"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.

"One Tree, Blue and Moon"

acrylic on paper, framed, image is 15" x 11 1/2"

This is from a series were I am exploring what I call 'elements'--the more basic shapes and colors and feelings held within a landscape scene. My work is moving towards distilling what I see into more of an expression of what I feel in my connection to the natural world. I have a sense that eventually even the shapes will fall away. We'll see. In the meantime, the spareness of these shapes is very comforting.

"Three Bare Trees on Yellow"

acrylic on paper, framed, image is 15" x 11"

From the lake house windows where I live, I am able to watch the sun rise and set. Sunrises tend to be fairly spectacular and full of lots of energy. Sunsets have a much more concentrated feel to them. The colors can be just as rich and luscious as those at dawn, but the energy is completely different.Mixed in with all the light you can also feel the dissipated energy of the day ending as it follows the sun to rest. The light is much deeper and creamier than any seen at sunrise because of that. Watching it back light the bare tips of the hardwoods fills my heart with compassion. I know not for what or who--maybe for everything.

"Maple Haiku"

acrylic on paper, framed, image is 15"x 11"

There is an incredible Japanese Maple growing in the courtyard of the lake house. In Autumn, looking up through its leaves at the sky and sunlight is surpassed only by seeing the ocean of red carpeting the stones below it when its leaves drift down. The ten days it takes for it to fill with fire is the high point of Fall for me. These kinds of small but enormously powerful experiences are the bones of living. They hold us up in the face of everything else. Like the words of a haiku poem they have the ability to fill us up with so little.

"Orchard Tabernacle"

Acrylic on paper, framed, image is 30"x 22 1/2"

This is a pecan orchard. Anyone familiar with middle Georgia knows you cannot travel very long on the state roads without encountering one. Their appearance is often a surprise after miles and miles of pasture and pine woods. It's easy to round a bend and there, rising before you is their tabernacle. The lovely arching upper branches always make me think they are lifting their shoulders and arms and fingers in some sacred rite of praise. Perhaps they are. Stately, elegant they permeate the air with their dusky smell, especially late in the day after the heat has gone and the mist at dusk begins its graceful accent through their branches. Sometimes, late in the afternoon, the sun casts luminous shadows through them and the orchard fills with indescribable buttery yellow light. Whenever I see it happening, I understand in my heart why some of the earliest holy places known to us were groves of trees.

"Worthwhile Things"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 30" x 36"

You look and soon these two worlds both leave you,
one part climbs towards heaven, one sinks to earth,
leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unansweringly given to the eternal as that thing
that runs to a start each night and climbs--
leaving you (it's impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing
so, that sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

Rilke, "Sunset"

There is a holy intensity about the close of day. It signals the arrival of the dark--that deep and mysterious time with the power to awaken the connection in all living things to our common beginnings in the womb. As the veil of night descends it takes us with it, creating an opportunity to place our own lives within the ineffable scheme of existence. I believe it helps us to see it is through acceptance of the paradox of daily life that we create beauty and meaning.

"True North"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is "48x60"

I never knew cattails could grow to 7 and 8 feet until I began birding along the northeastern shore. Up until then, I had only seen them struggling along in the ditches beside southern highways.

This picture is of part of a huge stand of cattails surrounding the ponds at Cape May Bird Refuge in New Jersey. The refuge is on the eastern flyway and every spring and fall shelters thousands of birds as they migrate back and forth between the northern and southern hemispheres. When I first saw the cattails I didn't even recognize them for what they were. They towered way over my head and were teeming with blackbirds, sparrows, all sorts of songbirds and wading birds. It was incredible. They were all a maze of paths, a few made by men and marked, but most by the creatures they contained as they made their way back and forth to the ponds the reeds encircled. The paths were muddy and full of puddles, feathers, droppings, clam shells and husks. One of my best memories is of sitting on a golf stick seat, late in the chill of a fall afternoon after having wandered back along some vague little path and ending up at the pond. The preserve was deserted, the light on the tall reeds all around me was so clear it was almost crispy. I had my tiny little bourbon flask, just enough to salute the coming dusk. It was magical.

