Niece Alianne and younger brother Thompson Grant offer noble assistance in the ongoing documentation of the art done by their errant uncle.

Who seeks for Heaven alone to save his soul May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; While he who walks in love may wander far, Yet God will bring him where the blessed are.

Henry Van Dyke, Story of the Other Wise Man. V.

Painting: Key Biscayne Trail P. Crockett

Today I thought I’d take an opportunity to share with you a few of my paintings that you may not have seen, just for fun. Just a little time you are invited to set aside, for your enjoyment and refreshment.

Coconut Palm P. Crockett

The intensity of current events has left me contemplating questions of balance. I felt it important for myself to stop, take a few deep breaths, and consciously focus upon the love and beauty so abundant in my life.

Otherwise it can feel as if we are losing everything, all the time, and become easy to forget the true treasures with which we’ve been graced in our lives. Sometimes it only feels as if we are falling.

Even if we are, why not make the plunge with grace, and such style as we might be able to pull off, under the circumstances?

(Just for the record and to be clear on the subject, however, my heart tells me that we are not falling. We are simply continuing onwards in an unbroken line with the experience of of our ancestors. Every single one of them, back to the very first. The end of the world has always been nigh, even from the epoch of its birth.)

Still Life with Flowers, New York Apartment P. Crockett

A gift to my parents, Anne & Jerry: a view from their former apartment in New York City.

It’s always worth taking just a few moments to be still, and consciously call to mind and count these pearls most personal. They are there always, whether appreciated or not, but failing to accept their gifts when most needed seems a lost opportunity. They can easily be lost in the shuffle, for the world, always fully involved in its epic and unfolding and never-ceasing drama, is typically loud. At times the noise of its constant construction and de-construction, its eternal re-invention, can howl in our ears like the shriek of hurricane winds, or rattle like the roar of a freight train whooshing suddenly past in the night.

Treasures held closest in the heart, in contrast, tend towards quietude. They never need crow, or even seek to compare. They are never shrill. Each is a sufficiency, and more than we might have felt entitled to ask for, even if we could have imagined that such people or things even existed. Our relationship with them is less about deserving, than simply belonging, in that deeper sense.

Shenandoah Nightfall P. Crockett

There is much that is bound to remain mysterious in the realm of the spirit, and our inner lives, and I suppose so it must be with questions of great power. (Where is the room for real growth in questions already answered?) Yet contemplating the possibilities in the question, “What are the ways in which I have been blessed?,” at any given time in our lives, is always completely practical, possibly even essential.

It may be true that your answers next week, or next year, or even tomorrow might be quite different. Even so, I can think of no better gateway into the “now.” Something tells me that here is where the angels live, and that it is our rightful place, yet we more visit than live there. That ancient, restless Human feeling of having been somehow cast out of the Garden, leading us to wander around a small area of desert for a generation, seeking that elusive place we might at last call "home," I suspect, involves our separation from our own experience of the only moment that has truly existed, ever: right now.

La Paz Garden P. Crockett

Collection of Eric and Katy Raits

No matter the richness of this kind of treasure, there is never a feeling of having had to diminish or take away from another to have it, in any way. To the contrary: its truly wonderful qualities are that it resists being held by one hand alone, tends to be amplified in the sharing, and somehow benefits all in a way that is much more immediate than abstract.

When any single one of us are lifted, so are we all. That awareness, I believe, is part of the truly critical knowledge that has been forgotten. The idea should require no explanation, I feel, yet it does. And so we persist in our convincing imitation of isolation.

Royal Poinciana P. Crockett

Much pain is caused by blurring (or even forgetting completely) the distinction between “cash” treasure and the more personal kind, which has everything to do with love, and sharing. The former is of course quite useful, but also is among the greatest of pretenders, promising far more than it can ever actually deliver. If asked, we would explain that we see the former as a means of reaching the latter. Ideally. Yet we sometimes forget that anything greater might lay beyond the acquisition of whatever we can grab! Hey, it's a Human thing. We get carried away.

