Boston, Black Leather, and Cobalt Blue



A few months ago I entered a contest, the theme of which was A Moment In Time. I didn't win (or even place), but my entry follows. I used only the initial "J" in keeping with the anonymity required for the contest, but his name was Joel. I choose today to share it with you because tomorrow marks the seventh year since he went on to be with God. This is my small tribute to him.

Boston, Black Leather, and Cobalt Blue

I'm so glad it's finally cold. Without hesitation I reach for the jacket that is almost ten years old. It's black and leather and lined with a subtle animal print, if cheetah can be subtle. I can't zip it comfortably any more. The belt is too long. The jacket falls below the hip, which is definitely not the right length for today's fashion. But it is the one that keeps me warm with memories.

A popular quote by Cesare Pavese says, "We do not remember days. We remember moments." And truly it is the moments I remember.

I remember when he bought it for me in the month of September. J. and I had known each other only a few months, and we were browsing in a local department store. He called to me and said, "Sweetheart, do you like this?"

"Of course. What woman wouldn't love a black leather jacket?" "Try it on," he said.

"It's too expensive," I said, as he held it for me to slip my arms into.

"But you'll need it for our trip." He winked at me and I stood taller. No wonder I was sure he was the one.

 In October we took the trip to Boston. We shared a suitcase packed with the usual jeans and shirts and sweaters. He had told me about the historic Parker House, so I had surprised him by booking a room there. Established in 1855, writers such as Longfellow, Emerson, Thoreau and Hawthorne met there regularly, and it was frequented by politicians such as Ulysses S. Grant, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy. Some of the famous people who worked in the restaurant were Ho Chi Minh as a baker, Malcom X as a busboy, and Emeril Lagasse as a chef. Every night when we returned from our jaunts in the city, we went to the Parker House lounge, sat by the fireplace, and ordered a glass of Harveys Bristol Cream. It is sherry that comes in a cobalt blue bottle, and warms the throat as you sip it slowly. Harveys Bristol Cream, a fireplace, and our black leather jackets . We felt like we could be a picture in a magazine.

He took me to Faneuil Hall and told me of its history. It was a market with stalls of food and shops and exhibits marking the city's past. The cobblestone streets were a challenge in my boots, so I changed in to my tennis shoes, and off we went to Boston Common. We watched a man in a business suit practicing Tai Chi. There were college students spread out over the lawn. Some were reading. Some played guitars. One couple was kissing while lying on a blue blanket. We took a walk by a pond where five white swans were gathered at the edge, wanting to be fed. A little girl came over and gave me bread to feed them. I tossed it piece by piece into the water, and I felt as young as she was. Her mother smiled at me, and they walked on.

J. told me about Filene's Basement, where every year there are lines of young women waiting for the annual wedding gown sale. Gowns originally priced for thousands of dollars begin at $249. When the doors open the women rush in (likened to The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona), grab as many dresses as they can, rush to a corner and start trying them on. In sixty seconds there are none left on the racks. Then it seems they trade among each other. He and I went inside and laughed as we tried to picture the mayhem the event would cause, and pitied the poor sales people on that day.

 We went to Durgin Park where the waitresses are famous for being rude and a bit outrageous, but Judy and Gina seemed to like us, and kept asking him when he was getting me a ring. It was the first time I had authentic Boston Baked Beans, and "real" clam chowder. We left there and went to a Christmas store, and he chose an ornament for our first Christmas tree. It was an open-mesh gold-colored heart, which still takes center stage on my Christmas tree each year. He might have paid for that heart, but he definitely had stolen mine.

Strolling through the city, we met a couple who were probably in their eighties, holding hands. They offered to take our picture. And we took theirs. They told us they hoped we would be as happy as they still were. And we knew that some day we, too, would be in our eighties, still holding hands, and saying those same words to others just like us.

He showed me the outdoor band shell where the Boston Pops sometimes played, and we laughed as the tourists rode by in a bright yellow Duck -- an amphibious mode of transportation known in Boston the way San Francisco is known for the cable car. We saw the pub where Cheers had been filmed, but the line to get in was long, and we passed it by. We took a walk along the Charles River and through prestigious Beacon Hill.

