

Guide us through the

May be could be

Might be should be

Would have been

Should not have been

Got right got wrong

Did over walked away

Turned around started again

That is life

When suddenly again

Beyond planning

At the reborn 

Corner of awareness 

The path turns

Soft and sandy

Bordered by nodding blossoms

No doubt once forgotten

Have been there all long

Now reassert their value

Sweetly requiring our

Attention appreciation

Kinship

Stop smell me

Implores a

Forgotten mantra

We would be wise

To listen to step aside

Off the harried highway

And return 

For a tranquil while

To that friendly path 

We traveled long ago.

Mice - 2001

As mice scampering across a moonlit mesa

Thoughts trace frantic paths across my mind.

Do not pounce. They cannot be caught.

Observe them. Allow them this time.

They are but figments destined to fade at dawn.

Who would have known empty

Could tip the scales to such an incline?

Perhaps dark matter does outweigh

All that is observable and light

Does so subtly assert its unimaginable worth.

For clear light does true love reveal,

Fragile and tenuous in its immortality.

While darkness nurtures its false shade,

A fleeting debasement that decays

Beneath its own whining and recrimination.

So seeming endless patience must your

First companion be.

The imagination of the eyes that look

To be the twins of your own comforts, bring 

A feigned indulgence of your heart’s true ease.

But lose not your firm determination 

To wait upon the rising of heart and flesh.

Allow ecstasy its own fair germination

For love delayed is far sweeter than

Affection or remorse draped in love’s disguise.

Pre-dawn showers mist the mesa.

An owl’s shriek steeps low against the mountainside

Sweeping mice to holes and cliffs and gone.

And sun’s first light reveals me still alone,

But softly now, fresh draped in calm repose. 

Here is the original version, but if you are viewing on a small screen, very, very hard to read 🤪