THE HEART OF TIME

 How often do you get stuck? In completing a project, learning something new, making any kind of change? The end of a wonderful and challenging watercolor class last Spring reminded me how being stuck can crop up unexpectedly.

I finished the class with the hope that I could get started painting watercolors on a more consistent basis. I did well in the class. When the course was over and I tried to paint, I was 'stuck', so stuck that I felt that I had lost all the skills and techniques I had learned over my lifetime. They just seemed to disappear as I made 'mud' paintings, the awful mix that watercolorists try to avoid which robs vibrant colors of their beauty.

Not a problem, I thought. I've been stuck before. I would just continue to practice and eventually the 'stuckness' would go away. After a few tries though, I realized that I needed to put away the watercolors for awhile and try something else. I practiced letterforms. 

I did 36 small, non-representational acrylic paintings one right after the other:

I stencilled designs on paper, and I molded Sculpey II clay into a shrine about The Heart of Time:

It wasn't until last week when I attended Gloria Miller Allen's watercolor class on Whidbey Island in Washington (www.gloriamillerallen.com) that my watercolor 'genes' came unstuck. As I sat in class doing simple color, value, perspective, and design exercises, I began to unlock the stuck door to all the things that I knew about watercolor. What I have learned about watercolor came flooding back into my hand.

It wasn't an easy process. I still felt the old 'high expectations' part of myself at work, that part which creates fear of success and failure. I spent a lot of time talking to myself, reassuring myself that I would again hit the stuck place, but I knew how to get through that. I knew that in every piece of art there is a place that becomes mud, that to push through the mud is to find more depth in myself. I knew that not every painting can be special, just like the 35 acrylic paintings that I did quickly and without judgment, but I can learn from the process of doing each one. 

Here is the painting that I am still working on.  One thing I remembered was to slow down and let the painting dry before I put on another layer.  That center leaf needs some clarity, doesn't it?

I started this as a horizontal painting.

But I think it looks better this way, don't you?

Isn't creating art a lot like life?

Take a look at Gloria Miller Allen's website: www.gloriamillerallen.com

She is a warm and encouraging instructor.

AUTUMN IN THE AIR

Morning: the air is cool, but the lack of fog tells me that later today will be hot as it often is in early autumn in California. Right now our backyard is quiet, interrupted only by the 'chuck-chuck' of two squirrels. Two deer on the hill flicker their ears to chase away the flies. A red spider, no bigger than a pen point, zigzags across my page in pursuit of something even smaller. A hummingbird whirls over my head and then darts to the feeder nearby. The sun, as it rises over our hill, makes some of the leaves glow while others remain in darkness. Spiderwebs wave in the slight breeze that filters down from the hill and touches my legs. Everything else is still. A plane overhead inches slowly across the sky; its speed reduced by the distance it travels. Its last rumble evaporates like a Buddhist chime that you continue to listen to even when it is gone.

It's morning and it is still quiet. The deer get up one by one to stretch. They settle back down at the top of the hill rather than move on to the day's hiding place. The sun rises higher and brushes my table with the beginnings of warmth. The finches and wrens snatch seeds from the bird feeders. The blue jays and crows haven't flown in yet to start their raucous debates. A car goes by and I hear the slap of the newspaper as it hits the front walkway. It is time for a cup of coffee and to begin again.

SHARING AND SELFISHNESS

Riding on the BART train, we approached the Oakland station that would lead us across to O.co baseball park to see the Oakland A's play. My husband and I go to a half dozen day games where we enjoy the sun, the goings-on in the stands, and the play on the field.

At a game I still wait for the "Peanuts, Crackerjacks" call of the vendors who sprint up and down the stands through all nine innings. We don't buy Crackerjacks, but Bill and I both love peanuts and we often share a bag during a game. In a full bag, one peanut looks like all the others. The shells are shaped like a human body without the arms, legs, or heads. Inside are the nuts we crave.

Bill digs his hand in the bag. I dig in next. We each get a handful. We each want to make sure we get our fair share. I look at his handful. He looks at mine. Satisfied, we begin to crack the shells, pop the nuts --one or two -- into our mouths,  and crunch on the salty treats. By the end of the bag, we both have a circle of spent shells around our feet. Neither of us wants to take the last peanut from the bag. It's already broken -- the Old Maid of the bag. Bill leans over towards me with the bag, and I finally take the last one.