One day we decided to drive north to New Hampshire, and stopped on the side of the road in a particularly picturesque spot. We took a walk and discovered a stream of rushing water. He positioned me on a large rock to take my picture, and told me how beautiful I was. We came upon a covered bridge where he peeked around its edge, his eyes smiling while I told him it was his turn to have his picture taken. Leaves were amber and rust and burgundy, and crackled under foot. The sun was going down. But we were warm in our black leather jackets.

So this morning, though there are many items of newer styles and brighter colors hanging in my closet for the winter season, there is no doubt which one I'll choose. And tonight, when I get home, I'll open the cabinet and find the bottle of cobalt blue. I'll raise the glass to my dearest J., and slowly, quietly sip some of my warmest, precious memories. And I'll think of a fireplace, and bridges, and cobblestones, and swans.

And Don't Be Afraid

I read this poem a few minutes ago and I immediately wanted to share it with you.  I can't express exactly why it resonates with me so much, but poetry touches us on so many different levels, it is often hard to articulate why it accomplishes what it does.

Let Evening Come
   by Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

I wish I had taken photos of barns in years past when they were a common sight for me, or really looked at a hoe abandoned in long grass, or paid attention to the landscape dotted with bales of hay.  I especially like the poem's images of light of late afternoon shining through chinks in the barn, the fox going back to its sandy den, the wind dying down, and the shed going black inside.  Go back and look at some of the nouns in the poem:  light, cricket, yarn, dew, stars, moon, (silver) horn, bottle (in the ditch), scoop (in the oats)...  . There are so many objects I bypass every day without giving them a thought. Bypass. Pass by. I must do better.

At the moment, I'd like to be sitting in a squeaky swing on an old wooden porch surrounded by oak trees and Spanish moss at dusk, when dinner supper is over, and the only care is a sink with suds and a few dishes. I think I was there once upon a time, but I don't remember appreciating it. I am trying to do better.

At the beginning of this post, I said I couldn't explain why this poem resonates with me. I still can't. I have written and deleted sentences and paragraphs because they are simply inadequate. Let the poem speak for itself. Read it again, aloud if possible. It is a comfort poem. It will calm your spirit.

And let us take the last line with us --  "...don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come."

If Only We Knew What We Do Not Know

Oh, the things we do not know...

A few years ago I was fortunate to be able to visit Provence for 10 days. I was charmed by the sights and sounds and buildings and colors and people and colors and scents and flavors and colors and the language. And I really liked the colors. If I could, I would spend my summers languishing in the French countryside, wearing long dresses (sometimes with an apron), picking lavender and sunflowers, cooking and eating foods at their peak of freshness, sipping local wines, and practicing the music of its phrases. And the colors...

As you might imagine, I took lots of pictures, and never once thought about, much less regretted, not having photos of some white horses --  until this morning. During that trip, I was part of a 15-person tour, and all along realized our guide was lacking in providing educational information. On the way to a particular destination she said the region was known for salt, horses, and bulls. She said little else about the area.  We drove past some white horses without much ado. I don't believe anyone was taking pictures of them. I don't believe anyone knew ... But this morning I read:

...The wild horses of the Camargue form a distinct breed. Known as Camargue, it is one of the oldest breeds in the world. In fact, they are believed to have descended from the prehistoric horses, which lived during the Paleolithic period, around 17,000 years ago. The Camargue are born a dark brown or black color, but turn white around the fourth year. The breed is used to manage the bull herds of the marshland. Because of their natural environment Camargue horses thrive in Sea water. They are often called "the horse of the sea".  Here is the link to the full article:  
http://usa.loccitane.com/FO/Services/Blog/post/2010/09/24/Gazette-du-Marche-Third-Issue.aspx

How upsetting to realize I did not appreciate what I was seeing. These horses were born dark and turned white after 4 years. They were direct descendants of prehistoric horses. They thrive in sea water.  She should have told us! Or maybe even she, who had guided that same tour twice per year for several years, didn't know. It's a pity either way.

So I'm wondering this morning about all the things around us that would be more fascinating if only we knew  more about them.  Just imagine wanting to photograph bananas and fountain pens and cracks in the sidewalk. What about a close-up study of a spider web, a snail, a pinecone, old lace, tree bark, lichen, a sand dollar, an antique jar? How about the neighbor who rarely speaks, but if we knew something about her story....   (Everyone has a story.)

It is said that some things we know we know. Some things we know we don't know. And some things we don't know that we don't know.

So, where to start?
Where to start today?
So many things.
So little time.

