I love how something can just happen and catch you in such a way that you have to laugh, especially at yourself, or to yourself, whichever works best.  Well, it also helps that it is just ridiculously funny to begin with.  I threw on my favorite, warn pair of jeans that had just been washed the day before, and gave no other thought to them other than the initial feeling of comfort and softness.  Soon after I left the house, the tire gauge came on in my car, so I pulled over to check my tires at the local corner store/gas station.  Both back tires were low, so after getting change, I proceeded to wrestle with that rigid, awkward hose that never comes out easily… it across my back and under one arm while I try to use the paid-for air before my time runs out.  

I squatted, which is new for me since nearly two years ago, and sadly the reason I had to put yoga on the back burner.  I have been unable to get into a position like this because of some health issues, and was happy to notice that I could squat, and that remarkably, my left knee felt no pain.  The right one was a little compromised, so I put most of my weight on the left one to not hurt it further.  As I bent over to get the other tire, a car drove around the corner behind me and I heard a man yell, whoohoo!  Still fighting with the air hose, I looked around to see the car, which had already made its way too far from my sight.  I was a bit surprised and slightly humored… was he flirting with me?  I hurriedly released the annoying hose and set off to my appointment with my chiropractor.

As I entered his office, something compelled me to reach behind… it felt kind of, well, drafty.  My hand grabbed a tangle of threads and found a rather good-size gaping hole on the left side… holy crap!  Here I am about to be adjusted and I appear with a radical, grungy look on the seat of my pants.  I couldn't help it… I laughed out loud, and so did the guy in the waiting room.  The doctor came out and after I told them both about the yelling man, the laugh became contagious. I think we all must have needed that… I know I did.  So much for any dignity, and really no big deal, but loved the moment of good humor with a healthy dose of humility.  As they say, God has a sense of humor.  And, hey, I had a perfect excuse to buy a new pair of jeans, which I have already happily done, of course :)

Magnolia Tree

I saw you behind the pecan tree
in the front yard arboretum
your condensed size
limbs spindly few
exotic leaves sparse
as city stars
no sun to finesse them

we had a dialogue
my hand on your trunk
a prayer
babying your roots
in summer hose water

one year
infrequent white flowers grew
a blue jay built its nest
in your fragrant hideout
a sign from the tree gods
4 hatchlings nurtured
from your small
tenacious heart

the drought came
the ground a cracked stone
the hose like a skinny pregnant snake
unable to deliver
enough water

trees die in slow motion
like they grow
their spirit shrivels
into the ground
an afterlife dream
in the subterranean mycelian
the dark world
promising new life

I had no idea this would be so emotional.  I have had many cars in my life, but this one felt different, even though it was often a love/hate thing happening many of the 11 years we were together.  There was a sexiness about it… a strong appeal to drive it like no other, save a baby blue Karmann Ghia I had years ago.  Oh, and how could I ever forget the fun-to-drive VW Bug… a fond experience all to its own.

I will miss my 2003 Mini Cooper.  It sat on our driveway for the last six months, till a neighbor finally came over to ask if we would like to sell it.  I think I was avoiding this all along… just did not want to face letting it go, even though it was not running.  

I will miss how you held the road, your zippy performance and how you continued to turn heads, even after all these years.  I will miss your sweet humming engine, your beautiful form and the ease of which to parallel park you.  I will especially miss those long road trips, music playing with windows and sunroof wide open. But alas, I will not miss your fussiness… your expensive ability to break internally and always when money was tight.  But hey, looking back, one should not to remember those not-so-pleasant times.

I did love this car.  If the car gods are listening, I hope (pray) that it will find its new life more rewarding.  The kind man who bought it, who just happens to be a mechanic, graciously told me that he was going to make it "nice again" for his own use.  As I felt a little heartsick, this part did make me smile, my anxiety relieved that it will not be sold for parts.

Feeling slightly teary-eyed, I bid you farewell my lovely, and many happy, sweet dreams traveling on the road, once again.

The moist night air flew all around my body, strands of tangled hair gone wild in every direction, taking me back to a childhood memory when I traveled with my parents during many summers of un-airconditioned cars.  No one was able to hear anything but the wind and road, inducing a trance-like, submissive state, and the feeling that a few layers of road dirt clung to your body.

My energy was torn between just letting go and relaxing in the moment, or should I shout at the driver from the middle-back seat of his taxi-van
"please close the windows!"?  As we rushed down the freeway, I envisioned he was punishing us for having airline vouchers, and I tried to move the window button next to me, but it didn't work.  The people behind me must have been just as tired as I, simply unable to care.  

The driver had a permanent frown on his face, eyes never looking into yours, but off somewhere in the distance.  Standing there at the Dallas airport around midnight, he gruffly stated that he doesn't take vouchers in the same instant that he quickly grabbed them from our hands.  He spoke in a dull, angry tone, with an accent I could not place.