And yet if we should have huge sums in the bank, live in the finest of surroundings, and so on, yet feel a bit cold inside and live in a world deserving of no trust, without genuine companionship, then where are we?

Both sorts of treasure most certainly have their place, and the two need not bear hostility (or even discomfort) towards one another. There it is again, that greatest of questions to which we seek answers in the living of our lives: what is balance here, for me?

Prospect Park, Brooklyn P. Crockett

Let’s move right along,with this little creation I recently put together for my friend Steve. I’d received from him one of those “Hey, you matter to me” e-mails that then asks you to return it to the sender and pass it along to five others. Steve is the “wizard behind the curtains” at Redfish Publishing Company in West Palm Beach, and has made giclee reproductions of some of my paintings. He has done great work, and we've both enjoyed the connection.

I did want to return the message to him, just because. But maybe something a little more. So I grabbed an image of my Palm Trees to Heaven Go, copied and inset the text, and returned that to him.

Now it is also for you.

Last month I took a little trip up to the NYC area just for fun, and to visit family. My parents Jerry and Anne have found a new New York apartment that already feels to them quite like “New York City” home.

Here is a painting I did for them of their old place, so they could enjoy its memory while at home in Miami:

New York Apartment P. Crockett

A HUGE blessing in my life. In December Dad will turn 80, and Mom’s not far behind, yet there is nothing remotely “old” about either of them. Also, they throw one hell of a great dinner party.

Here is another I did for them, of their place in Miami (my childhood home), which enlivens the walls of their apartment in New York:

Homestead P. Crockett

My other "family" in the “Big Apple” area is brother Whitney and his wife Samantha, currently just across the bridge in Leonia, N.J. (“the Athens of New Jersey”), along with their legendary offspring, Alianne Claudia and young Thompson Grant. Here is their “home sweet home:”

The place is lousy with musicians. As it happens, both Whitney and Sam are bassoonists; Sam’s specialty is the contrabassoon. I know that she is the “One” for him, because ten years before they met I dreamed that he walked through a door into a room filled by an entire orchestra, dressed to play and all holding their instruments, but not yet actually playing. As he walked in, a beautiful brunette woman holding a bassoon stood up and turned back towards him, and their eyes met. In the dream I did not know exactly who she was, or what was happening, but knew that the meeting was important—a connection on the level of soul.

>Here are their mugs. Whit is not nearly as pensive as this shot suggests, even though it has gone “viral” (bassoon-wise, at least) on the Net. The picture of Sam really captures her. (I wonder if she will agree!):

Whit is one of the truly great bassoon maestros alive, and not in my biased opinion alone. He is currently a principal with the New York Metropolitan Opera Symphony Orchestra, and formerly principal with the Montreal Symphony Orchestra (l’ Orchestre symphonique de Montréal). Sam plays freelance, and has earned an excellent professional reputation in her own right. She is also an amazing mother, although she never saw that one coming.

One night in the city, we all shared an excellent meal together, and I snapped a couple of pics:

Sam ‘n Mom ‘n Dad ‘n Whit.

There is love. You’d best enjoy this one before Whitney (who is a reasonable, private kind of guy) calls me up in a huff and asks me to take it down. Fortunately, at the moment he and the family are all out of the country. : )

Their home is so filled with my artwork that it’s become something of a nuisance, really, with guests tripping over it, and so forth. We’ll start off with the one filling one wall of their dining room, done for Samantha. It captures the view from the wonderful 1930’s “cabin” on the small wooded island owned by her family in Lake Bras D’or, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada. (!) Since getting to the island from Miami involves the long flight, a couple of smaller charter flights and finally a boat ride, bringing a stretched canvas with me was an impossibility. So I lugged along a bolt of canvas, figuring I could parse it up however I became inspired.

As it turned out, I used the entire canvas for one humongous painting, each section I was working on in turn draped over a picnic table on the wonderful front porch. If the painting captures a sense of motion I hit the mark. As one stands on that narrowing point of land flanked on either side by stretches of wide, open flowing lake, it feels distinctly like a prow in motion, slicing its way forward through eternity.