Station

 

Station / Poem of the Day : The Poetry Foundation

Each morning I begin my day with poetry. Today when I heard the audio poem Station by Li-Young Lee,  I knew I must share it with you.  Please take three minutes to listen. If you are like me, you will listen again. And then you might have to go in search of the poem in printed form so you can take it in slowly, line by line.

Note: I am not familiar with the book pictured here, but I included it for its captivating image. If you click on the picture it will take you to Amazon.

Figs On Sale

A few days ago I stopped at the store for a baguette and something for an easy meal.  Figs - Buy One Get One Free read a sign as I entered the market. I knew immediately I would add prosciutto and goat cheese to the basket. Dinner was soon on my plate.  The bread, the figs, the cheese, the ham, eaten in no particular order - a single item or the combination of any two or three or four at a time -- were all delicious and simply satisfying. Simply as in simple. There is something so satisfying about simple.

For two mornings I sliced Kadotas and Black Missions onto nutty toasted whole grain bread. Not that the figs weren't  already inherently sweet, but there was something enticing about the thought of unfiltered wildflower honey, so I gave them just a drizzle. I ate slowly, enjoying the smooth fig contrasted with the crunch of its seeds and the nuts in the bread. I think I even closed my eyes a time or two. Simple again, but I felt regal.

What is it about a fig? For me it is ancient -- it goes all the way back to the Garden of Eden. It's exotic, it's indulgent, and it is sensuous. Just look at it. Study the outside. Cut one in half lenthwise. Look again.

Until a few years ago, my only experience with figs was a la newton. But while touring Sonoma Valley with my dear friend T., we spied a restaurant called The Girl and the Fig. The name was intriguing, so we went in without even reviewing the menu. We sat out in the garden, shared an appetizer and each had an entree which included (of course) figs, and we sipped a little white wine. We may or may not have looked around town or shopped after that, for all I remember about that afternoon is the restaurant and my first fresh fig. http://www.thegirlandthefig.com/

We do not remember days, we remember moments.
    Cesare Pavese

This fruit is perishable. I must use the rest of them today. The obvious metaphor is to take advantage of life's joys as they are given us, for many are short-lived. So this afternoon I will try a new recipe for Fresh Fig Cake, which calls for 3 cups of the chopped fruit for the batter and the filling. The ingredients are few, the techniques are basic, and overall it seems rather simple. Simply delicious. Simply satisfying. Simply.

Two Weeks After The Fall

One day you come home from work, go to bed at your usual time, wake up in the middle of the night for a restroom visit, and fall.  You know you have internal bleeding. It's 2:30 AM. You hurt terribly. But, though you are usually an intelligent person, you don't call 911. You decide you will wait till daylight and drive yourself to the emergency room. You are wrong. You will be too weak to drive.

It is two weeks later. You are recovering. The surgeon (one of them) said the operation would be a case study if he would submit it. (You wonder if you could get any money if he did so.)

Random Thoughts You May Have Had

• You wish you had started the dishwasher
• Don't those nurses know you don't want to give them blood in the middle of the night?
• Don't those nurses know all that beeping keeps you awake?
• Did one of your bosses show up just to make sure you were really in the hospital?
• Why do they bother giving you beef broth? They could just pour it out and keep from washing a bowl.
• Some people drive a long way to see you. A looong way. They stay several days, then they take you home. They pick up your prescriptions and leave your cash buried in the bag. You are loved.
• Someone whose back is hurting spends a night in your room among the beeping beeping beeping. And then comes back every single day. You are loved.
• Someone else drives a loong way, and spends another couple of days with you when you go home. You are loved.
• Someone else gets a ride to see you, and spends a whole week with you, and cooks for you, and keeps the flowers watered, and wants to be there just in case. You are loved.
• Flowers and/or balloons arrive from (or are delivered by) people who love you.
• Flowers arrive from people you didn't know even like you.
• You get cards and calls (and rainbow roses) from some people you didn't know even thought of you as a friend.
• You are thankful, oh so thankful to God, for skilled surgeons, a speedy recovery, and so much love.
•  You keep reminding youself that no day can be taken for granted. It can change with just one step.

The Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore

Last weekend I met my sisters-in-law in a small town that I remembered as having quaint little shops that I wanted to revisit. I wanted to show them the antiques, the shabby chic, the artist studios, the tea shops, and the homemade fudge. We were excited, and reserved rooms at the historic inn.