Whenever I am lost to the man made world with all of it's massive artificial complexities, moments such as these remind me of where our center really lies, where our inner compass knows true north exists. The compass may not be for each of us in a stand of cattails, but a place does exist, somewhere that can remind us.

(I left the droppings out)

Light on the Water

acrylic on canvas, museum wrap, 30" x 40"

Over the years I have decided that the people who love the lake the most are the ones who like to just sit and watch the light on the water. Years ago where I live now, it was common to see a regular little flotilla of boats drifting quietly at sunset watching the sun withdraw it's net of light back into the sky. Maybe because it is contained, lake water has a unique texture and body. To me it seems thicker, silkier than streams or rivers or the ocean for that matter. It's color can range from blue to green to black and everything in between depending on the time of day and the slant of light. This painting is about that glazed over moment late in the day, adrift on the water and simply resting in the reflection of the receding light.

Small Nests

Acrylic on paper, framed, image is 4 1/2" x 5"

Acrylic on paper, framed, image is 6" x 6"

Acrylic on paper, framed, image is 4 1/2" x 6"

Acrylic on paper, framed, image is 5"x 7"

Acrylic , crayon and ink on paper framed, image approx 5 1/2"x7 1/2"

These area few examples to give you a sense of the style of small nests that I do. I have many more--some very soft and abstract, others more detailed and realistic. Colors range from deep brown to light green as a general rule. Most of them are empty, but occasionally I will add a hatched egg.

A nest to me is all about hope. Everything alive in this world builds some form of nest, however spare, to birth its young. We humans have taken that one step further. We also build them in our hearts to birth our dreams.

"Winter Nest"

acrylic, metallic, on canvas, unframed, 20" x 20"

What many people don't realize is that nests continue to be used by birds and other small animals during the winter. When temperatures drop, clusters of wintering over birds have been found packed into the nests they used over the summer, or requisitioned from now absent migratory owners. This nest has been painted by the ice and snow of deep winter creating a beautiful frozen sculpture.

"Hornet Nest"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 30" x 30"

This is the nest of a bald faced hornet. They are the famous 'paper wasps'. Their nests are constructed from wood which they chew and use to create these amazing hives for their young. From a distance they appear a uniform gray, but when you look at them up close you can see they are striations of every color in the range from beige and cream to black and brown. Hives are just one of the millions of other worlds we share on this earth. Wouldn't it be something if we built ours as carefully?

"Leap!"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 30" x 30"

There comes a time in everyone's life when it is time to leave the safety of what we know. In the bird world this is never more crucial than the moment when fledglings make their first solo flight. It's the same for us isn't it? And it happens over and over, all through our lives. Circumstances change and we are called to reach down for a deep breath, spread our wings and fly...

"The Soul Exists for It's Own Joy"

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

The idea for this painting came from a concrete wall on the expressway. As I was driving into town, I happened to look up at the wall leading out of the underpass. There growing in this beautiful tracery were the bare arms of a climbing vine. The light was just right and it turned the concrete into a canvas. Across its hard unforgiving surface were the long searching arms and fingers of this plant. It's spareness moved me with it's power and poignancy.

There wasn't a wren on the vine when I saw it, but the more I thought about the bare vine and what it meant to me, the more I knew there would be something else on the canvas. A nest or few leaves seemed trite and forced. But as always, as soon as I had entered the painting concept into my art journal, I was already being drawn to poems and quotes to go with it. There is always a back story of some sort.

As I worked on the painting, my inner questioning began. WHY is it so bare? There has to be something else there. Even though the image is about sparseness, I felt it was a backdrop for a more essential concept.
The quote that kept running through my mind and I kept thinking about as I painted the skeletal vine, was
"the soul exists for it's own joy." That was how I remembered the original line from Rumi that goes "the soul is here for it's own joy." I knew that would be the title, but I also knew there was a missing piece that would convey it.

