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Posts Tagged ‘Red Tree’

Epiphany?

Posted in Biographical, Early Paintings, tagged , , , on May 9, 2026| 6 Comments »

Epiphany (2015)

I think a lot of people have unreasonable expectations because they never stop to consider what life actually has to offer them. They’re always looking for some great epiphany from the skies. They never stop to consider the fact which human beings find hardest to recognize: “Maybe I’m not worthy of an epiphany.”

–Robertson Davies, Conversations with Robertson Davies (1989)

The painting above, Epiphany, is another painting that will be heading to the Principle Gallery for my June show. It’s a painting that satisfies me on several levels. The contrast of the corona of light around the Red Tree against the underlying darkness of the black underpainting and the deep reds and yellows are right in my sweet spot. It also connects with me on a personal level, bringing to mind a very early painting that I might consider my one true experience with epiphany.

The word epiphany, of course, denotes someone experiencing a sudden and profound realization. A Eureka! moment. I never really thought about such things before. I mean who has time to seek something like epiphany when you’re just trying to get by in this world? And even if I had thought about it, I would have no doubt ascribed to the words above from the late Canadian man of letters, Robertson Davies, that you could waste your life seeking something that will never be available to you while the miracle of this world and our existence in it is in plain sight all the time. I am pretty sure I would not have seen myself as being worthy of an epiphany.

But you never know, do you? After my accidental fall from a ladder brought me to painting in late 1993, I began to spend several hours a day painting in between my job as waiter in a pancake house and working towards completing the construction of our home. I didn’t have any expectations at that point, never saw it doing anything other than providing an outlet for expressing pent up emotions in a constructive way. I would have been happy with that.

Well, I think would have been. It didn’t turn out that way so how can I really know what I would felt if that had been the case?

Anyway, as I worked in our back bedroom for several months, I began to feel that my painting had something more to offer me but I wasn’t seeing it. And to be honest, I had no idea what it might be or what it would even mean if I were to come across it. How would I know such a thing?

I tried to not think about such things and just focused on what the painting was giving me in the moment. Just seeing it develop and progress seemed to be enough.

One evening that summer, after doing my morning shift then working for a few hours on our house, I went home and sat down to paint. I was working on a small painting and suddenly it beckoned on me that what I was looking at was exactly that thing I was looking for. It suddenly had form and substance. More than that, I could see it in a flash that it instantaneously opened a path forward for me. I didn’t know where it would lead but I knew that it had to be followed.

I remember so distinctly that moment. I felt a giddy excitement that was a shock to me. The hair on the back of my neck was raised and my heart was racing. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, what do you do when something hits you like that? Nobody told me that something like this might happen. I needed to tell someone about this, but Cheri was still at work.

First View (1994)

I paced anxiously for a couple of hours, waiting for Cheri to return. I met her at the door and made her follow me into the back bedroom. I picked up the small piece of watercolor paper that held the painting. I can’t remember exactly how it was phrased but I said something like, “Look at this! Look at this!”

She looked then replied, “Yeah. It’s nice. What is it?”

“You don’t see it? That’s IT!”

“What’s it?

“This is what I have been looking for. This means something. I don’t know where or what, but this is going to take us somewhere.”

I told her how it came to be and my explosion of emotion when it appeared. I still am not sure she was impressed or convinced by what I was saying that night. In retrospect, I can understand that. It’s a quiet, simple little piece. It doesn’t yell or wave its arms to grab your attention.

But that didn’t matter to me. In my eyes that night– and even now– it set off explosions in me that blew down walls that had been hindering me from seeing the path that was now before me. It felt like it had opened up a whole new section of synapses in my brain that I had not been using up to that point.

I later titled it First View since it felt like I was looking at a newly discovered and unexplored vista. This unassuming little painting still retains its power for me. Every painting since this piece has been an attempt to recapture that explosive reaction that I felt on that summer night in 1994. There have been potent and wonderful moments from other paintings but none that came close to the feeling this painting provided.

Was that an epiphany? I don’t know. But if it wasn’t, maybe like Davies said, I wasn’t worthy of an epiphany and will probably never experience one. I don’t know that I could physically or mentally handle a real epiphany if that wasn’t one.

But epiphany or not, the painting above symbolizes and very well captures that moment from 1994. It is a direct descendant of First View and being so, carries elements from it that speak clearly to me, providing moments that recall that first epiphany, if that is indeed what it was. Letting me know that I was not mistaken in following the path I was given.