It had been raining all week, but we didn't care. We met at 10 AM, and hoped we would be able to see all we wanted  in two days. We smiled when we checked in to our rooms. One had a 4-poster bed. All had solid doors made for skeleton keys, and the bathtubs were footed and the sinks small.  The sills were wood, and there was something pleasant in the air that transported me to my grandmother's house.

Fortunately, it seemed we were situated in the center of town, and would be able to walk everywhere. On the first corner we crossed a railroad track and went in to the Chamber of Commerce. The man gave us a detailed map. He said, "No. The train doesn't stop here anymore."

We saw handmade jewelry and impressive fused glass. We entered gift shops with the same items you find in any town. We climbed narrow stairs for the promise of a refreshing snack, but were disillusioned when the display case contained the same muffins you can buy at Sam's Club. We laughed, left, and found the little French Cafe around the corner. We laughed there, too, as we ate our crepes and croissants, and were entertained by the waiter. We told stories, and studied the map some more. "I know that shop is around here someplace," I said.

But by 4:00, we were through-- through as in Is this all there is? Have we missed something? We kept checking the guide map. I knew there were shops I had been to the last time. I knew I would recognize the one where I had bought the green and white teapot, and the one with the lace valances on its windows, and the one with all the books. But they were gone.

The three of us had a good time. It eventually rained on us, but just a little, and we jumped the puddles and ducked inside another shop.  L had a knack for finding things. C and I just kept looking for something we didn't know we needed yet.  We found a restaurant with a good view, good food, and live music, and stayed until the band went home.

But time changes things. Even though the past is always with us, it can slip away, and today is tomorrow's past. What is present today which, on some other day we will look for, want to revisit, and it be gone?

 Who would think a handmade sign in front of a bowl of eggs would be so nostalgic?

Who would think I would want to take a picture of a shelf of old labels on old cans?

 And I never knew how sad this sentence would be -- "No, the train doesn't stop here anymore."

Walk Around Feeling Like A Leaf

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.
   Naomi Shihab Nye

Not The Yellow Butterfly

This morning there was a yellow butterfly that kept flying around yellow leaves on a tree outside. I was able to see it from the comfort of my sofa as I looked through the sliding glass doors and the lanai.

This afternoon, there it was again. I started wondering if it was only a coincidence that the leaves were yellow and the butterfly was yellow. I thought about how a baby laughs and tries to touch the baby in the mirror. I thought about how most of us are attracted to others who are like us, even if only on a subconscious level.

I went outside with my camera. I took pictures of the yellow leaves, and watched a striped butterfly dart all around. Striped and not solid yellow? Had my eyes been deceiving me from the living room? Still beautiful.   I stood trying not to move, hoping the elusive would be still for a moment and cooperate with the photographer. I felt a sting. It was a mosquito. And then another one. I started imagining snakes. So I moved closer to my front door. There was the yellow butterfly -- directly in front of me. It was definitely yellow, but neither would it be still, not for a second.

What else can I photograph, now that I have the camera ready? I looked down and noticed a miniature plant with lacy leaves. I photographed it. I saw a tiny purple flower. I photographed it. Something flew past me. It landed. I think it was trying to be perfectly motionless, perhaps as a means of defense. Luckily, I was able to photograph it, but it would be impossible to capture its essence.

This beautiful dragonfly with a green head and blue tail and transparent wings almost went unnoticed. If I had not purposely been looking for an opportunity, I would have missed this stunning creature. What else am I missing because I am not paying attention?

According to http://www.dragonfly-site.com/meaning-symbolize.html : "The meaning of a dragonfly changes with each culture. The main symbolisms of the dragonfly are renewal, positive force and the power of life in general. Dragonflies can also be a symbol of the sense of self that comes with maturity. Also, as a creature of the wind, the dragonfly frequently represents change. And as a dragonfly lives a short life, it knows it must live its life to the fullest with the short time it has – which is a lesson for all of us."

Renewal
Positive Force
Power of Life
Sense of Self
Maturity
Change
It Must Live Life to the Fullest With the Short Time It Has

Yes. A lesson for us all.

This and That

It has been a busy week, so this post will be a little of this and that to bring you up to date.

