Last night I received a short, wonderful email from my friend Niki that read in its entirety:

Thought you'd enjoy this quote....

"In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." ~~Kahlil Gibran

 

 

Sunday Afternoon, Vizcaya P. Crockett

 

This one is dedicated to Leslie, a hotshot Boston architect, her remarkable son Tommy, and the woman who will become his wife on Sunday, here in Miami.  Hard for me to believe, but it’s been four years since the afternoon our paths crossed at the very spot captured above.  Leslie and her son, visiting Miami to look at the U of M campus, had taken some leisure time to just relax and enjoy Vizcaya.  There they chanced to find me on my feet, easel before me, thoroughly engrossed in the birthing of the canvas you see above.

So they walked up to have a look, we met, and in short order fell into an easy, comfortable conversation as I kept splashing away. They were both truly remarkable individuals, in different ways.  Something of an “odd pair:” you know, a loving, powerful mother and her gentle and gifted boy, recently grown to strong man.

It was only a “little thing,” really, the whole event, but I am grateful that four years later Leslie and I remain in touch.  So that, for example, I  learn the good and great news that Tommy had found his “one,” and am given a chance to say “Hey, I’m really glad we met, and I wish you guys all good things in your new life together, and as much Grace as you can stand.”

And true, this posting is but a small gesture, one small candle, perhaps.  Yet in this quiet moment in which I’ve yet to release the piece, when it is still mine alone, I pause to feel the reflected heat and small light of this candle most earnest.  Then, for some reason deeper than my understanding, I know that I have somehow been already blessed in the sharing.

Thank you.

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These days, especially, a little diversion just because may be exactly what the Doctor ordered.

In the process of preparing to paint a landscape that has itself been history for over a century now, I’ve gathered a host of images of all kinds, and thought it might be fun to share some of them with you.

The more thought I have given the matter, the clearer has grown my realization about how much affection I carry inside for that troubled but fine little waterway. In a very un-Miami like fashion, the river simply flows along quietly, rarely drawing attention to itself despite its importance to the city, on many levels. And, despite all of the notable abuse we have so constantly heaped upon it for over a century, it continues to gracefully and reliably offer itself up for service, however possible.

 

And it is still beautiful. As it flows through the very heart of one of the most utterly fragmented urban areas on record, it serves to gently remind us that there is something that ties us all together. (Such is the grace of Nature. Although the river might cross your mind only rarely, just take a moment to imagine how very different a place the City would be without that meandering ribbon of blue or black breaking up the paved sprawl of an ever-widening urban mass. It just wouldn’t be Miami.)

Granted, the occasional inconvenience of its bridges can be annoying, on top of the traffic nightmare already our experience. Even so, isn’t it kind of cool to look at the kind of boats passing through? (I know, I’m reaching…) To wonder what kind of cargo they might be loaded down with, how much of it might actually be legal, and what its destination? I guess that is a cheap thrill I allow myself, at times when I’m not muttering about that **%%##@@2 BRIDGE!!

Dade County, 1859. Interesting to note that the Miami River was then clearly marked, but no settlement of “Miami” merited mention. In fact, Miami as a city would not exist until nearly 40 years later.

The river was ancient long before the white man made his characteristically dramatic and devastating entrance. Since all life in an area, Human and animal alike, is drawn in nature to a river’s banks, we can only imagine the sights it has seen, the real life dramas it has witnessed, the blood spilled into its waters. The always-unfolding pageant of the "true story" undoubtedly far surpasses in color, drama, and kaleidoscopic variety any notion we might be able to conceive.

Without further ado, let’s go on down to the River for a while, and allow some open time for wonder. Feel free to leave your iPhone or Blackberry on your desk, back wherever.

JUST BELOW you will find the album. To get started, just click on the image, and the “scrapbook” will open. Click on any of the thumbnails that might interest you; by moving the mouse around a bit you’ll see arrows to guide you.

There is no place to go, strictly speaking, just avenues of exploration. Please enjoy the trip.

 

 

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As of Saturday night:

 

“Imaginary landscapes” certainly present their challenges. It has now been over 100 years since one might have been able to follow the crystal-clear Miami River upstream to this place, a point on the very easternmost edge of the Everglades now marked by NW 27th Avenue. Here the Great Mother River-of-Grass at last released one of her children, the Miami River, to make its own proud way some four miles distant,

 

 

unto the warm and all-embracing waters of the Great Mother's beloved sister, Biscayne Bay.

 

 

 

Though I might devoutly wish to, I cannot make passage to this place on foot or by boat (or both!), and experience the quiet triumph of stepping suddenly from dense forested hammock into the sun-filled open.  I cannot grab a seat on a comfortably-worn stone or huge fallen log, take a deep breath, slake my thirst with a long, serious draught of cool water, pure and clean as only the Earth can yield it up, and be still.

And yet…

 

The overwhelming experience of such a place must have felt very like music, and not alone for the sounds everywhere surrounding: the rushing, tumbling water, the resounding cry of birds’ call from high above (and somewhere over there); the play of mighty breezes sweeping in always from the Great Green Open to the West, on the one hand, and from the Bay just yonder on the other. colliding and dancing, touching the leaves of the countless trees as one million harps eager to be of use and to join in to the chorus they felt born for.

 

 

 

In those days there were no broken cycles, no orphaned “disconnects” or portions left derelict or uncared for. I like to imagine that standing upon such sacred ground, one need not worry or even wonder about their place in it all. Not really, not if they simply listened. As sure as you are, the Earth might whisper, as certainly as there you stand and take breath, it is here that you belong. There is a certain quality of stillness to be found only in motion, and the sense or permanence and constancy part of us so longs for is to be found, if at all, only in a full embrace of change.

 

There were indeed change, death, and rebirth: in fact, everywhere and all the time. Consequently the scoring of the ancient symphony, its musical phrasing, remained always new. At the same time, one could be assured that the music partook of something ancient and right.  And in an ultimate sense, even the worst thing that could happen was never completely out of place.

It is the loss of that sweet assurance that we grieve.

1904

 

Riding out these paradoxes in the Human heart is no small challenge, and neither could the questions so troubling us be more pressing, or important. The only real chance we have, for ourselves and one another, is in cultivating our sense of compassion. Hearts that feel (and there are many) are struggling and in pain, many approaching their very limits and almost ready to give up for lack of a perceived way out. Despair never sleeps, and might not actually follow us, yet is never far behind.  Its grim forte is patience. 

Hope is exactly as essential to our spirits as oxygen to our bodies, yet is stretched thin, and would seem to search in vain for a place to safely alight.

 

On a level of knowing deeper than I understand, the message comes through that only kindness will see us through. As much of it as we can imagine, in whatever forms, and then some, just may together be enough to lead us into a tomorrow worthy of its promise.  What exactly might that mean, in practical terms? Don’t know. I am fairly certain, in fact, that no one will be able to fully answer that question for you with regard to the specifics of your own life.  Yet that somehow seems to me a good thing, because the answers to any inquiry so great and fine partake directly of whatever it is that we are here for, and therefore must be essentially our own, and far from "cookie cutter."  Such "digging" may not be the easiest challenge, but offers up the promise of turning up the only kind of gold that really matters.

In that sense, we are each of us a resource, and not one of us alone.

 

Just a few thoughts and ideas for your consideration.

I thought I would share with you, by the way, the place from which I travel when I am not outside, painting views that still (for the moment) exist. With the dedication and talent of Alan for lighting, general organization, and decor, my home studio:

 

Thank you, thank you for joining me upon my journey. Having you along makes all the difference.

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AND so now, it is for you.  With love, and even (mysteriously, to me) Hope.

Thank you.

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