He dropped off the other passengers first, and then turned around to find my Super-8 Hotel, tucked away behind endless construction zones on the torn-up, feeder road. The driver claimed all of Dallas is like this. I suddenly felt even happier to live in Houston. The room was courtesy of the airline for canceling my flight and changing it a few times over, leaving me no choice but to stay in this forsaken place a few short hours till early the next morning.  

I don't know what came over me as I asked the driver if he could come back to get me at 5:30, and he sternly said that he would if I promise to be standing out front of the hotel exactly at that time. Perhaps I thought the wind on my face would be good the next morning… especially the messy hair part.  Of course, when that time came, he was nowhere to be found, and lucky for me a free airport shuttle happened to be picking up another 8 sleepy travelers at this same time.  I had a slight feeling of guilt as we pulled away… what if he shows up?

I hardly ever fly, but it seems my adventure is more common than I realized.  After speaking with a few friends, they all have had their recent and oddly similar stories of jet travel with cancelled flights, delays, technical problems and unplanned, overnight stays.  But it was the taxi drive that left an impression… the air I first resisted that seemed to want to cleanse me, help me to let go of control - to let go of stress, or perhaps to be reminded of the winds of change, and how much easier it is, even if a bit tangled and messy, to simply let go. 

I drive through this busy intersection at least once a day, and often multiple times.  Occasionally there is a police trap at the underpass… always pulling over unsuspecting victims - some forgetful, some who procrastinate, but I suspect mostly those who cannot afford to update their cars in order to pass the state inspection.   

I moved past the sting operation up to the light, sitting there as I usually do, this time thinking of those poor individuals who will face even more of a financial burden from these expensive tickets.  Glancing down at the sidewalk to my left, I noticed a pigeon who seemed to be doing an odd dance around a small mass on the ground.  

She would sometimes walk over the mass, or carefully prod it with her beak, and then occasionally puff up her breast feathers, appearing to want to sit on it, which quickly awakened my senses to the ritual before me.  The small lump on the pavement was a tiny, lifeless, baby bird, its exposed bare rump partially covered with what appeared to be a miniature wing… the first feathers beginning to grow from the perfect, little form.

My heart sank a bit, saddened by her desperate attempt to mother this unfortunate little soul.  Falling from a nest built high under those giant, grid-rafters that support the freeway above, could only end the life of such a small thing.  

The light changed, and I had to pull away.  In that brief moment I was left with the image of a mother trying to give what she could to her small baby so far from the nest.  I tell myself that however a pigeon may grieve, she does so quickly and returns to nourish her other fledglings.  Even though there is no shortage of pigeons, and some even consider them a nuisance, I am gently nudged by my sense of compassion, wonder, and the reminder of our own vulnerability.

Days later the metaphor still played upon my thoughts... how we nurture a thing, an idea, a project, a relationship, but sometimes what we create falls from the nest.  We go through our grieving, our sense of failure, or even guilt, but one must get back to the nest, where other new life waits for us with all of its promise to flourish.

It always takes longer to load a vehicle with art than to unload it, and somehow the punishing ritual (heavy wooden panels in my case) seems to coincide with that slightly numb feeling that comes at the end of an exhibition.  "Wait, what just happened?  It's over?"

But getting past how time flies when your art is on exhibition, I was very happy to know that when I delivered my work,  I was able to fit so many pieces into my new car… a 2013 Honda Fit.  I purchased it brand new several months ago because it is a sub-compact car with great ratings, good gas millage and a reasonable price tag… not to mention that my other car had stopped running… again.  

One of the best claims for the Fit was the roomy interior space, and they weren't kidding.  This recent series of art had a few 36"x 48"x 3" paintings, and the rest were just slightly smaller at 32"x 48"x 3" - in all, 11 pieces, plus 6 pieces of wire sculpture.  After carefully placing all into the back (rear seats fold down flat), I could still see out the entire back window for safe driving!

I would not call the Fit a sexy car… not a head-turner like my Mini Cooper was, although there does seem to be a kind of cult following - "Fit Enthusiasts", they like to call themselves and usually much younger people than myself.  Comparing these two cars, I can honestly say that even though the Mini had more get-up-and-go, the Fit has its own zippy pep for such a small engine... quite impressive.

I still have the Mini, although the 12-year-old car is quite dead at the moment.  It sits on my driveway looking a bit sad, collecting multiple layers of yellow pollen and dust, which is quite the look for a car whose original color is yellow, with a white roof.  There is a part of me that does not want to let go of this car… it was such fun to drive, when it wasn't needing so much attention.  Don't get me started.