A few days ago, I received a call at 5 AM telling me the hotel I manage was filling with water on the first floor. A 6 inch-water line had burst, and by the time I got there, there were waves in the lobby! The water shorted out several key systems.  Imagine the fun I had with a hotel full of guests who couldn't shower, flush a toilet, make coffee, watch TV, or access the internet. We are dry now, and systems are working, but things are not back to normal.

My daughter and four of my grandchildren spent the last week with me. They went to the beach a couple of times, the pool several times, and I accompanied them to the zoo. It was hot! They slept on the bed that makes into a couch, made tents and hiding places with blankets and quilts, blew bubbles in their chocolate milk, and watched Curious George and the Electric Company. We played Guess the Animal and ate ice cream cones. The youngest is crawling everywhere (and every minute) so there was very little still time. It's quiet now. I miss them.

I live next to a wooded area, and we saw a snake with red diamonds on its back in my yard. I went to Home Depot and bought snake repellent, but before I arrived home,  I could smell the unopened product in my car. It is awful. It has an upleasant odor of strong mothballs. According to the instructions,  I have to be careful when applying it to make sure the snakes stay out and that I don't barrier them in. I haven't even stepped outside yet. This will not be fun.

But this was! Friday afternoon, a friend asked if I had a poem about a garden for her to share in a Power Point presentation. So yesterday, I wrote the one that follows. As writers, sometimes we just need the assignment, and the inspiration will come.

I hope you can all spend some time in your own garden, real or imagined. Let the kids blow bubbles in their chocolate milk. And be sure to make some time for at least one ice cream cone!


No Wonder It All Started Here
   by Carol Drummond

No wonder
it all started here.
Or not here exactly,
but in a garden.

For what could be better
than greens of moss
or bay
or cypress
to foster contemplation?

Marvel how
lime and loden
and sage and beryl
pair with rose
and iris
and lavender.

Did He stroll
with hands in soft pockets
and look from side to side,
satisfied with a job well done?

Dew drops glisten
on black-eyed Susans.
Morning glory whispers
to Queen Anne's lace.

A breeze.
A canopy of trees.
The ideal spot
for sitting with le plume,
waiting
for just the right word,
for just the right poem.
And then
There goes a butterfly.

Cherish the Ordinary

Yesterday I was part of a large gathering. I saw more than a hundred people (maybe close to two hundred), many of whom I haven't seen in more than a decade.  It was a rich photo-taking opportunity, but I knew I would not be using a camera. I was at a place I didn't want to be.

For some people, a photograph is a picture of people, places, or things. For me, it brings back a memory. Often when I see a snapshot, I see not only the person or the place, but I recall the circumstances and the mood. I remember the event, and even sometimes those who were there but not in the picture.

I look at a faded picture of my grandmother and remember the clear gallon jar she kept the sugar in to sweeten iced tea, and how she emptied the pot of wet tea leaves around her rose bushes. My dad sits in a chair smiling for the camera, but I remember him playing the steel-guitar, or badminton, or checking my homework, and how he would let my brothers and sisters climb onto his back and take them for a ride.  On a side table rests a photo of my Dear Departed fastening a necklace for me, but I remember it as the year he gave me 3 Christmas cards because he couldn't choose which was the most special.

I look at pictures of my children when they were young and remember not only their antics and the joy of the moment, but if we were living in the rented house with the red carpet, or the one with the fireplace that never kept us warm enough, or the one with the vegetable garden, or the one where we had barbecues for friends most every weekend. I have a few pictures of my brothers and sisters and extended families taken two years ago, and wonder if we will all be able to get together for a happy occasion again. Pictures representing some of the dearest people and times of my life will be the first things I grab if I have to leave home suddenly in the case of fire or flood.

And so often, as I look at these representatives of times past, I realize I would not have anticipated how important the picture would be later. How often someone says I'm so glad you took (or have) that picture. How often our days seem unremarkable, until we look back. I pray that I will cherish the ordinary days and moments I have with my children and grandchildren, and other friends and loved ones. I pray that they will cherish the ordinary days they have with each other, and with me.

So most of the time, I feel free to take candid shots of people and places, realizing that they will mean more later than they do at present.  But not yesterday. We put to rest a truly great man. I don't want to remember yesterday at all.

What if ...?

What if ... ?

Yesterday a friend and I watched the movie Letters to Juliet.  It was predictable and enjoyable and will make most women smile. Men might not find it to be their cup of tea, or bottle of _________. But I liked it, and found myself wishing a little true romance for all women. True romance coupled with true love. I think that often one comes without the other. How fortunate for those who have both.

