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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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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