Anyway, getting back to the Fit, I once had a Toyota Rav 4 that could not hold this amount of art…. not even close!  And, we had to take out the back seats… an absolute pain, to say the least.  I feel like I just did an info-commercial, but I promise no one prompted me.  I would have been happy to receive some incentive from Honda, but this is just an honest-to-goodness review from a very happy artist.  No more driving around some sort of SUV that costs too much and eats up more gas just to have enough room in the back for the semi-rare occasion to move some art.

Did I mention it is a stick-shift?  God, I love driving this car around town.  Oh, and 4 doors ( actually 5 when you count the hatchback door)… how nice to able to take a few friends somewhere.  Next, a road trip :)

It was a muggy 81 degree Monday morning when I delivered my series of paintings, The Unseen, to Chinelli La Fratta Gallery.  The Houston sky was gray with no real rain in sight… just a few sparse drops occasionally touching the windshield.  I also brought along some wire sculptures I had recently made, as the gallery owner, Jeanette Chinelli, wanted to show a few of these along with the paintings.  

I was very happy to finally have the opportunity to show this body of work in one space.  Some individual pieces have shown in various local juried shows, but every artist knows that there is a substantial advantage to showing one's work as a grouping… almost comparative to reading a complete story, rather than pieces and parts taken out of context.

Soon after returning home, the weather took on an entirely different phase… big storms and a healthy drenching of water that saturated our area for a few hours, leaving the air crisp and nearly 30 degrees cooler.  Wow, who knew we would have another cold front in mid April?!  Someone posted a photo from north Texas with a few inches of snow on the ground and the caption read, "Welcome to Spring, y'all!"  There have definitely been some interesting weather patterns coming at us, all part of the mega climate changes on our planet.

The weather gods smiled upon my delivery that morning.  They patiently waited until I was safely home to let loose their impressive energy.  The next day, I felt the fresh breeze penetrate my body as I walked across my yard wearing a heavy coat.  I wanted to inspect my garden... to talk to the young plants and encourage them to reach for their fruitful potential.  I had the urge to put on a scarf, but decided to cut short my visit, retreating back to the warmth inside my home.  I actually turned on the heat, just to take the chill out.  I know, I am a "cold weenie".

I so look forward to the opening reception, which will be Friday, April 25 from 6 - 9 p.m.  By then, something tells me the air conditioners across the city will be fully engaged. 

I felt compelled to write a little something about this holiday season that came and went with such quick surprise … or perhaps I was somehow less connected to the whole experience.  All that hustle that emerges without exception is wearisome to me - frazzled shoppers rounding the parking lots for a any available space, to eventually stand in long lines at the check out with items that may or may not be so pleasing to the intended recipients.  Although all gifts are well intended, one wonders if our motivation is in the right place.  I cannot help but feel like cattle being pushed through the commercial gates into obligatory, holiday spending.  

Aside from all this, I admit I love to give to my family and friends.  It has always been a very good excuse to do so during this holiday time of year, and this is fine.  But what if one is burdened with health or financial issues?  Or perhaps one is depressed, feeling the loss of loved ones?  Or, maybe it's as simple as being a bit less enthusiastic without really knowing why.  The pressure to participate can be overwhelming.

I must say here that I definitely had a wonderful time with my beautiful family… cherished moments, to say the least.  But somehow this Christmas seemed deflated, like those blow-up holiday characters that lose their air by the next morning, always reminding me of inebriated party-goers who end up passed-out on someone's lawn… sadly funny. 

It is the lights that give me the warm feeling - the familiar joy of my childhood.  Their twinkling brightness seems to pull me into a primal state of being… reminiscent of sitting in front of a warm fire.  There is so much weight in the darkness that winter months bring.  Those pagan people of long ago knew that fire light was an essential part of their well being.  Even if only a candle, that small fire could evoke this same feeling of comfort, eliminating the dark corners and the fears that seem to linger in the unknown.  

Yes, I love the Christmas lights.  I could leave them up all year, and have done so in the past, inside my home.  I have made various versions of an artsy Christmas tree, displaying my collection of ornaments with all their fond memories, as they reflect more of the warm light around them.  My inner child feels nourished by this every year, although the past two years I have not put up one light.  I depend on my extended, loving family's effort, along with some of my neighbors, to once again appreciate this luminous miracle. 

Without the lights in my house, this dull emptiness seems to seep into my heart.  I am so grateful to have the love I have in my life, and I definitely have much to be thankful for, but the lack of those brilliant, little, glowing orbs have made it clear that I must attend to this come next season, or whenever the urge comes over me.  

Perhaps Christmas in July? :)

I haven't written in a while because I keep feeling like I should be writing something about my current art.  The thing is, artists tend to manifest a body of work for an extended period of time - maybe for a few months, or even a year or two, and this work is basically kept from the general public until it is ready to be shown in some perfect or even a not-so-perfect space.  