Claire, the main character of the film (played by Vanessa Redgrave), went back to a small town in Italy to look for her lost love of fifty years. She found many men willing to claim to be him, but she knew better. When she thought she had finally found him, she was scared and was going to run away before he saw her. Who could blame her? Imagine how crushing it would be if he didn't remember her. Imagine how devestating it would be if he remembered her and was polite, but indifferent. Imagine if his wife would be jealous (perhaps rightfully so) and cause problems for him.  And, of course, there was a sub-plot of two young people who had just met and were at odds as to what was best for Claire.

This movie can make us wonder about the what if's in our own lives.  There are choices that some of  us wish we had made differently. There are certain irreversibles, for which bemoaning the if only's would be useless, unproductive, and sometimes depressing. But Time does not stand still. Wishing and hoping doesn't make it so. That being said, are there things we can do now to prevent us from saying, "What if..." sometime later in our lives? Doing even one thing may make all the difference. Just one thing.

Some of us know exactly what the one thing is. Some of us may have to ponder it awhile. And perhaps there are some of us for whom nothing comes to mind. But the question is important. We all should be courageous enough to ask it -- and if answered, wise enough to pray for guidance as to how to proceed. Choices we make affect others. We must ask for wisdom. We must ask for guidance. And I believe that if we ask, we shall receive.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these:  "It might have been!"
   John Greenleaf Whittier

Still Life

Still -         devoid of or abstaining from motion
                 quiet, subdued, muted, calm, tranquil

Life -        1. a principle or force that is considered to underlie               the distinctive quality of animate beings
                  2. one or more aspects of the process of living

Still Life -  a picture consisting predominantly of inanimate objects

Still.     Life.     It's easy to understand the combination of the two words to mean still -- there's life. Or life that seems not to move -- such as a motionless praying mantis or sloth. But it seemed incongrous that a painting of inanimate objects should be called still life. Then I read that in ancient Egypt, it was believed food and other objects depicted in paintings adorning the tombs would become real in the afterlife.

Here is a list of titles of a few famous paintings:

Still Life with Bowl of Citrons  by Giovanna Garzoni
Vase of Flowers with a Curtain by Jacques de Gheyn II
Quince, Cabbage, Melon and Cucumber by Juan Sánchez Cotán
Still Life with Pie, Silver Ewer and Crab by Willem Claeszoon Heda
Still Life with Fruit, Flowers, Glasses and Lobster by Jan Davidsz. de Heem
Still-Life with Apples and Grapes by Claude Monet
Irises by Vincent Van Gogh
Apples, Peaches, Pears and Grapes by Paul Cezanne

Such ordinary things! Perhaps objects in your home could be the subject of a still life -- a candlestick on a sideboard, a stack of books by a rocking chair, tomatoes and a bottle of olive oil. What would Cezanne or Van Gogh or Monet see if they came to our houses? What do we overlook every day?

I like the editorial review of The Magic of Things:




Of painting's enduring genres, it may be the still life that offers the most brazen opportunities for virtuoso flourish, and that most closely approximates painting itself, as an art of arrangement of color, texture and light. Glistening dew drops on flower petals, contorted reflections of light on glass goblets and silver dishes, candied sweets heaped up in Chinese porcelain, the textures of fur, cloth, metal and bone--the rendering of such objects demands of an artist not only skill but an instinct for the thingness of things.

But how often do we really see the vase of flowers or the bowl of fruit, or a cabbage or a cucumber? I would like to pay attention the way the artist must. I would like to notice how light and shadows play with color. I would like to notice the dew drops glisten. I would like to open my eyes.


For your viewing pleasure, click here for  Google Images of Still Life Paintings
And may we all see as the artist sees, and all discover the magic of things.
 

In the Blink of an Eye

My friend arrived home to find her husband in the back yard. He suffered an aneurysm while mowing the yard. They had been married 42 years.

I will wear my pretty clothes and lingerie.
I will burn my fancy candles.
I will use my china and crystal and linen napkins.
I will fill my house with fresh flowers.
I will kiss the ones I love.
I will tell them why they are special.
I will say the words...
I will say, "I love you."
I will tell them I know they love me.
I will  thank God.
I will remember what can happen in the blink of an eye.

As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.
For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone...
Psalms 103:15-16