I look at the mottle, brownish-gold casing with its hairline cracks running through. The casing is tough though, and holds on to the nuts within. I crush the shell with my thumb and it splits. I push the nuts out into my hand, pop them into my mouth, and drop the shell without care on the ground. I didn't offer Bill one of the nuts.

The peanuts brought out our selfishness when we both coveted a handful, yet we also were mindful of the other as we passed the bag back and forth. We played with the last peanut shell until Bill offered it to me, and I forgot that I could have shared its contents.

We went to a game in Tokyo. At the end of the game everyone picked up their own trash! (peanut shells included)

Seven Billion and Counting

By the time I am 105, there will be nine billion people living on earth.

Nine billion people -- an incredible number -- two billion more than today.

The October issue of National Geographic brought this astounding fact to me. How do you feed nine billion people? 

When we lived in Japan, we attended a gathering for the M.S. Swaminathan Research Foundation.*  M.S. Swaminathan, the father of the green revolution in India, was the honored guest. He is the scientist most responsible for increasing crop production and encouraging modern farming methods in India. People at the party sat at his feet listening attentively to everything he uttered. I was interested because his foundation supports increasing opportunities for women. Others from India had firsthand experience with the effects of large population on food availability. In a Tweet in 2014, Swaminathan stated, "Future belongs to nations with grain, not guns. Will we see food security for all?"*

M.S.Swaminathan in the center

While we were in Japan, we became friends with a couple who founded Asia Initiatives.* The group provides funding for local bank loans to villages, builds structures in villages that increase community ties, and encourages the education of women. Our small donation along with many others helped to build a village radio station and tower before the tsunami in 2004. Many lives were saved because the station gave warnings of the pending disaster.

 Radio station in operation

Asia Initiatives is one of many groups working outside of the U.S, not just on food and sustainability issues.  There are many more opportunities at home as well. My husband Bill volunteers with Wardrobe for Opportunity,* which provides clothing and job skills workshops for low-income individuals. I've just signed on as a writer coach with WriterCoach Connections* at a Berkeley middle school. Coaches work throughout the district (and Oakland, Richmond, and Albany) as supporters for each middle and high school student with teacher-assigned writing projects. Both of these opportunities require large time commitments, but there are so many small ways we can help someone in need:

A postcard. A hug. Good listening. Food donations. All those touches that uplift anyone.  There are so many people who need help in different ways and so many places to help. Are you one of the seven billion now who can make a difference?

If you work for a group that helps others and would like to share the name/website, email me the information and I will post it on this blog.  Thank you! 

*    http:www.mssrf.org

https://twitter.com/hashtag/MSSRFIYFF14?src=hash

http://www.asiainitiatives.org

https://www.wardrobe.org

http://www.writercoachconnection.org

COVERING THE CRACKS

I am still practicing lettering. I'm using a Tombow brush instead of a pointed pen. 

I like the brush much better.

I find the concentration needed in lettering  similar to setting type for letterpress, ironing, or writing haiku. The small sweeps of the brush remind me of a walk on the Iron Horse Trail. I wrote a poem about my walk as part of an ABCDarian, which is a poetic form that uses each letter of the alphabet to create an A to Z poem.

C

COVER THE CRACKS

Black tar marks scroll down

the asphalt on the Iron Horse Trail.

Like calligraphers,

two workers with a large pen,

swoop across the cracks

pushing out more tar 

letting the last dry brush strokes

peter out across the trail.                     

The ghost of 'yama' -- river --
wanders the path
the tar has sunk in.
Leaves, dust and
a broken pinecone or two
fill in the valleys.

The asphalt conceals the old

railroad line which

covered the horse trail which

covered the deer path which

covered the silt and mud which

covered the bones turned to fossils

deep beneath the asphalt trail.             

Ants near the strokes,

push up dirt from the tiny

caverns they are making.

Dirt from deep down below -- 

fragments of wheat, oats,

manure, glass, bones.

Calligraphy makes you see letterforms in many different places.  Do you see them too?

                       

DOWN A MUDDY PATH

I am a gardener. People who garden work against nature. We plant plants that need water, we put plants where they don't belong. Even a succulent garden needs water once a week. If I didn't garden, our home would be surrounded by the golden grasses, oak trees and mesquite that are native to our area. (Not a bad idea, really) We have a beautiful garden. Even with the shade the trees provide, this drought year, our garden is suffering in a severe drought.