Thus, I suppose, the name given this precious piece of Earth:

Ark Island P. Crockett

Then there's the one dashed off on a fine old piece of cypress plank, at the family beach house up in my Mom's native and sweetly beloved North Carolina. By chance, it fits perfectly on this wall above the old-fashioned "window" from kitchen to dining room:

Ocean Isle, II P. Crockett

Of course, all of my “babies” are alive with memories:

Artist as Beach Bum.

Casual family shot. Here's my sister Lisa, Whitney chasing a very little Alianne, my nephew Scott, and an excellent view of the back of Sam's head.

Young Scott, by the way, has grown to approximately 7 times the size he was here, is studying at the University of Florida (a proud family tradition), and is always up to something. Please check out his band, ABCDE, at

http://www.myspace.com/abcdemiami No harm is one of my favorites. My nephew! Hey, he's good!!

Now, having saved the sweetest for last, I’d like to introduce you to Alianne and Thompson.

Lending me a hand as I try to shoot Nightfall, Winter on 57th Street

Caught in an impossibly cute moment only three years ago. It’s one of those cliches that mean little, until it finally registers upon you. They really do grow up so quickly.

>Some of my old-time followers might recall this painting I did of the pair in their backyard, one evening two years back. It is called Fireflies:

On a more recent trip back, Whit mentioned that “they love that painting.” For some reason, I was surprised. And delighted. “They do?’” I asked. He looked at me askance, and said “Of course they do.”

Though it was not much to her liking or to Thompson’s (he’d been busily engaged in crashing toy trucks together and howling with the sheer joy of it all), they helped me out by posing for a couple of shots I needed for reference as I painted them into the picture. They are sweet children, and amazingly aware. Forces of nature, more like it.

They are each a gift.

Ali, like her uncle, is definitely a “night owl.” (She hates going to bed, and can be convinced of no worthy reason whatsoever why she should have to retire to her dark room to lay down her head, while the adults are still up downstairs, talking and laughing and carrying on, and the lights are on and music softly playing.) I keep telling them I plan to draw up this book, Alianne Doesn’t Want to Go to Bed!, and even have an outline in my mind. Maybe one day I’ll even get around to actually putting it down on paper.)

So, the two of us had the best time one evening, sitting outside working on our respective paintings and chatting. At some point into the session she suddenly whispered, “Hey, Uncle Paul." I turned toward her, and she had this solemn look upon her face. It was all I could do not to just hug her to me, and just keep sitting there. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, she whispered "Let’s stop talking, so we can hear the crickets singing.” Her eyes opened wide. She brought such a smile to my face.

I nodded slowly, and whispered back, “OK, yeah!”

Ready to jam!

So there we sat quietly painting, but the night was not silent. How rude we had been, to talk through such a concert! “She is a trip,” I thought, savoring the Great symphony of night’s light and music as I followed my paintbrush wherever it might lead.

Here was little Thompson back then, going about his business. Little, maybe, but as stubborn, fearless, and invincible as a Tonka Truck Tractor.

Their common favorite, I believe, is Nightfall, Winter on 57th Street. Here’s another view:

Thompson, having put a fair amount of thought into the matter, earnestly set about to share with me his “favorite parts” of the painting. There were most definitely two.

This was the first…

And here the second (especially the area above the roof line, near center):

He was also of the opinion that this one is all right:

I certainly had a great time painting it, back “in the day” when Whit and Sam still lived in the City, in a place just off Amsterdam on 83rd. As we drank and chatted and carried on generally, I stood by the windows, splashing away on brown paper.

It brings to my mind a simple, sweet memory of a singular slice of time.

River of Light, New York City P. Crockett

And right here is where we shall drop off our visit, for now.

Thank you so much for joining us! We hope to see you again soon.

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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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My most recent work-in-progress.

