Settling into Peace

the-view-from-my-easel

It’s not quite this white outside my studio window, but the valley is peaceful and the tracks are there, we just can’t see them right now.

New paintings are varnished and Herself delivered them to the amazing John Corcoran, he won’t mind me showing off his new website… click here . He will do his magic, as he does with every one of my paintings, and make a digital record before it heads back here for framing and then off to the designated gallery, or patron.

The early morning studio delivery wagon has just pulled out of the drive with the final tubes and boxes from our winter workshop.

The teakettle is rattling on its way to boil for the first thermos of darjeeling of the day.

A brand new panel is up on the easel, with sketch ready to transfer. Palette ready for some fresh new paints. Curtain pulled back and the view in the painting above is what I have beside me, and all I need is before me.

An email has just come in from Peggy, her thought for today for the artiste,

“Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.” Paul Klee

It certainly feels like a holiday here, the spirits of solstice are sparkling and the view is open to change.

Back to the easel now for me…YEAH !!!!!!


Advent

This morning Finn and I took advantage of a warm spell and walked around the yard filling the bird feeders. I had been heeding the woodland warnings not to put out seed until the bears are hibernating. I have never, repeat never, seen a bear in my yard… but lately, I seem to be leaning into the winds of caution.

At the end of the path, just before the lilac bushes, we found this feather…hawk feather

It’s about 6 inches long and the tips on the right side are dipped in a burnt sienna which the sun wants to make red. The top, which is at the bottom of this photo, is a mottled grey. I first thought of a red tailed hawk. Possibly a big owl ? But my heart wants it to be a Hawk.

Peter will know, or possibly his friend Marie, and most probably several others of you out there…so I decided to toss it to the cyber winds for some helpful answer.

It’s so beautiful, on it’s own, against the creamy ivory of my journal, and I am grateful to the muses for this gift of Advent.


The Season of Solstice

Celebrating the season of long winter nights and welcomingly fragrant evergreens, a grateful return to my seat at the easel, the twinkling of colored lights, newsletters from loved ones, the trail of cookie crumbs from studio to cabin…and back, and the sparkle in the eyes of our sweet lapdog Finnegan who is thoroughly enjoying the frosty morning walks with her buddy.

Wishing you all manner of love and laughter and light…

Pat, Heather and Finn


The Vineyard blooms…

in the studio yard…

My favorite moment of the spring is when this rose bush first blooms. It was brought back to my studio oh so many years ago as a tiny off shoot from one of the grand dames of rugosas that bloom on the bluff in Chilmark. Now it is happily filling out the entrance way to the yard and this week it is full of welcoming wafting aromas that take me right back to the ocean.

As I am grinding away at the easel, burning the candle at both ends of the day to get the last paintings done for the Granary show in July, it is such a gift to see these roses and a much needed reminder that the treasures of that peaceful island are just there… on the edge of this spring breeze.


Memorial

Today there will be a memorial service in Naples, Florida in memory of my father. The members of his church, friends and some family, will gather to celebrate his life and bury his ashes along side those of his wife Ann.

Here in Pennsylvania it is the first really cold and frosty day but the October sun is shining strong and lighting up the colors of the season. I’m heading up to the lake to take a walk in my own church.

In my absence, our dear friend Martha Forbes will be reading this passage which I wrote for the service…

 

Growing up as the young children of a minister it was sometimes
be a bit confusing when, sitting in the front pew and trying to follow along,  the congregation would arrived at the point in
the service when it was time to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

“Our Father” was actually not in heaven; he was standing right
there in front of

everybody
and usually winking at us…usually.

Today…for us… that prayer, resonates with new meaning.

 

smile. At his bedside, in those last few hours we had together, I searched the
bookshelf

on
his ipad for something soothing and meaningful to read to him. What I found was

Winnie
the Pooh.

It seems we had come full circle. He had read that to us on our
first days…and I read it to

Bob Good was given the gift of two families of children. The
six of us drew together

as
one family to ease his passing and to celebrate his life.

 

Our father was a scholar and a writer and as fond of fine
literature as he was quick

to

him
on his last. He told me once that I never made it past the first few pages when
it was

my
bedtime. He didn’t either.

So, this then… for the lover of words and pencils… and of
course breakfast… is what

comes
at the end of the story…

 

 

“This party, said Christopher Robin, is a party because of what
someone did, and

we
all know who it was, and it’s his party, because of what he did and I’ve got a
present

for
him and here it is…

 

It’s for Pooh…the best bear in all the world.”

 

When Pooh saw what it was he nearly fell down, he was so
pleased. It was a

Special
Pencil Case. There were pencils in it marked “B” for Bear, and pencils marked

“HB”
for Helping Bear, and pencils marked “BB: for Brave Bear. There was a knife for

sharpening
the pencils, and india-rubber for rubbing out anything which you had spelt

wrong,
and a ruler for ruling lines for the words to walk on, and inches marked on the

ruler
in case you wanted to know how many inches anything was, and Blue Pencils and

Red
Pencils and Green Pencils for saying special things in blue and red and green.
And all

these
lovely things were in little pockets of their own in a Special Case which shut
with a

click
when you clicked it. And they were all for Pooh.

