Congratulations Best New Artist Grammy winner, Esperanza Spalding!

Like a breath of fresh air, she arrives with the promise of spring.

Abraham Lincoln--A drawing experience

My recently completed drawing

My reference, a portrait from mid-1860's.

What an amazing person Abraham Lincoln was.  Did you know:

• He was a wrestler, and he rarely lost.
• He once tracked an ordinary person down after he had brushed him off, just to apologize for his brusqueness.
• He was prone to depression.
• He once visited a dying man, a union soldier, on his deathbed, and held his hand, kissed him on the forehead, and told him he "must live!"  And the man did.
• During the ceremonial celebration after the was was over, he requested that the band play "Dixie."

I've been reading a compilation of stories about Lincoln, and I learned a lot that I never knew.  The wrestling thing explains all the tiny scars on the left side of his face, and the way his left eye points in a slightly different direction.  I see a lot of trauma survived in that face, and some of it probably wasn't physical. 

The discipline of drawing is helping me to understand a lot about myself, too.  I've looked at this face hundreds of times and never really seen it . . .I wonder what else I'm missing?

Drawing Abe

I've been working on a portrait of Abe Lincoln.  I had no particular plan for this other than practice; he has a very interesting face.  I've found that as I draw someone, I feel compelled to know more about them.  How did that little line appear?  What were they so worried/happy about?  What is the source of that tiny scar?

There's a lot more to Abe Lincoln than is in the body of common knowledge.  If you get the chance, read up on him as we round the bend toward President's Day. 

I think so, too.

A Sincere Christian

"The finest bread has the least bran; the purest honey, the
least wax; and the sincerest Christian, the least self-love."

                                     --Anne Bradstreet 1612 - 1672 

A sense of urgency

October is such a beautiful time of year here in Michigan.  The deciduous trees arrive at the peak of their fall color and then lose their leaves entirely by the end of the month.  What starts as the most colorful month of the year ends up looking like the start of November: bleak, cold, with a celebration of death right at the end.

I'm filled with a sense of urgency.  There is so much to be done before the cold comes for good; so much beauty to see before it's gone, and only a few more precious warm days to enjoy.  I consider how much time I've wasted earlier in the year, sitting at this computer instead of being outside in the sun. 

And of course, being me, I find that my feelings related to everything in my life.  I wonder if I've spent enough time and energy on my children.  Are they learning what they will need for life on their own?  Am I noticing those little signs that they need help or attention?  Am I being a thoughtful, loving wife? 

Time is short, and the older I get, the more I feel a sense of urgency.  "If it needs to be done, do it now!" I tell myself.  "You'll forget or your feelings will change."  I feel pulled in so many different directions, both from inside and by others.  It's easy to feel confused and disabled by lack of focus or direction.

And then something small will happen, some little thing that I notice will snap it all into focus.  Maybe it's something as small as the new moon floating in the sunset just behind a late October tree.  If the leaves were full, I wouldn't be able to see it from this perspective. 

There is a season for everything, a time for new life and a time to die.  But life lost never leaves a gap.  If the old didn't move out of the way, the new would never have a chance to live.  If the flower didn't die, we would never have the fruit. 

None of these ideas are new, they're just what has been floating around in my head while I mourn the death of the summer season.  How I love the sun! But the sun isn't leaving.  It is still up there, though sometimes behind the clouds.  And winter is lovely as well, with it's blanket of snow.  The sadness of last season's end prepares me to accept the joys of the winter to come.

Late bloomer

A temptation exists to give up when the end seems near, or when one can visualize the end in sight.  I knew a man who wouldn't start any new projects after 1 p.m. because "the day was over."  So many wonderful "senior citizens" feel that they have nothing left to give--just because our whole culture treats them that way--so they sit around waiting for death.

But we need them.  We need their experience, their wisdom, their insight into life that was gained the hard way, via experience.  They remember what really happened, not what the history books tell us.  They have wonderful stories to tell.

Yesterday I found this "volunteer" morning glory vine growing on a fence.  It was covered with spent blossoms and what looked like some kind of green berry (do morning glories bear fruit?), but what really caught my attention was that now in October, when we've had near freezing temperatures for several nights, and the days don't reach seventy degrees anymore, the vine was still bursting with new life.

Wonderful twisting buds, just waiting for a touch of warm sun, were dotted here and there all over the vine. Surely, with all the signs that winter is near, this annual plant must know that blooming now is what some would call a "waste of time."    After all, the fruits will never develop, so why would the plant use so much energy generating the bloom?  It doesn't make evolutionary sense, does it?  I mean, how could the bloom benefit the plant at this stage?

And yet it continues to bloom.  And so do all the other annuals, raising their beautiful faces to the rising sun while they can.  And if you step outside the idea that every living thing only does what directly benefits itself, it becomes obvious that the blooms benefit many others.

For example, it benefits the insects that are still alive and seeking nectar.  It's beautiful.  I can't explain the jaunty, devil-may-care attitude that I felt coming from this vine.  It uplifted me.  And I can't help but feel that the plant exists for more than itself.   I can read a lesson there.