Nasturtiums and Friendship

This is a painting by my friend, Brie Dodson, and I am the fortunate recipient of this little jewel.  I told her that it would always remind me to take the time to smell the sweet things in life.

Brie's work may be seen at her studio, Hunt Country Paintings. 

Muted Beauty

This morning Linda and I prepared the altar flowers for tomorrow, and we used hydrangea from my garden and agapantha Linda found.  The arrangement is beautiful in a very understated way because the hydrangeas are past their peak and have become muted shades of blue-green and pale pink.

Sometimes the greatest beauty is found in quietness. 

Keep Watch

I believe that my favorite prayer of all in the Book of Common Prayer,  is:

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or
weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who
sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless
the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the
joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.

Was a more beautiful prayer ever written?   
 

Tears

Excerpts from Night Thoughts by Fr. Thomas Ryan

Some reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art,--
But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,
And their life, by the moans of their heart.......

Better a day of strife
Than a century of sleep;
Give me instead of a long stream of life,
The tempests and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam
On the billows of all the years;
But never the foam brings the brave heart home--
It reaches the haven through tears.

Summer

Summer is my favorite season, and when I say so, it raises eyebrows in my part of the world.  Summer?  Afterall, it is nearly unbearable with heat and humidity in the gulf coast states. 

But no.  It is more than bearable.  It is the fullness of time when nature does all she can do; when fruit ripens and tomato sandwiches are a possibility; when peaches ripen and the juice runs down my chin; when hydrangeas and agapantha bloom and enchant so that I almost believe that fairies do dance in my garden; when the earth is covered in the rained blossoms of crepe myrtle; when fireflies illunminate the night sky and I look forward to seeing my garden bathed in the silver light of the full moon.  

And nights so very quiet but for the hum of a fan...    

Flags, Syrup and Shoes in a Southern Cemetery

In 2001 I traveled to Gainesville, Florida, to finally see the graves of  my grandparents and great-grandparents.  Oddly, the most treasured image I brought home was that of a grave of a Confederate veteran at Antioch Cemetery near LaCrosse.  A  small Confederate flag stood in the sandy soil at the footstone of Columbus F. Moore’s grave. The flag was faded with age and looked tiny and quiet. I imagine that Columbus’ descendant placed the flag on his or her great-grandfather’s grave as a gesture of respect.  I understand, and I am touched by its simplicity, honesty, and, if nothing else, tenacity.  What an interesting regional symbol to find on this morning in a Southern cemetery.

I wished I had thought to bring my great-grandfather, Doss, a flag. He served in the Florida 9th Infantry, survived the Battle of Olustee, more remarkably survived the war in Northern Virginia where his regiment surrendered under the command of General Lee.   A man who wrote home during the war asking his wife, Celia, to send syrup and shoes, he is buried beneath an official Confederate marker.  But an official marker did not feel adequate for someone I never knew yet have loved.  For a moment I thought that maybe I would borrow Columbus’ flag, put it on my Doss’ grave only as long as it took to take a photo. What a fine picture that would be for future generations, and what a memorable way to introduce them to Doss.

But no. As quickly as the thought entered my head, my conscience came into focus and overrode my artistic frenzy. I knew I had to leave it be. You cannot borrow love; you cannot steal respect; you cannot tamper with sacred ground and sacred emotions. All I could take of this scene was a picture to honor the past and the present - the Confederate soldier and the descendant who refused to forget him and his history, and who, in so doing, honored and remembered my great-grandfather as well.

It would likely be a waste of energy and good will to try to explain why this touched me to some people because people feel in different languages, and sometimes there is no translator.  I suppose the best I can do is to say that graveyards are sacred. Even the callous know that. Likewise memory is sacred. But even the enlightened sometime forget. So while emotional strangers fight over symbols, I  will go about my business and forego the debate. Part of my business, as his great-granddaughter, is to remember Doss. And next time I visit Antioch Cemetery I will take a small Confederate flag to place on his grave. I think he would like that...and maybe a bottle of syrup and some shoes.

My Candle

Edna St. Vincent Millay created the famous image of human energy and action like a candle burning at both ends:

"My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-- It gives a lovely light!"

A lovely, lovely light.....

For Chris

I heard from an old friend today, and she had some advice for any uninspired artist.  She said that every day you need to try to do just one piece of art, one little thing, to keep in the swing.  It sounded like good advice, so I played around with this tonight.  So this is for you, Chris, and thanks for the good advice on art and keeping on. 

Southern Frame of Mind

I could not possibly love a land more than I love the American South.  The South flows in my blood, is imprinted in my genes and beats in my heart.  My ancestors cut their way through Southern forests, lived the story of the South and passed it on to me.  I love Southern people, quirks and all, with their diversity of spirit, common decency and courtesy.  I love the Southern landscape, too.  I like to think from a "Forever Summer" perspective which I think is distinctly Southern.  Which reminds me of one of my favorite descriptions of the Southern landscape from The Mind of the South by W. J. Cash:

"Moreover, there was the influence of the Southern physical world - itself a sort of cosmic conspiracy against reality in favor of romance.  The country is one of extravagant colors, of proliferating foliage and bloom, of flooding yellow sunlight, and, above all perhaps, of haze.  Pale blue fogs hang above the valleys in the morning, the atmosphere smokes faintly at midday, and through the long slow afternoon, cloudstacks tower from the horizon and the earth-heat quivers upward throught the iridescent air, blurring every outline and rendering every object vague and problematical.  I know that winter comes to the land, certainly.  I know that there are days when the color and the haze are stripped away and the real stands up in drab and depressing harshness.  But these things pass and are forgotten." 

I am glad home is a place where old times are remembered, but winter and drabness pass and are forgotten..... 

Montego Bay?

When I was at the Art Institute of  Ft. Lauderdale I did this project composed of matchcovers from Ft. Lauderdale and Miami restaurants and bars.  I am trying to remember if this really good restaurant I remember was Montego Bay.   All kinds of seafood and mandarin oranges and nuts in the salad.