THE MIAMI RIVER RAPIDS, anytime from the dawn of time until 1908, when the oolitic limestone (I prefer the generally used “coral rock”) waterfalls and ledges were  destroyed by dynamite as part of the bold new campaign to “drain the Everglades,” and redeem the perfectly good land from “muck.” Here you see a view of the North Fork of the Miami River, the primary point at which the massive quantities of clean water flowing from the Everglades marked the beginning of the Miami River.

This was an area popular with residents at the time.  Much was written of its beauty.  Especially in the wintertime, it was a wonderfully picturesque setting for a picnic.  The sound of falling water is always refreshing, and soothing.  And just imagine the variety and abundance of birds flying overhead, and the “fresh Earth” smell of the living forest meeting the open Everglades.

For a more modern reference, think of the planet Pandora in James Cameron’s Avatar, and turn up the color just a couple notches.

An illustration of the site from Harper’s Magazine, early 1900’s.

Things were different, before man came.  Fresh water bubbled up from the white sandy bottom of the river itself, and in fresh water "boils" out in the Bay from which my Grandfather used to replenish his water supplies while out boating, or fishing.  No one thought twice about the laying of the sewage lines from Flagler's lovely yellow Royal Palm Hotel so they'd empty their raw content directly into the River.  Considerable damage resulted from that alone, but the people had then only started to come.

Disposal of Refuse, Saturday, Miami River.  Behavior like this, if you think about it,  could result only from a working belief that "this is somebody else's river," and an assumption that the most short-term of  "solutions" would resolve even the nastiest and most serious of  problems .

Oh, but before!  How it would have taken your breath away!

The view from this site of the painting would have been sensational in all directions.  If you turned your gaze toward the racing river, you’d see deep green forest, thriving and ancient, with the white foaming terraces of clean water making their way down, down  to the River’s mouth at Biscayne Bay, about one mile away.

Mouth of River, 1871.  The site would be homesteaded by visionary pioneer Julia Tuttle about 20 years later.

Between this point and that, the water dropped 10 feet , to sea level.  Much of that descent happened quickly, dropping nearly seven feet down within the first 450 feet of flow.  The area was called a “rapids” for good reason, and no joke, or exaggeration.   The force of the flowing water made rowing or paddling one’s craft upstream nearly impossible.   The custom for those heading upriver to “see the Ever-Glades” was to disembark and walk along the shore, tugging their reluctant craft along with a rope held tight until they’d arrived at their destination.

The location today would be around NW 27th Avenue and the Miami River. Near the site, in fact, is a city park called Miami River Rapids Mini-Park, on NW 27th Avenue at 21st Terrace.

Its name is the only remaining evidence of what once was.  Oh yeah, and my painting.

A simplified  “color negative” (OK, so I made that term up!) to help clarify my understanding, and focus on shapes.

IT is a fascinating and enriching process to undertake an “imagined” historical landscape.  It is my intention to capture with the greatest possible accuracy what was.  And so, I look for clues.

Here was a great find, an “A-Ha!” moment.  Upon study and contemplation of the picture above and that below, I discerned an “overlap” between them.  The first provides a more complete panoramic view of the scene, but misses almost completely the real drama of the rapidly falling water.

The second, fortunately taken  by a photographer from a lower point of view, captures beautifully the terraced effect of the rapidly falling water.  I can almost hear its ancient song of motion, dancing. Even now:

With a little color thrown in, to help me understand.

I cannot bring back what was; it is forever gone. But I can and will honor the Earth, and help you remember.

And invite you to imagine, and enjoy a moment of rest.

Thank you.

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 I see skies of blue and clouds of white
 The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
 And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

 The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
 Are also on the faces of people going by
 I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
 They're really saying "I love you"

--What a Wonderful World, Performed by Louis Armstong

Return to Wainwright P. Crockett

EXACTLY now, on an evening somehow just like this one, seems the right time to finally begin working into some form (any form!) my simple “Holiday greetings.”  Why?  For one, as the din and haste of yet another  mad holiday season once again recedes into memory, I can hear myself think!