And that satisfies me in all the best ways.

What more can I ask?

 

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Only Now

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on May 4, 2026| 6 Comments »

Only Now (2012) – Coming to Principle Gallery

This day will never come again and anyone who fails to eat and drink and taste and smell it will never have it offered to him again in all eternity. The sun will never shine as it does today…But you must play your part and sing a song, one of your best.

—Herman Hesse, Klingsor’s Last Summer (1920)

Only Now, shown above, is a 24″ by 30″ painting from 2012. It is scheduled for inclusion in my June solo show at the Principle Gallery. It has long been a favorite of mine.

I don’t know that I can put a finger on any specific reason for that, but it remains one of those pieces that speaks directly to me. Maybe it is its combination of airiness and earthiness or perhaps it is its clarity of both expression and message for me.

I guess the reason doesn’t matter so much as the fact that it communicates and connects with me on an emotional level. That is the final arbiter for me in all things.

A coincidence occurred while I was looking for a short quote or passage to accompany this painting. I came across the passage above from a lesser-known Hermann Hesse novella that I felt was custom made for this painting. The coincidence came in that I had just purchased the book last week and it still sits unopened and unread on the counter by the backdoor to the studio.

Mere coincidence? Most likely. But it made me wonder about the convergences of things and whether they have meaning in our lives, themes that seem at home in Hesse’s writings. And in my paintings.

By the way, Klingsor’s Last Summer is about a middle-aged painter in the last summer of his life. There is no coincidence here. This will not be my last summer, not by a long shot. Too many paintings still unpainted. Nor am I a middle-aged hedonistic, hard drinking womanizer in Italy like Hesse’s title character.

That description makes my life sound pretty damn boring. But I guess how we experience life is not so important as simply experiencing each day with the understanding that is a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Life is like art– to each his own.

And sometimes the inverse holds true– art is life.

Here’s a song to that might seem at first blush to be an odd choice to go along with this painting. But if you’ve ever really listened closely to the lyrics, you will understand the connection.

Day after day, alone on a hill
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him, they can see that he’s just a fool
And he never gives an answer

But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head see the world spinning around

The song is, of course, the Beatles classic The Fool on the Hill from their 1967 album, Magical Mystery Tour. Though the Beatles’ original cannot be surpassed, I am sharing this version from Sergio Mendes & Brasil ’66 for the simple reason that I have always loved its sound and vibe.

And as you know, I am all about the vibe. Says the fool on his hill…

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Room to Breathe/Ride Lonesome

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on April 23, 2026| 2 Comments »

Room to Breathe (2010)

You got to ride lonesome
You got to try to find the road
You got to cry a river
And follow it all the way home
Alone

— Beck, Ride Lonesome (2026)

The painting at the top, Room to Breathe, has long been a favorite of mine. When it was painted in 2010, it seemed different than the work I was doing at the time, more like a throwback to my earlier work. It had that feel, painted as it was with the transparent inks that marked my early work. It also had that same airy solitariness with the Red Tree out and away from the other trees beneath a wide and deep sky.

But more than these other similarities, it had a simplicity that I was craving at the time. My early work was simple by design, meant to cut away the distraction of detail, allowing the few basic forms to hopefully dance and harmonize with one another. More than that, it allowed space for the viewer’s own feelings.

Room to Breathe felt like it was very much cut from the same cloth.

It is well traveled, having made the rounds of the galleries around the country through the years. Every piece does not immediately find a home and sometimes those pieces that I consider true gems are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. So, having a painting return to you is not uncommon. In fact, it’s a regular and expected thing for any artist, something taken it in stride.

But with some pieces, there is a sense of hurt attached to them when they return. Every piece I paint has an emotional investment, carrying with it some part of me. But some pieces seem to carry a bit more of me with them. Their return always feels like it is not only the painting that is being rejected. It feels like it is a personal rejection as well.

I know that this is not the case. But that feeling still lingers even after I have rationalized the why’s and how’s of it. I sometimes think it is like seeing something in your child that is not evident to everyone else and how deeply you feel at even the most minor of rejections they experience.

It is a disappointment that comes when others are somehow blind to the qualities that you love in your progeny.

I suppose that is how I feel about this painting. And maybe it also represents my own moments of rejection or exclusion, those times when I found myself not part of the in-crowd or even in the inner core of my smaller group of friends.

Like the Red Tree standing apart from the group of trees.

I have found that standing apart is not a bad thing. There is, as the title plainly states, room to breathe. Clear air and unobstructed views.

