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.
]]>Figuring that it never hurts to get in a jolt of some art, I thought I'd share with you the canvas even now sitting downstairs drying on my easel, as of its second sitting.
Rapids, Miami River P. Crockett (2nd Sitting.)
I have enjoyed learning as much as I've been able to get my hands on about the history of the river, and pieced together from available photographs, etc. as accurate a depiction as possible of this "gateway into the 'Glades," as it might have appeared anytime in the last few centuries. (Any time, that is, until its utter demolition by dynamite in 1909 as part of the Everglades drainage project juggernaut. ) The site today would be just about exactly where NW 27th Avenue crosses the river.
It's quite interesting, pieceing together as accurately as possible a vision of what once was. This photo was indispensable, in establishing the real drama of that mass of water, falling:
View facing other direction, 1896.
I also wanted to simply take an opportunity to thank all of you for being part of my personal reason for gratitude every day of the year, and to wish you and yours a restful and truly meaningful celebration of the gifts given you. That and a good turkey, lechon, or whatever else speaks your language, has got to make for a good day.
Until next time.
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