What Pablo thought

Picasso brain flex
Value in fresh endeavors

All are beginners

Pablo Picasso said that every child is born an artist, the problem is how to remain one once we grow up. Something very primary clicked in me when I grasped my Crayola Oil Pastels on a September 2015 Sunday afternoon. I was at a drawing class at the Iowa Arboretum with Carla, a gentle, competent teacher. Although I sometimes say that I can hardly think without a pen in my hand, I haven’t considered drawing in years. My last art class was probably in junior high. But some part of me remembered enough to not be afraid.

Calling Emily

The rocks called to me,
“Check me out.”
“Pick me up.”
“Take me home.”

I waded awash in cool polishing water
Slipperiness undermining balance in one breath
Counterpoint with solid comfort each tread.

Ledges Canyon a long shallow version
Of Harimau Cave
Half a world away.

Where Emily and I dipped
And glistened and exclaimed over rocks.
Selecting one, tossing another,
Unspoken criteria for the keepers.
We paused to admire the other’s prizes without coveting.
Then dove again for beauty.

We were younger then
By a long shot.
So were the rocks
Albeit only by a planetary blink.

I brought my smooth canyon treasures home
To keep them wet, in my gaze.
Silent souvenirs of solidarity
Outlasting time and geography.

Back to School

Thank you, Mitra Farmand, for your inspiring cartoon from Funny Times, August 2015.

  Back to School

My whole county is bristling, bustling, busy with the business of back to school.

Tomorrow. But this time, not me.
Nope, I quit to spend more time with my dog.

Shall we cruise the canyon?
Paddle the pond?
Investigate arising aromas?
Observe hummingbirds?

All get the wag.

Shall I bless old lesson plan books

enroute to the recycle bin?
Calculate how many readers broke the code,
their gushing radiance enfolding me?
Thank God for enabling me to work
with energy and love?

“If you must,” grins Tobey, “but let’s go!”

b:link

"In an age of distraction nothing could feel more luxurious than paying attention.
And in an age of constant movement nothing is more urgent than sitting still!"

by Pico Iyer, The Art of Stillness

Summer Weeds

Part of life in a garden of quiet trust is awaiting the weeds.  “Weeds are plants where you don’t want them” is the old gardener’s adage. So the sunflower emerging through the stones that protect our water collection system is a weed indeed. Why do we allow it to grow?  There is something singular and irrefutable about this plant. It doesn’t arrive with a brigade of yellow comrades. It’s solo and confident. Its endurance survives in seeds that will be devoured by birds or transplanted by chipmunks. Reappearance in this location is unlikely. We accept this sunny yellow intruder. Accept it not just with an indifferent tolerant shrug of “I can live with that.” This experience of acceptance is more honorable. More than tolerance- respect.  We attend to the sunflower asking, “How did it come to this place? What lessons does it teach? How is God working in this golden weed?

One month later...

... a swath of summer sliding past.  I miss the droves of Red Admirals gone, now replaced by other wings.  Safe journey.

Unannounced summer visitors
Checked in, without advanced reservations, without AARP discount cards
Making themselves at home
On rocks and metal sheds
T-shirts and porch cushions.
They cavorted in the afternoon driveway,
Frolicked in evening breezes,
Slept, perhaps, in peaceful pastures
And returned to their favorite vacation spots by mid morning.
Migratory stopover?
Maybe a package deal?
And for a small surcharge we can route your layover through rural Madrid, IA USA.
Some restrictions may apply.

Morning on the east porch...

... off to do chores but we will be back soon.
Learning to blog one error at a time. Bye-cycle.