Room to think and grow in all directions.

I am still debating whether I will include this painting in my June show at the Principle Gallery. I am not sure I want to subject this child of mine– or myself– to yet another potential rejection.

But I tell myself that one of the lessons of this life is that though you may face disappointment and rejection, you have to keep getting up and going out to meet it head-on.

Who knows– it might be your lucky day.

Here’s a new song from Beck that initially sparked this entry. It’s called Ride Lonesome. Its chorus shown at the top pretty much sums up what I have tried to say here.

Now, get out of here and go back to the other trees. I want to be alone…

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Born Into Color

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on March 10, 2026| 6 Comments »

Born Into Color— At West End Gallery

There is not one little blade of grass, there is no color in this world that is not intended to make men rejoice.

—John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion (1536)

I was born into a world of color. Color is the basis for what I do and how I see and feel things. Color has an emotional power that triggers all kinds of responses in my mind.

Yes, I was born into color.

However, it didn’t always seem that way when I was a child. I was reared and learned much of what I knew from television. Well, from reading, too, but that isn’t part of this post. From life lessons and ethics to the value of goofiness and absurdity. My view of human behavior was greatly shaped, for better or worse, by the shows I saw on the television.

Black and white television.

We didn’t have a color television until 1973 so, the shows that defined my childhood were all seen in black and white. I took it on faith that Mr. Green Jeans on the Captain Kangaroo show really wore green pants. I am still not sure because my memory only remembers him in black and white. The gorgeous, deep colors of Warner Brothers and Disney cartoons did not exist in color for me except in those rare occasions when I saw one at a movie theatre.

The color in those rare sightings made color feel very luxurious then. I think it was the absence of color in my viewing diet at that time that developed my appreciation and desire for color, that made me see it as a rare and special thing. I found that color had the power to attract and hold my attention, to inspire me, to light a creative fuse.

A single color could, in itself and in combination with other colors and forms, provoke emotions of all sorts. It could lift me up or make me somber from one moment to the next. But primarily, it made me aware of our place in the natural world, that we were part of the colorful richness and beauty that is this world.

By extension, we humans, as part of this world, were also made from that same richness and beauty.

Yes, we were all born into color.

This begs for a much longer essay, one that I am not prepared to write this morning. Perhaps some time in the future, I will better address this. Or not. If I promise to do it, I will begin to feel it as a burden and, as a result, most likely will consciously avoid doing it.

That’s my modus operandi.

One of the things that make me who I am? I don’t know if that is being colorful or just a pain in the butt.

It makes me wonder about the origins of the term  a colorful character and why and when they began to use it to describe certain people.

Hey, that should have been the end of this post. I should have asked if this appreciation and desire for color makes me a colorful character. That would have been a great parting line.

Guess I missed that opportunity. Oh, well, next time. Or not. Who knows?

Here’s a favorite song that is definitely on point this morning. It’s She’s a Rainbow from the Rolling Stones in 1967. Geez, hard to believe this song is almost 60 years old. Great song and a great richly colored video. Good stuff all the way around.

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Pimples

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on February 6, 2026| Leave a Comment »

Moment of Pride— At West End Gallery

Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.
It is easy to display a wound, the proud scars of combat. It is hard to show a pimple.

–Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game (1963)

I am not sure why I chose this passage from a Leonard Cohen novel to pair with this painting, Moment of Pride. Maybe it is because I just discovered, even though I have been a fan of his music for a very long time now, that Cohen had been a poet and novelist for ten years before finding his way into the world of music.

During that time in the 1950s up through the mid 60’s, he experienced a variety of ups and downs with varying degrees of success, as is the case with any artist. But he did have quite a bit of acclaim. In fact, in 1966, a critic for the Boston Globe in a review for his novel Beautiful Losers compared him favorably with James Joyce. There was even a 1965 film, Ladies and Gentlemen… Mr. Leonard Cohen, produced by the National Film Board of Canada on the work and life of the author/poet, a couple of years before he set out for what was to be a legendary career as a singer/songwriter.

I was kind of surprised that I didn’t know this upon discovering it this morning. Adds a layer of interest to what was already an interesting and unique figure in the world of music. Coincidentally, a song of his just came on the station I listen to each morning.

But it was his words on a pimple that struck me and how we proudly display our wounds and scars but try our best to conceal our natural flaws., often viewing them with shame, fearing that we will be somehow judged on them. This observation resonated me personally, as it probably does for most of you, as well.

Been there. Done that.