And just now, within that welcomed and welcoming silence, I feel a need arising to just reach out to so many people I care a great deal for, but have not seen for too long, and ask ”How do you do?” I want you to know that I care.

Some of you might have little idea how much you mean to me, or how much richer my life has been because of your place in it.  William Blake wrote, “Kindness is the milk of the Human spirit.”  True enough, because life can be brutal and hit us head on, full force.

In which Man learns the tragic (but important) lesson of the return of a hurricane’s eye wall.  Miami Beach, 1926.

IT occurs to me that it is your kindness I want to celebrate, in this brief greeting.  To say:  I am grateful for the ways you have touched me.  And as well,  to offer up a reminder that no genuine act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted.  Or, even forgotten. (“Reality check” that idea in terms of your own experience.  It holds, for me.)  I have grown to realize that it is absolutely impossible to bestow a blessing on another without  as a result receiving some other, in full, like measure.

How, exactly?  And when?  And why would this be so?

I cannot say; don't really know.  But I don't need to fully understand, or be able to logically analyze.  I know what I know, and part of the known seems likely as not to remain always in the province of  mystery.  It is no problem to be solved; it is a gift.

This particular question partakes especially of mystery, because it is not always ours to see what we might be giving or receiving, nor  to or from whom.  Often, the exact opposite of what I believed to be true was in fact transpiring, to vastly greater effect.

Once I saw that one had posted in an online profile a quotation to the effect that "the true measure of a man is how he treats one who can do nothing for him."  I sent on a note commenting that I could see his point, but pointing out that in deeper truth, none of us ever have any real way of ascertaining who might or might not be in a position to help us.  Assumptions tend to inflict devastating damage in the greater field of open possibility, and often do.

And so: though I cannot articulate the applicable laws of interrelation or metaphysics that might offer substantiation or explanation, I have zero doubt that the thought is the deepest kind of true.

We seem to generally miscomprehend the extent of our logical understanding concerning matters of the heart, and grant our clownish notions a solemn dignity that ill-fits them, as polka-dotted diapers might a (blushing) baby elephant.

Our conscious musings generally plod along at a fair distance behind the real “action”— by the time it arrives upon the scene the souls might already have always known one another for all of eternity, for in that realm there is no time.  Or there might have been some great show with sparks cascading like fireworks and even current arcing, yet the quicksilver dance will have been  completed and its restless energy already moved on.  Its ebb and flow is both ancient and vastly subtle, relating to the unfolding needs of the soul.  None can presume to chart it, or fathom its depths.  It is sufficient to completely experience.

In the processes of our inner growth and becoming, so often facilitated in the mirror of relationship with others,  the rational mind indeed plays a critical role.  Yet it is only one part of the picture.  And quite possibly a lesser player, at that.  One part of us hates that idea, and the other even half breathes a deep sigh of relief, Thank God!

The things that we think we know about matters of the heart might bear no more causative relation to its actual kinetic unfoldings, than our awareness of our breathing and the the beating of our hearts initiate or govern either process.

This is why it makes sense to give beyond reason, as we may be called, or feel led.  In a sense it is our only way of keeping anything worth having.

THESE are hard, truly awful times for many.  Yet even so, strangely, it occurs to me to put this idea upon the table:

If you want to receive the best others have to give, then give others your own.  Do it first, and do not waver.  Come on, what choice do you have anyway, really?

And, if you’d actually see yourself in a position to receive blessings, and are truly ready,  then start first by applying your creative intelligence to focus upon what it might be that you have to give.  Ascertain whatever it is that you, and you alone, have to offer up to this big hurtin' world.  I am warning you: if you see it at all (for we are often blind to our own true inner gold), you might think it either foolish, or laughable. But I am telling you: it is there. And it might point the way toward your salvation.

(By which I mean, the satisfaction of your deepest needs.  Your personal epiphany.  A sudden "click of miracle" that is your own.)

Personally, I take heart in Oscar Wilde’s observation that “only the shallow know themselves.”