 

“Oh ! “ said Pooh.

 

“Oh, Pooh ! “ said everybody except Eeyore.

“Thank – you, “ growled Pooh.

 

But Eeyore was saying to himself, “This writing business.
Pencils and what-not.

Over-rated,
if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it.”

 

Later on, when they had all said “Good-bye” and “Thank-you” to
Christopher

Robin,
Pooh and Piglet walked home thoughtfully together in the golden evening, and
for

a
long time they were silent.

 

“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last,
“what’s the first thing

you
say to yourself?”

 

“What’s for breakfast,” said Pooh. “What do you say, Piglet?”

 

“I say, I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today ?” said
Piglet.

 

Pooh nodded thoughtfully.

 

“It’s
the same thing,” he said.


The Garden is a good place…

to grieve.

It has been a little over a week since my father died and there seems to be an endless stream of logistics to attend to, paperwork to be filled out, emails to answer and to write, and thoughtful considerations to be made by a caring committee of siblings.

Woven through the long hours in the day has been a gossamer thin thread of sadness. It’s soft and shiny enough that I only catch glimpses of it through the haze and weariness of dealing with all the details of death. Living with a hospice nurse for twenty years means I recognize it as grief. But knowing that it is my father who holds its fragile and faraway end has a sharper edge about it than all the other times I’ve seen it.  This one is amber in color…with an Old Holland Red Gold Lake glaze…and has both a startling beauty and a staggering pain.

So, while I know it’s there and see that it’s trying to catch my attention, I am busy right now.

It’s been hard to concentrate at the easel. I’m finding just how much the creative act of painting draws from my deepest emotional pools. It doesn’t surprise me that now, when those emotions are so much closer to the surface, they have such a direct line from the heart to the brush.

So I’ve chosen to do some large muscle therapy.

Finn has been getting me up with the first birdsongs well before the sun rises and we’ve been spending those first cooler hours of the day doing the heavy lifting of turning the compost into the garden soil and getting the beds ready for planting. To Finnegan’s great pleasure we have a plethera of plastic pots. The best dog toy in the world…for our Finn…is a black plastic plant bucket. She will amuse us all for hours with those treasures. I will not embarrass her by sharing my favorite pic of her with one of them on her head like the proverbial lightshade but you get the idea that my gardening obsession is feeding her playful spirit as well as brightening up our yard…

Here in this corner of the planet we are three weeks past the last frost date. Our most tender vegetables should be into their teens by now. I am catching up. I recycled the wood that the roofers left behind in December and have made 5 new raised beds. The greenhouse bed is now in it’s second planting since the ridiculous heatwave has bolted most of the greens…

The best neighbors in the world, Sue and daughter Zola, drove their tractor over this weekend and…while Zola minded the best friend pups, Jed and Finnegan…Sue and Pat and I hauled a huge pile of soil up to the top of the yard. The next day I framed it in with the roofing scraps and made a bed which will nourish some watermelons this summer and, in the fall, will be planted as our long awaited asparagus bed.

 

We’ve expanded the vegetable garden in some unusual ways…

These back beds are producing peas faster than we can eat them this week… and yesterday I planted bush beans, watermelon, tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, onions, and runner beans…

And then there’s the great potato bag experiment…went a bit overboard here… so I’m told…

And the roses, oh the roses, they are doing such a good job of lifting my spirits…

And the greatest gift of all… from Gulliver. I inherited this rose bush from the previous owner. For the last three years it has been eight inches tall and only bloomed once. One single flower. Until I put Gulliver’s wind chime there, just outside of my easel window. Now look at it. Gully likes it when I sit in this chair all by myself in the morning. She rings loud and long to let me know that she’s still got my back.

Finnegan is listening to her too…and learning from both her predecessors how to take good care of me.

So, you see…life is good.


Night Games…

So this morning…

I was taking the first look at the newest addition to the studio library,  STAR WARS Art: Visions published by Abrams, (the cheap version). It’s a stellar collection of Star Wars inspired art by contemporary artists.

And it occurred to me that I had done a Star Wars painting too…

Night Games…It’s currently up at the Granary Gallery


Here’s a closer look.

While it wasn’t commissioned by George Lucas, that little McDonald’s Toy version of Yoda has been a constant muse since the very early days of the saga and sits ever vigilant by my easel watching… and whispering…

Kudos to the artists whose work fills the new book…I’ll enjoy dipping into that this winter…

and may the force be with you.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kp8Ms7FBC7M&rel=0&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3]


A Halloween Rose…

by any other name… made sweeter by the hand

They called for the first frost of the season on wednesday…so Finnegan and I spend the day before putting the garden to bed. We soon had the big bucket filled with peppers and parsley, green tomatoes and beans.

It was sweetly satisfying to pull out all the withering vines and stems which had worked so hard this summer to feed us…and to haul it all over to the new compost bins. We picked a corner to plant the garlic and casted the winter rye seeds over the rest of the beds. Then we fired up the lawn mower for the last time and limped around the yard collecting clippings and chopped leaves to gently cover the soil. But the sweet peas and the nasturtiums refused to give up…so they get to stay a little longer.