Then, rather suddenly, I realized it would be a wren. In the bird world, the wren has a unique reputation. They are little birds with big personalities. They build their nests in all sorts of odd places--hanging baskets, baseball gloves, mailboxes, old shoes. Their home sites are very imaginative. Once they stake their claim, they take charge. They run off all interlopers with righteous indignation. Their diminutive size is no indicator of their song. It is loud and varied and constant. Their whole bodies swell up like a puff fish when they are singing. They are absolutely, completely confident of their place in the universe.

I believe the inevitable truth is that our souls do exist for their joy. We are here on this earth to live as fully from that nest as we possibly can...even when the world around us may seem as bare as a vine clinging to a concrete wall. We come into this life knowing that is our purpose, but so easily forget in the onslaught of living. There are so many long armed vines. But even when they are not leafed out, when the concrete is the coldest and the vine the most bare, a wren may alight and open it's mouth to sing. And suddenly, we remember.

"Being Here is So Much"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 48"x60"

"Oh, not because happiness exists,

that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here

apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which is some strange way

keeps calling us. Us, the most fleeting of all."

Rilke, Ninth Duino Elegie

These are crows. My painting was inspired by a visit to the Seattle Art Museum where I came upon a gigantic screen standing all alone in a quiet, carefully lit room. It was Japanese, from the Edo period, circa 1650. The screen itself was massive. The sheer size of it gave it presence. But it wasn't the size that made the impression on me, it was the enormous energy of the subject matter. The screen was nothing but beautiful black crows in all sorts of postures against a luminous golden background. It made the entire room feel like a holy place. It was beautiful beyond words.

On reflection it doesn't really matter what kind of birds they are, although the crow has many symbolic connotations. What moves me is the mass of them--the visceral pulse created by so many wings. The air vibrates with the lift they create, the affect of which for a moment makes me feel I could lift off with them. I want to so much and for one magical breath I almost believe I can. Then, a startle, the moment flashes past and they, those marvelous creatures, heave upward as one and are off!--without me.

In case you are wondering, there are 40 of them...and yes, like us, they are each different.

"Two Solitudes"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 30" x 40"

I am an avid birder. My love affair began over 30 years ago with a pair of pileated woodpeckers in my back yard. It was love at first sight. There is something so ugly-beautiful about them. They seem reminiscent of a much older, wilder time in the natural world. Watching them all these years, I have come to see them as my own personal totem. I've had amazing encounters with them--especially the pileated, so when I see them I have learned to pay attention. The birds have come to represent for me, the emotional delicacy needed to achieve balance not only in our outward male/female relationships, but also with the equally powerful, inner male and female. The health of the inner one predicating the health of the outer. It is not lost on me that the symbolic meaning of woodpeckers is about finding the power of our own rhythms and flight in the world, signifying that the foundation is there to support us when we do. They also represent secrecy and the inner world from their habit of nesting deep in the interiors of trees.

When we are uniquely ourselves, being who we are, doing what we do, we create a solitude that is enriching and nourishing. This richness of person we can then invite someone else to enjoy. When they do and we enjoy them back, we create between us, a rich beautiful place of balance. It isn't always easy, sometimes it is impossible. But when it happens it expands our understanding of what love is meant to be.

"Just Gulls"

acrylic on canvas, museum wrap, 30" x 40"

Gulls are much maligned creatures. I have always rather liked them for the very characteristics that give them such a bad reputation. They are bossy, aggressive, loud, raucous. They have 'attitude'. Sure, they do chase down all the other shorebirds in an attempt to steal whatever morsel they have found to eat. Bad manners all around. But all that aside, I like them. There is something about their shifty little eyes and suspicious natures that I find comical and amusing. Gulls are garrulous busy bodies. They are always interested in what is going on around them and are happiest if they are right in the middle of other people's business, whatever that may be. They will eat and steal practically anything that resembles food. Easily offended, they react the way the neighborhood battle ax does when she feels she has been insulted: they huff and puff around and strut or fly off complaining loudly. They make me smile. Just like the neighborhood gossip, every one's business is there own. We all know the type.