Along the Way P. Crockett

The good news in this whole scenario, as we trudge forward in this canyon of epic paradox: there are not really any wrong answers.  Life may be a schoolroom for the Spirit, but it is not a test.  From one perspective, certainly, none who really try, who gives it their all, fail.

And we are not here simply to compete with one another until our last, clinching, tight-assed breath!

THE theme to which I keep returning in this "non-Hallmark Greeting," I suppose, is a reassurance, flowing from the deep conviction that we are none of us truly alone.  That remains true, no matter what in the HELL might be going on in your life!  Even if (or perhaps especially if), for example, your mess of a financial situation and “Home Sweet 'Upside-Down' Home" have you feeling something like this,

At least you can be glad that you put on  festive shoes that morning!

I like the idea of reaching out on this day precisely because it is “ordinary.”  This “Holy day” (a Monday, yet!) is marked out on no public calendar as  “different,” and accorded no special significance in observation of any historical event or tradition, or prevailing custom, expression of political bombast, etc.

It's simply a gay-day, man! Yet another jewel upon the mysterious and golden chain that somehow takes form, and knows no end.  That makes up a life.

La Paz Garden P. Crockett   Collection Eric Raits

IT is not special because of the date on the calendar, or tomorrow’s.

More so, because the sun rose this morning and completed its arc across the sky, leaving us once again  to the moon above, and  the stars.

Solar System Quilt, 1876.

Because the children played,

inviting a contemplation of innocence.

And because we enjoyed the supreme luxury of taking for granted the company of our loved ones and of our pets, exactly as if we’d have them forever.

My longtime next-door neighbor and friend Vivian Howard, ever the soul of grace.  She is here 9, with her brother and her sister Sibyl.  She had essentially (and suddenly) become a mother to them both after their mother’s death in childbirth only months before.  If she ever felt “put upon,” or for that matter anything other than blessed, I was never shown the first clue of it.

Because it may be so that we will always have an opportunity to touch those we love and simply say, in words or through actions, “I love you…”

My father's parents, Bruce and Annelise, enjoying easy “lawn time” together in the front yard of their home on SW 26th Road, always a block away from ours,   I love this picture.  He adored her so.

but the sharing may be  more rewarding while they are still here with us.  Today.

My parents, Anne and Jerry, back in the swingin' sixties.  This August, God willing, will mark 57 years of sacred partnership together. They have attended well to the only lesson that really matters-- how to love—and  done their level best to pass it on, as had been their truest legacy.

The gracious and truly one-of-a-kind Betty Langdon: Alan’s Mom.  It is she, I am quite certain, who taught her son that differences can indeed be festive, and wove color all around her beloved boy, free as air.

Certain lessons never quite die.  Below: a glimpse of Alan’s kaleidoscopic inner sanctum.

TODAY seems the day because it is of threads exactly like that added on this day, for better or for worse, that over the course of a lifetime the tapestries of our lives are interwoven.

And so: though it may well be that dreams are dying all around us,

New American Gothic Illustration: P Crockett

Why not then make it a special point not only to keep ours alive (itself, no small feat!),

but to go for the biggest and most brilliant we can imagine?   To one day hold its promise as our very own, inside of our hearts?

Dreams need no reason, but we need our dreams!

If nothing else, why should we not set our sights on the prospect of having an epic dream?  So many have been orphaned…

Big Blue, Scott Gillen  Collection of George Fishman

James Deering, who actually worked very hard and well to help build the family business, is here seen outside of  Deering Works in Chicago, just taking a moment to indulge in some outlandish dream.

ALONG the course of your journey, may you be well accompanied,

and allow  yourself the luxury of time to see and to savor and to share the beauty all  around.

Bear Cut, Key Biscayne

Jade Vine, Next Door

MAY  you be sustained and blessed, until you have at last found your way home.

So there you have it, my simple “New Year’s Greetings,” from the heart.

THANK YOU for coming along on my journey.

Thank you for being.

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