"Fog Mirror"

acrylic on paper, framed, image is 7 1/2"x 5 1/2"

You can't live around large bodies of water very long without experiencing fog. I have often sat and watched it billow up the ridge towards me from the surface of the lake which seems to somehow be breathing it out into the air. The idea for this little scene came from a quote by Frank Graham, Jr. " The distinction, therefore, between fog and cloud is that of position. Fog is a cloud on the earth; a cloud, a fog in the sky." Isn't that wonderful to think about?

"The Veil of the Moon"

acrylic on paper, framed, image is 9 1/2" x 6 1/2"

For me, one of the most wonderful gifts of living by a lake is the opportunity to watch the water change colors and tone throughout the day. Dawn is spectacular and full of hope, like us usually, but it is early evening during those days of the month when the moon is waxing and rising early on the light trails of the sun that I love best. The water glows and shines in a way that feels like a blessing to me. Somehow the enormity of it's tender beauty soothes over whatever hard and difficult things the ending day brought. This small pieces is about that translucent veil that falls across the surface the lake just after the great pearl frees itself from the treetops.

"The Sky Remains"

Acrylic on canvas 30"x 24" museum wrap

"Through the empty branches, the sky remains/It is what you have." Rilke The Book of Hours

I've been doing a great deal of thinking about sunsets. Probably because of the loss of one of my closest friends. I have a sense my awareness of this daily ending is in some deeper way, helping me to sort through my sorrow over her passing.

We have all had those days when we simply want to get through it. It may have started off well enough, but at some point, we are ready for it to be done. I wonder if dying is like that?

I think the thing here for me is simply this: when the day gathers itself up across the sky I find a bit of hopefulness there. Sure the day is over, with whatever happened, but it's over. Watching the sky torch out reminds me that much of what didn't work can be left to go with it. Those things which will linger (and there always are those rascals, right?) at least you will have a respite from before tackling them again in the light of day.

Surely, there is a Baptist sermon and an altar call in that last paragraph, but beyond that I am thinking about renewal and those lines 'the sky remains/it is what you have. Maybe woven in there somehow is sustenance to keep on going. Maybe by witnessing the rhythms of the sky and world around us, we gain perspective. How much less in comparison are we to all of this? How can what we strive with be any greater? Don't know. But I am thinking about it.

"The Laughing Place"

Acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 45" x 35"

Almost everyone has a favorite place which has the power to call them. Growing up with parents raised on farms, my early childhood was full of long camping trips deep in the woods. My sons are amazed that I survived this since they secretly believe room service was invented for people like me. The truth is, none of my brothers or sister thought anything of the expeditions off paved roads in some remote part of north Georgia. Weekends would often find us loaded up for an 'outing'. Usually we would end up somewhere along a river. There would be a packed lunch or something to cook out for dinner after Dad found us a place along the shallows. We called it going to our 'Laughing Place', a term borrowed from the Uncle Remus stories we had heard in our nightly bedtime readings from My Book House.

I have no memory now of what my parents did on those river afternoons. Seems like Dad sometimes fished. Having been a mother myself, I imagine Mom simply collapsed. What I do understand now is this was an instinctual resource for two people raised in the wealth of the countryside. When life, kids, jobs got too much, they returned to what their hearts loved best--rivers, fields and woods. It restored them. That ability to touch and heal us is the gift of place. While the choice of where it happens is as unique as the person choosing, we are all born into the same blessing. Perhaps when we become lost to this beautiful world and ourselves, it is the voice of the laughing places we hear calling.

Recently when I asked my older brother if he remembered those excursions into the wilderness, he replied, "Oh yeah, the laughing place". It was a wonderful moment.

"Red Oak Bark"

acrylic on board, unframed, 16" x 20"

Each species of tree in the woods has its own signature bark. Walking through a stand of hemlocks or hickories or oaks the color and texture of the trunks may seem the same. But move in closer, take a second and third look and you will soon discover there are differences in each one. Some bark shows the wear and tear of rubbing against other trees, in some places you will find cuts and scrapes where animals have been or the evidence of fire or ice damage. Like our own human faces, the bark of each tree carries the story of its life. This is the bark face of a red oak.

"Trees in Silver Moonlight"

acrylic on canvas, museum wrap, 30" x 24"

Full moons on winter nights in the woods have their own special magic. The radiance of the light as it moves down through the bare trees creates an 'other' world to use the language of many indigenous peoples, a term they used to try to explain the mysterious awareness it awakens. Why does that happen? What in us suddenly awakens and recognizes that mystery? I don't really know, but I do believe it is why we are here.

"Little Moonwatch"

Acrylic on canvas 16"x20" museum wrap

One of the legacies left by my Dad was something my family calls 'Moonwatch". In the years when my folks first lived on the lake, Dad would call on full moon nights and say only one word over the phone: Moonwatch. Getting that call meant only one thing: he was on the water, had a glass of his famous mixture in hand (vodka, grapefruit juice and Fresca) and wanted to share his thrill at the sight of the luscious full moon. I've painted several versions of this view, this being the smallest I've done. The way the moonlight spills across the water is truly something to see.

The land around the lake has slowly developed and now at night we see not only the stars and moon, but the twinkling lights of other houses and docks. But full moon nights are still spectacular and in this day of text messaging it's not unusual for my family to text his code word to each other from all parts of the world. Dad would be so delighted to know that his reverence and appreciation of the natural world has been passed along to all of us in such an enjoyable way.

We let him keep the mixture recipe to himself.