I also think there is a melancholy streak to gulls. Even though they do congregate in flocks, it is not uncommon to see them all alone floating out in the sea or standing quietly on the shoreline surveying the length of the beach.There is something arresting about that to me. Their solitary habit can be very moving, especially on cold grey days when the beach is bare of birds except for the lone gull waddling around quietly or silently staring out to sea. It would be easy to imagine they are thinking about how no one likes them very much. "Oh, it's just gulls", we say.

In the avian world gulls are very valuable, for they function in much the way crows do inland. They are highly observant, quick to sound the alarm and brave. Like the crows, they serve as sentries for all the other smaller birds close by. That's not to say they wouldn't eat the eggs or babies of those birds given the chance, but at least the other birds can rely on them to sound the alarm if any other predator comes close. Life as we know has a certain amount of trade offs. What also strikes me thinking about all of this, is how certain things in life get labeled as less than acceptable: occupations, school backgrounds, family connections, where a person lives or the kind of car they drive. Who gets to make those lists? I always feel there is a certain amount of scale balancing when the power goes out, or the plumbing backs up or the garbage collectors go on strike. It's more than a gentle reminder sometimes about how important, what we consider 'just gulls' are after all.

"Grace"

acrylic on canvas, museum wrap, 48" x 48"

I carried this image around in me for a long time before I painted it. I had seen a dove's nest in a palm outside the porch of a beach house our family stayed in one summer. The female was so still when we were near. I could not get over the enormous power she exuded asshe sat on her eggs and watched our every move.

I think it was the silent watchfulness that stirred me and the way the male would simply swoop into the nest from out of nowhere. The flash of wings, the hovering urgency so close to the nest stayed with me for a long time. The doves reminded me of how grace often enters our life--in a sudden unexpected burst or in te quiet brooding of our inner lives--both providing an opportunity to deepen and transform who we are.

"Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
world broods with warm breast and
with ah! bright wings."
Gerard Manley Hopkins

"August Crows"

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

Crows are remarkable creatures and are found all over the world. Only recently scientists have documented them using tools to obtain food, which of course, rocketed them right up next to us in intelligence on the food chain. I doubt that came as a surprise to most farmers. Native Americans have honored them for centuries, understanding their innate intelligence and wisdom. They represent sacred law, as opposed to human law, and are considered an omen of change. Ancient Chiefs believed Crow has the ability to see past, present and future at the same time, as well as light and darkness and inner and outer reality. The American Crow is a powerful Eastern symbol along with the Crane. Did you know it was also in the running along with the Bald Eagle for our national symbol? Wouldn't the question "What difference would having the Crow as a national symbol made in our history and culture? make for great conversation over after dinner port?

As with all birds, for me the most wonderful moment is when they gather which is what I was capturing in this little piece. I find great beauty in their whirling descent, in the sound of their wings and their raucous calling to each other. Huge avian flocks are lost to us now, but the crow remains one of those birds that still congregates in large numbers at the end of the day to return to the same roosting spot. They are also one of the few birds who have extended family. Those birds that do not mate, stay connected to their parents and help care and feed for the next brood.....pass the port.

American Oystercatchers

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is 30" x 40"

This painting is a study in decision. The four birds are all in a different attitude of flight. When I started it I thought they might all be coming in to land, but now I'm not so sure they aren't taking off.

Life is about choice. The older I get the more I respect that every choice we make has merit. There is an exquisite orderliness to life despite the seeming chaos, which is a composite reflection of all the choices we make, every day, all day long. Sometimes I wonder if the most significant decisions occur when we have a desire to lift off or to land. Both can be about change and most of the time we have to fly 'by the seat of our pants' as we decide which to do. Sigh. It's a beautiful, incredible world, isn't it?