I feel like I needed to explain this to any viewers who may come to my site to see something new, only to find the same images from earlier this year.  I do wish things would happen faster, but I believe
they are probably moving at just the right pace I am able to handle.  

I am in the process of producing such a body of work, which was quite a jump from what I had last put together - The Unseen.  This made for some awkward fumbling while I experimented along the way.  Needless to say, this kind of stretch is healthy, but often frustrating, if not for the artist, then certainly for others who are privy to viewing any of the work before it is ready to be shown.  Specifically, I am referring to a critique group that I am most happy to be part of, as they help me to constructively pull out pieces of my creative self and gather energy to hopefully put them to better use.  

Making proposals also takes a great deal of time, as there is a lot of thought that goes into the idea you are wanting to present… at least there should be.  Which, of course, requires endless hours of writing and even more hours of editing, or just revamping the whole darn thing and starting over again, sometimes for the 3rd or 4th time. Ugh.  

Then there is self doubt… crap, this shrewd nemesis likes to follow me closely whenever I question what I am doing.  The inner critic tells me things… unpleasant things, like this series is not yet "there", so don't bother to propose it.  Then I show a few pieces to my critique group, and I am convinced that my inner critic was right.  With the exception of a few pieces, most of this series does not feel like it is quite "there", wherever and whatever "there" is.

When other mid-career to accomplished artists tell you  "these would be great in a children's book", you smile and think of that darling inner child in all of us, and then you really weigh their words that suddenly seem to tug heavy on your delicate confidence.  In the next moment, you realize that it is not such a terrible thing to be told that your art would be great for a children's book, but it may be that the real message is about adults/art critics/peers possibly not viewing these in the true light of "fine art"… a fearful idea I would like to banish from my creative process.  Sometimes it is brutal truth that pulls us up to preform our greatest achievements.  Or, maybe we just settle wherever we are most comfortable and truly happy, which in the end, I believe has the same result.

Then there is health.  Something you may have taken for granite all these reckless years, only to find that it actually was your very best friend all along.  It speaks a language you finally understand, as it grabs your attention where it hurts, and you either listen with great intensity, or take a bow and kiss your lovely ass good-bye.  Well, I think it goes something like this for most of us at some point in our lives. 

For this reason, lifestyle changes are quite popular with my fellow baby-boomers these days. I often laugh at our predicament, only in good humor, and somehow it seems that crying should only be a temporary option to get us through whatever we are facing.  After all, it is a privilege to be alive - one far too many no longer have.  

Aches and pains aside, although they can be quite the distraction when it comes to studio time, I want to live life to its fullest… happily making art, doing all I can to be healthy, spending much of my time spreading love whenever and wherever possible.  
Be still my inner critic.  Be joyful, my precious heart.  All good things come in time.

A few days ago, our 16 year old dog stopped eating.  Her movements had been slowing down the past few months, as well as her appetite.  Not eating escalated our concern about her condition.  I took her to the vet reluctantly, knowing she would probably not be coming home.  Needless to say, my heart was broken, and I was made fully aware of how long it had been since I had a good cry.  

Lila was a unique dog, as we lovingly called her the "police" of our house.  She always tried to get between us if there was any hugging going on, and certainly let the other dogs know if she did not approve of their behavior.  She was always in their business, pushing with her nose and vocalizing her distaste.  It eventually led to some fighting, and our need to separate her from one of our other dogs… not a happy situation, and a real learning experience for me as I thought I "knew" dogs.  

Through most of my dog-family-life, there had been only one dog at a time.  We started taking in rescues sometime before we got Lila, so multiple dogs have been the norm since.  I cannot imagine it otherwise.  But there is a definite hierarchy with more than one dog - the pack has a clear system, and there can be only be one alpha leader.  As the Dog Whisperer says, the human needs to be the alpha leader.  I need work on this one.

Lila was about 3 months old when my partner saw her for the first time at the City of Houston Pound - BARC.  He was there a few times each week, as well as other shelters in our area since we lost a dog whom we never found…. another sad story.  After a few months of desperate searching, he felt it was time to bring another dog home.  I cannot imagine going every other day to these troubling places without a strong pull on one's heart.  I think he knew I was not up to this, so he insisted he should be the one to make these frequent visits.

When he saw her, she was all by herself in a small cage in some back room, destined to be gassed.  She fervently talked to him, beaconing him to come closer, so she could nibble on his finger.  There was the magic moment between them, and he quickly insisted that she be pulled from this terrible fate.  Even though they warned him of her problems - distemper, hip issues and her feisty disposition, he knew she was the one to be saved. I was not entirely happy he made this decision without me, but she warmed my heart in that same instant… and so it was.  Looking back, I am quite certain it was she who saved us.

Lila, you were a gift to us and we will miss you dearly.