As with everything, I immediately equated it with my work. After all, I do think of each piece as having a life of its own and like all living things, each has its fair share of imperfections. When I first began to paint, I viewed these little flaws in much the same way that each of us does our flaws, trying to hide them. To somehow deny that they were present and part of the painting.

But time taught me that these little flaws and glitches were the thing that made them unique, that gave them depth of flavor, to use a culinary term. After a while I began to celebrate these pimples in my work. Don’t get me wrong here. I don’t try to create them nor are they planned beforehand. It’s just that I know that sometimes burst through the surface, like pimples do, but do nothing to detract from what is beautiful in the painting.

If anything, they validate its humanity.

How this applies to this painting is kind of circumspect. Oh, it has little flaws throughout. I am sure I can find plenty if I want to concentrate on them. I like this piece as it is, no matter how many little blips I could find.

How it came about might apply. I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t. No matter. Consider this a pimple in this blog, okay? A couple of years ago, some friends and their daughter stopped in and I gave them a quick tour of the studio, something I seldom do. While they were here, I gave them a quick demo of my wet painting style. I opened the container of some sepia ink and its stench filled the space.

There’s a longer story about the ink but the short one is that I have been working off of a number of 5-gallon pails of ink for about the last 17 years now. Some have organic elements that cause them to almost ferment in the buckets. The black and sepia are most susceptible to this. When I open these buckets there is often a skim of mold on the top of the ink and along with it, a pungent stink that hits you in the face like a punch.

It’s not quite so bad when I open the smaller containers in which I keep the ink for use on my painting table but it still bites pretty hard sometimes. On this occasion it was enough that it caused their teenage daughter to immediately run from the room in revulsion. Laughing a bit, I proceeded to paint the top block of color as Ebba, the daughter, watched from a considerable distance. It started with sepia which I then diluted. I then removed most of the sepia and replaced it with a red that I washed down to the shade you see.

That ended the demo for that day. I set this little block of color aside for a long time, always chuckling at Ebba’s response to the smell of the sepia whenever I would pull it out to consider it. I didn’t know if it would ever be another other than an anecdote.

But there was some latent potential in it that spoke to me. Something well beyond a mere anecdote, though that is part of it now. I think it was the idea that the many elements that go into creating beauty often seem less than beautiful in themselves.

That is where the title, Moment of Pride, came from. The fact that it takes effort and stink, sweat and sometimes blood, to create something that transcends its parts and its inherent flaws is a point of pride for me. I sometimes stand in front of a piece, unshaven and unwashed in grubby, paint-covered clothes with the stench of acrid paint in the air and feel a sense of awe for what I am seeing. I sometimes wonder how something possessing even a small degree of such beauty can come from such a person as I. How can such a thing seem to dispel all my flaws, hide all my pimples?

I don’t really know. And to be honest, I don’t really care. So long as it keeps me with that small sense of pride and awe, I will live and die a happy man. Pimples and all.

Amen.

This piece, by the way, is included in the Little Gems show opening tonight at the West End Gallery. The Opening Reception is from 5-7 PM.

I guess we should have a Leonard Cohen song, right?  The natural pick is Anthem, a song that I have shared here a few times. Let’s go with that. This is a live version from 2008 which opens with Cohen speaking the song’s famous lyrics which applies to this post: Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack, a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in

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Maintaining Balance

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on February 1, 2026| 6 Comments »

Maintaining Balance— At West End Gallery

Silence has many dimensions. It can be a regression and an escape, a loss of self, or it can be presence, awareness, unification, self-discovery. Negative silence blurs and confuses our identity, and we lapse into daydreams or diffuse anxieties. Positive silence pulls us together and makes us realize who we are, who we might be, and the distance between these two.

–Thomas Merton, Love and Living (1979)

I’ve had this passage from the late Trappist monk/poet/author Thomas Merton rolling around in my head for a while now. Silence and quiet have been themes in my work for a long time for a good reason. I have found peace and understanding at times in silence, in stilling my mind and just trying to be where and what I am at the moment.

It’s a good place to be.

On the other hand, I have also known the negative silences of which Merton writes. There is silence but not emptiness nor stillness–important distinctions. Even in this silence, there are things– worries, fears, regrets, grievances, despairs, etc.– occupying the space and in constant motion. They distract the mind and take its focus off its silence. The mind darts through the mind space from each of these things to the next.

The desired stillness is lost in what seems to be a cacophony of motion.