"Liquid Mirrors"

acrylic on canvas, museum wrap, 30" x 40"

The most beautiful time of day to me, is dusk. There is a peaceful settling up quality to it I find no matter where I am. The fading light carries with it the activity and energy of the day and allows a gathering in of place and self for the rest of evening.

Nowhere is this more evident to me than in the marsh. The huge expanse of sky across the meditative landscape of grasses has always called to me. There is something very holy and tender about the light across the water. Years ago, on a birding trip, I named it 'liquid mirrors' for the way it transforms the surface of the water into a reflection of the sky. The opaline tones are breathtaking.

During the day, the marsh is teeming with life. It is the nursery school for thousands of different kinds of birds, fish, plants and insects. The labyrinth of water trails through it, a mystery known only to seasoned fishermen and devoted boaters. It provides refuge for the body, mind and spirit. With the coming of dusk everything that was busy feeding, hunting and growing, withdraws from those activities and begins to seek out the secret resting places where they go at night. A quiet mysteriousness descends.

In this scene I have tried to capture a bit of the magical moment that occurs when the light becomes more and more violet at the edge of the water and blurs the point in which the sky ends and the water begins. Often as I have watched it happen I have marveled at how it creates a center of light, almost a threshold, across the expanse of sky and water and grass and in my musings I wonder, what would it be like if we could step through it?

"Winter Evening in the Marsh"

acrylic on paper,framed, image is 9 1/4" x 12 1/4"

Winter brings a unique beauty to the world of the marsh. After the heat and intensity of mating and raising young, the cooler months bring a welcome respite. The colors shift from greens and blues to soft brown, gold, then into grey and mauve and lavender. Without the press of crowds and summer living, the wetlands sigh back into themselves. It is a beautiful and restorative time for the marsh as well as those who are fortunate enough to be there.

"Resolution"

acrylic on canvas, unframed, 24" x 36"

Storms represent a powerful metaphor for change. While they are at times thrilling, they can also be terrifying and destructive. And,because they are a force of nature, they remain one of the few things in this world that mankind has been unable to control.

Most of us don't really care for change and certainly not catastrophic change, but it happens to us anyway. We lose our jobs, those we love, fall ill for reasons we cannot understand. It is a terrible place to be. But as I grow older I am believing more and more that it is just such events that move us off one path and onto another. Change brings new choices, new experiences along with the struggle and heartache and a resolution of how we used to be.

"The Floor of Heaven"

acrylic on canvas, museum wrap, 48"x60"

I love the sky. I never seem to tire of looking at it; noticing it's colors, the clouds, the light. I find it enormously restful. That it covers everything is deeply comforting. It's the one thing no matter where we live, we all share in common. We all live together and don't realize it, underneath one continuous stretch of airy gauze.

People who live in close connection to the earth have an intimate relationship with the sky. Why is that? Is it because it covers everything? and what comes from it or is in it, cannot be controlled?

Why is it that all cultures look UP for their connection to the numinous?

Why is it call ed so eloquently and movingly, 'the floor of heaven'?

In the opening pages of her beautiful poem "Leaf and Cloud", Mary Oliver quotes these lines from John Ruskin:

"We have seen that when the earth had to be prepared for the habitation of man, a veil, as it were, of intermediate being was spread between him and its darkness, in which were joined, in a subdued measure, the stability and the insensibility of the earth, and the passion and perishing of mankind.
But the heavens, also, had to be prepared for his habitation.
Between their burning light,---their deep vacuity, and man, as between the earth's gloom of iron substance, and man, a veil had to be spread of intermediate being;---which should appease the unendurable glory to the level of human feebleness, and sign the changeless motion of the heavens with a semblance of human vicissitude.
Between the earth and man arose the leaf. Between the heaven and man came the cloud. His life being partly as the falling leaf, and partly as the flying vapour."

From Modern Painters, vol. V, part VII, ch. 1

Perhaps that's it..it is the veil between ourselves and what is else.