A leaky faucet set us down a muddy path. Around us dirt flew, stethoscopes probed. We were looking for a leak that was spewing out gallons a day. In water-starved California, we cringed as we realized our efforts at saving water by taking Navy showers, turning down sprinkler settings or not planting water-thirsty annuals, were minuscule efforts compared to the water lost in our garden.We discovered  the culprit and we capped off a forgotten faucet at the top of our hill. Our trees  nearby had broken the pipes leading to the faucet.  (We found the leak by subscribing to EDMUD's WaterSmart, which graphs residential water usage. https://watersmarttoolbox.com)  

We, like so many Californians, have been seduced by the thoughts of cool English gardens -- green places sheltered from the sun. In our garden that we planted long ago, we grow flowers that bloom every season, fruit trees that depend on water to bear fruit, coastal redwoods, and the green grass that every home in our town seems to require. I watch my garden with a sad heart as the leaves crinkle up from the heat and the grasses grown brown. This year we need to make hard choices.

A visit to Ruth Bancroft's garden in Walnut Creek reminded me of the true landscape of this part of California: dry and parched in the summer with plants sustaining themselves with winter rain.  Ruth Bancroft, who celebrated her 106 birthday this past week, planted a garden of succulents and cacti that can survive with a weekly watering.  (Check out the garden at www.ruthbrancroftgarden.org) 

What I liked best about her garden were the trees that she planted.  Underneath the trees, there was no grass, but there were picnic tables spread with cheery tablecloths. Though the temperature was hot, the shade of the trees made a comfortable place for a picnic. The need for green grass and flowering plants seemed less important when friends could gather around a table for a good meal under the shade of a native California tree.

"Everything worth doing is worth doing badly" (Failing and Flying, Jack Gilbert, 2005)

I have to laugh, then I have to cry.

As a new blogger, I have been humming along, putting up blog posts each Friday, finding photos and artwork that I want to share, and delighted with the knowledge that I have readers -- thank  you!!!! I have been pleased that people respond to my blog. Again, thank you for taking the time from your busy day.

Here's a photo to brighten your day.

I have often disparaged myself for not being an 'expert.' I am not a master watercolorist, writer, printmaker, maybe human being. I've dabbled in all of these things. My brain is wired just like the Internet, I think. I find something interesting, start working on that, and then I get caught by an extension of that idea or something totally different, and I am off and running in that new direction.  Sound familiar too?  I envy the people who latch on to something and become masters of their craft -- whether that is teaching, being an artist, speaking in front of groups, or helping people in need.

When blogging was still a new idea, someone suggested that I start a blog. I wasn't ready for it, and pushed the suggestion aside. Now I can see that all my disparate interests give me an advantage. Writing each blog has been the easy part. When I start one blog post, other ideas that I want to write about pop into my head. So far, I have a good backlog of stories to tell.

Now I have to cry. When I set up my blog, I signed up to receive email notifications of each new post. I wanted to be sure that others received their email notifications too. Lately, I haven't been receiving the email notifications. I checked that my email address was still listed.  Yes, it was. So now, I've gone down into the world of 'techie-speak.'  This is just a sample of what I found:

"This feed is valid, but interoperability with the widest range of feed readers could be improved by implementing the following recommendations.

Line 1, column O:  Use of namespace:http://schemas.google.com/blogger/2008 [help],?xmlversion='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?.,?xml-stylesheethref="http:www.blog..."

Etc., etc. etc.  

Now I had to laugh. After reading the entire page, I jumped right to it and made the page-ful of corrections!

Hardly!

What I did figure out:  Blogger doesn't like Word documents. So, next week, I will see if using MacTextEdit makes a difference. 

I remind myself that "Everything worth doing is worth doing badly".

If you have signed up to receive my blog posts by email, I really appreciate it. I hope you will continue to do so! I am still trying to figure out why the text is all squashed together in emails and why my layouts don't always appear in the same way as I've created them on the layout page.  I know I need to start at square one and learn some coding so that I can figure out what they are talking about when they say, "the feed is valid, but interoperability..." So here I go again: the perpetually excited student. I hope you will stay with me on this quirky journey!

Here's one more photo to enjoy over the holiday weekend!