I don’t know that you can totally eradicate these negative silences. They are insidious, always ready to jump back onstage and do their little silent song and dance. Maybe you can if you’re monk or a total hermit far removed from the world in all ways.

I am neither of those nor are most folks.

I guess the best we can hope for is to keep trying to find silence and stillness when it is most needed. To not fall prey to the lures of the negative silences. To drop the curtain on them when they start their little act.

And to make the most of those times when we find ourselves in that positive silence. To heal. To appreciate. To be.

It’s easy to write this. Much harder to accomplish. I always felt that if I have many more moments in the positive silent space than in the chaotic negative space, I am doing okay. I’ve been doing this delicate balancing act for a long time now and it’s always difficult to maintain. But it has become get easier. As it is with anything, rehearsal, practice, and repetition are the key to getting where you want to go.

I don’t know that this makes any sense this morning to anyone outside the space in my head. I’d be surprised and glad if it does and can only say sorry if it doesn’t. Don’t want to waste your time.

In the spirit of saving time, let’s move on. The image at the top is of a new piece, Maintaining Balance, a 6″ by 12″ painting on canvas. Just a little bigger than a true Little Gem, it is now at the West End Gallery whose Little Gems show opens this coming Friday. I had the Merton passage in mind when I was painting and titling this piece.

For this Sunday Morning Music, I am going with a song originally sung by Dick Van Dyke in the 1968 movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was written by the Sherman Brothers who produced more motion picture song scores than any other songwriting team in film history, including the many memorable songs from Mary Poppins and The Jungle Book. This performance is from a favorite of mine, Lisa Hannigan, and British musician Richard Hawley.

Just a lovely stillness and delicacy. Just what’s needed to maintain balance…

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Let Me Be

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on January 31, 2026| 1 Comment »

Let Me Be— Now at West End Gallery

Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.

 -Helen Keller, The World I Live In (1908)

Really tired this morning. I think the hormone therapy is finally catching up with me a bit as my fatigue has increased a lot in the past couple of weeks. Still not terrible, not yet up to the fatigue I suffered last summer with the undiagnosed anaplasmosis. That kicked my butt in several different directions.

Even though I am tired, I already wrote a post this morning. However, it felt too personal, too exposing. That may surprise some of you since I seldom hesitate with openness or transparency. But I think my physical weariness made me a little more protective of my private domain this morning.

Made me want to withdraw a bit.

Which coincidentally and fortuitously might pertain to the new painting at the top. It’s called Let Me Be. It’s a 6″ by 8″ painting on canvas that is part of the Little Gems show that opens this coming Friday at the West End Gallery.

Its title and the feel of wanting to be left alone that I take from it suit me this morning. Well, most of the time actually.

There’s a lot more to say about this painting and what I see and feel in it. It has a lot to say. But this morning I am going to let it speak for itself.

If it speaks to you, great. If not, that’s great as well. I am on my little quiet island. I can’t trouble my mind with such concerns this morning.

Here’s song from Rising Appalachia that fits the feel and tone of the morning for me. This is Silver.

Listen but don’t linger. The boat is leaving to take you back to shore. You better catch it now. Otherwise, you’ll be swimming back. Only room for me here this morning.

Now get on the damn boat.

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Be Ignited, Or Be Gone

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on January 29, 2026| 4 Comments »

Burning Bright— Now at West End Gallery

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world? Because, properly
attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of — indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.

—Mary Oliver, What I Have Learned So Far (1999)

Be ignited, or be gone,,,

For me, this means that our dreams and desires require action. Our wishes and words have the power to manifest themself but only if we follow through and make it so.

The fire might be ignited in our mind, but it must be tended and stoked for it to come to full flame. Otherwise, it flickers and dies eventually.

Tend your fire. Let it burn bright.

The idea of letting your flame burn bright for all to see is easy to say but is a difficult task for most folks. There’s a risk involved that is daunting to most. First and foremost is failure. The fear that your dream’s flame could be forever extinguished keeps most folks from ever lighting it. It seems easier and safer to just keep the possibility of it alive in your mind.

But that is like taking the potential blaze held in a pack of matches and throwing them in a drawer where they will soon be forgotten.

They are your matches, your fire. They want to burn. Let them burn bright.

I thought this Mary Oliver poem was a good match for the new painting above, Burning Bright. Though it is slightly bigger than a Little Gem at 10″ by 10″ on wood panel, it made its way to the West End Gallery ahead of their annual Little Gems exhibit opening next Friday, February 6.