"Summer Storm"

acrylic on canvas, framed, image is "36x48"

This image comes from an event at Fripp Island one summer with my family when our boys were little. One afternoon while we were all down at the beach a storm moved in like a gigantic dark velvet curtain swallowing the sky. We stood in wonder as the huge thunderhead swept towards us, until the force of the wind turned the sand into tiny knives. I remember we picked up the children to protect them from the sand as we ran for cover. The rain arrived right behind the wind, creating a glycerine sheer to the billowing dark cloud curtain.

In recalling the storm, I remember so clearly how it rolled over us. No sooner had we gathered the children and started running than it was upon us, drenching us with rain and in almost the same moment, passing on. By the time we reached cover, it was gone. We hardly had time to watch it, only to run for safety.

We've all had experiences that sweep over us during our lifetimes. Some are exhilarating, some painful, but I believe all noticed or not, carry the seeds of transformation. Often there is little time to do more than run for cover. Sometimes all we can muster is to run for shelter. But there are other times when for some mysterious reason, we are open to the moment. We are able to see in what is happening to us the potential for our lives. It is those special times when we open ourselves to the possibility of growth and change.

"Holy Ground"

acrylic on paper, framed, image is 23"x30"

"Make of yourself a light" - Buddha

I have always considered the swamp to be a special place. I love the water, such an incredible mixture of black, green, blue, gold. I love the tall trees with their cypress knees clustering around them looking for all the world like monks at their feet. When I enter one I always feel that I have crossed a border into the shadow lands where the mind's intricate 'knowiness' has no jurisdiction. The swamp is a world unto itself: secret, brooding, unknowable.

When we try to listen to the God in us, we create an opportunity to experience the profound, to witness grace. Allowing ourselves to become intimate with natural places makes space within us for those mysterious encounters to happen. I believe those moments have the possibility of changing us forever. When we cross back over into our everyday lives we are different. When I was younger, I longed for the clarity of direction found in a Damascus Road experience. I wanted my life laid out for me on 3x5 cards so I could follow along. Or, as Woody Allen remarked: "I wish God would give me a clear sign, like making a large deposit in a Swiss bank account in my name." Years later and much further down the road of life's experiences, I have come to believe that it is the journey that is so priceless. If life were given to us on those 3x5 cards, there would be no point in the living of it. All the experiences, all the decisions we worry over, the choices we make, what I love to call the really juicy, tasty bits--all of it--is a life. It is all a Damascus Road; moment after moment; some more vivid than others, but all inexorably pulling us into our deep self.

Although, I must admit, I wouldn't mind the Swiss bank account too.

"No Sky Could Hold So Much Light"

acrylic on canvas,framed, image is "44 x 56"

No sky could hold

so much light--

and hear comes the brimming,

the flooding and streaming

Mary Oliver 'Harvest Moon'

A lot of times when I am out on the beach during a full moon, I experience this strong sensation of needing to lie down and look up. There is something about the light, the moon and waves, that literally 'knocks me off my feet'. Does that happen to you?

This painting to me, isn't really only about the moon. It's more about what it does to the water and sand. It's about the shoreline and the way the waves are spilling themselves upon it. I can feel the shine of the sand and water in my heart.

I struggle with these night ocean scenes. There is a part of me that wonders if they belong on a velvet canvas for sale at the Exxon station on the corner along with those ones of Elvis. Using iridescent paints which are so difficult to capture with a camera only heightens my anxiety. But they still insist on being painted and they are beautiful to me. Who among us has stood on the shore under a full moon and not marveled at the extraordinary brilliance of the night time sky? The sand glistens, the little ghost crabs are out scurrying everywhere. The light, goodness the light, seems to absorb everything, even our voices. They sound distant, almost cottony. The ocean looks like it has been washed in glycerin and there is no telling where the horizon meets the water or where the aura of moonlight leaves off and the blackness of the heavens begins.

I believe that moonlight over the ocean exists in part to remind us of our place in this world. We are not as in charge as we would like to think. Thank goodness.