This feels somewhat incomplete and I am sure I could edit this better or add more context but, hey, you get what you pay for here. It might not be much, but it keeps my flame alive.

Let’s have a song to fill out the triad. Here’s the great Leonard Cohen with a live performance from 2008 of his Who By Fire. I feel warmer already on this cold morning.

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A Look Back: Summerfield

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 12, 2026| 2 Comments »

But above all, in order to be, never try to seem.

― Albert Camus, Notebooks, 1935-1951

I am going to try to share an older piece every Monday. I say try because I may simply forget to continue the series at some point or it might run out of steam. It’s happened with me before. Like the old line from Robert Burns: The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

But for now, I will try to keep it going.

This small painting, Summerfield, from 1994 has been a favorite in recent years for me. To be fair, I liked it when it was painted. However, I was just finding my voice at around the same time, transitioning to a more personalized style and process that would better speak for me.

This piece represented that period in my development where I was still trying to make work that was comparable to others. It’s a period most artists go through, when the work of others serves as gauge against which they can compare and gauge their progress. It’s helpful and sometimes satisfying as you approach what you consider an acceptable level of ability. You begin to feel as though you’re part of the club.

But for some there comes a point where you sense that this is not the path for you. You realize that you don’t really want to be in the club, however prestigious that club might be. You don’t want to be compared to the others in the club, don’t want to be limited by the constraints of the rules of the club, some of which felt arbitrary.

If I felt that the sky should be red or the fields purple, why should I not paint them in those colors?

This piece was one of the last pieces where I was still thinking about joining the club. Maybe the last one actually. I never signed it, nor do I believe I have ever shown it publicly even though the progress and quality it showed pleased me greatly.

It just didn’t seem to fit into where I saw my work going at the time.

But over the years it has become a favorite, always bringing a warm feeling when I come across it. Its sense of place and time resonates with me. Perhaps more now than when I painted in over 30 years ago.

I no longer see it as an echo of someone else. I view it as a helpful stop along the way where I was deciding which way to go.

More than that, I simply appreciate it now for what it is in front of me.

Much like Camus’ words at the top, it doesn’t seem to be trying to be what it is not.

It has its own sense of being. It just is what it is.

And though it took time to come to this recognition, I like what it is.

Here’s a song that came on while I was writing this. Its tone seemed so perfect for the feeling I was getting from Summerfield that I can’t resist sharing it. This is Blue Skies from Tom Waits. It’s a stark contrast to his The Earth Died Screaming that I included in a post a few days back.

This is one of his earlier songs so maybe this is his Summerfield?

Who knows?

Doesn’t matter. It just is what it is. And that is all I need to know.

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Que Sera, Sera

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

The Heart is Free— At West End Gallery

At Epidaurus, in the stillness, in the great peace that came over me, I heard the heart of the world beat. I know what the cure is: it is to give up, to relinquish, to surrender, so that our little hearts may beat in unison with the great heart of the world.

–Henry Miller, The Colossus of Maroussi (1941)

Que sera, sera.

Whatever will be, will be.

There’s a certain fatalistic aspect to this well-worn phrase that seems questionable in troubled times. On its face it seems to be saying that we should just accept things as they come. Don’t worry, be happy to quote another popular song.

Again, if that is the case, it seems like poor advice in dangerous times such as those through which we are now travelling.

But I don’t think the phrase or song can be taken at such face value. I don’t think it is saying that we should just accept whatever is put on our plate or that we should simply acquiesce to those who seek to subjugate us.

It doesn’t say that we should end resistance to that which offends all sense of decency.

No, in my eyes, it says that we should release our sense of dread and fear, that we should trust that the light of our better angels, with all the help we can muster, will push away the darkness. It says that the future is never fully written even though there are those who might wish you to believe it is already deeply engraved with their dark visions for the future.

It says to me that you have to set aside fear and panic and to replace it with resolve and calmness that allows you to trust that the future will still be filled with light.

I see it as a more proactive song than the title may seem. You may not be able to control the future, but you can nudge it so long as you don’t fall prey to the paralysis created by fear and worry. The only thing we need to relinquish is fear and the only thing we should hold tightly to is our love and compassion.

Whatever will be, will be but remember that you still have a say it what it will be.

That reminds me– it’s election day across the country. Vote for the future you want.

This post came about as a result of recently stumbling on a version of this song, which is, of course, the beloved trademark of Doris Day, from Sly and the Family Stone, recorded in 1973. I had never heard this version before and it sent me thinking.

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