It’s sad what our society has deemed beautiful. It it has become synonymous with youth, or body type, or any number of other societal designations. I looked at our wedding pictures and even put one up in my social media page because it’s fun to see us on our wedding day. As I looked at my face and I looked at my husband’s face I saw that they were beautiful. I also realized that the beauty I see is the level of love and happiness coming out of my eyes and my smile that was the beauty, not my age. It was the twinkle in my husband’s eye and the mischievous smile and tilt of his head that was the beauty. Sometimes when I sit at the kitchen table and I see him concentrating I am enthralled. Watching him squint at the laptop screen as he reads the conversations that his students are having about history in his online class, or when he is looking out the window dreaming our next adventure, or even problem solving a task that he wants to accomplish, his face reflects his mind. Here is that same fabulously beautiful face of my brilliant friend. Yes, it is changing. There are different lines, different places for the light to reflect, and even the color of his hair is different. Whiter in bright sunlight than at any other time, it becomes beautiful silver threads and the lines in his face become reflections of that brilliant mind. Perhaps this is the core of the statement, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”. If that is the case, and I can assure you that it is, I am thankful to the point of tears that I see beauty in such abundance in everything in my world. I pray to God that this remains my armor against the ugliness that has nothing to do with visual representation. In continuation of gratitude by counting my blessings, I thank God for my husband. I also thank God for my ability to push paint around on a canvas and capture all of the wonderful things He is showing me. I hope you enjoy today’s painting, an 8″ by 10″ oil on canvas study called, “Ray”.

Sometimes that’s a really hard thing to do. It takes tremendous effort, actually, and it feels very selfish. It is also very important.

We see a country in turmoil. We see a plague ravaging the world and reinventing itself to expand the threat. We see people turning against each other to assign blame in a misguided attempt to regain control. We see people struggling with food insecurity, trying to keep their homes and jobs and businesses. We see people looking at what others have and becoming consumed with envy. Looking at all this it is hard to consider feeling anything but dispair and I often feel truly guilty if I say I am happy.

The act of feeling contentment or happiness takes determination and feels contrived. In fact, it isn’t becoming happy that is contrived but it is the difficult, methodical and scripted steps necessary to clear our spirit of the clutter prohibiting us from feeling worthy of happiness, that takes contrivance.

One of the most common ways for me is to focus on all of the good in my life. Yes, if I am trying to be happy I begin by counting my blessings – slowly and reverently. This is not the same as arrogantly flaunting that I have something that someone else doesn’t have. This is not about others at all. Our blessings are unique to each of us, and it is purely and directly about thanking God for each particular blessing we have been gifted. It is personal. It can be hard and must be repeated whenever necessary.

This is a good day for me. I awoke well rested. I can see my home, and the snowy midwestern landscape outside the windows. I am fed, and warm. I have spent the morning painting. I feel joy seeing my husband’s smiling face as he greets me and encourages me just as he has done for the last 35 years. I am truly blessed and immensely thankful. I am happy.

I hope you enjoy today’s painting, a 16″ x 20″ oil on canvas. Perhaps I will title it, Finding Happiness.

In following with the theme of play that I have been talking about for the last several posts, I wanted to say that for me, play in the studio does not always mean taking paint to canvas. Working with miniatures is something that I have always enjoyed but it has been years since I’ve truly played with them. I had taken today off work and it seemed like the right day to do something just for myself.

A couple of months ago the wall clock in my office at work finally died completely. No amount of tinkering or batteries or anything could make it run, and all 3 of the hands joined each other down at 6 o’clock. Just as I went to throw it in the dumpster I stared at it and thought, “gosh, but that’s a great circle with a nice cover… I wonder if I could do a little diorama in that?” There you go. That’s the spark that you need to play. I brought it home and it sat in the studio until yesterday when I looked over and thought, “maybe I should just go ahead and pitch that thing?” No, I needed to follow through.

So instead I pried off the cover, ditched the clock mechanisms, and traced out the cover on a piece of art paper. Now I knew how big I needed for the backdrop. It was an 8″diameter clock so it’s quite large but when I actually took the clock apart I discovered that I only had a shallow depth of about a 1/2 inch. That was surprising and not as deep as I would like but this was, after all, just play.

This process is really just like what they do in museums. First I painted the water color back scene. Museums paint the backdrop first to add setting for some kind of 3-D image in the front, like a taxidermy animal to focus on, and then add a 3-D environment to bridge the space between the animal and the scene.

I sculpted the little critters from skulpy and baked them in the oven along with the potatoes last night. The weeds and realistic growth are actually just plucked off of one of the dried weed arrangements scattered throughout my house. So I blocked, glued, painted the little figures, and just dithered this fantasy landscape into being. There is nothing here that is rendered perfectly, nothing makes any political statement, and nothing has the validity of a story… but you know, sometimes you just need to relax and play. Instead of ending up in a dumpster it will have a second life as a diorama of a fox on some little hilltop overlooking a lake and some distant hills. As for me, I remember how much I loved playing with things that are small, painting things that are small, and crafting.

Never hesitate to play. It is through play and creativity that we awaken all those places in our mind that are necessary to do the good work in all the other areas of our life. Find something fun to do that isn’t tied to work, chores, or revenue. Just play.

From the time we begin to engage in our world as a small child, and then start school, we find those who will admonish us if we spend too much time daydreaming. We’re told to be practical, pay attention, focus, make a plan, and develop stick-to-it-tive-ness. These are all quite admirable of course and necessary traits for success in life. I would say, however, that there is an equally vital component for success… imagination.

Imagination is born in play; unscripted and spontaneous play. It is also a skill developed over time that gives our life both foundation and wings, equally. Most importantly of all, it is not exclusive. Absolutely everyone has the access, and the capability to play and grow their imagination. It can become the unpredictable element that lifts the successful to the notable, and the admirable to the extraordinary in the most incremental action or creation.

Over the years there have been those who have growing concerns over the level of scripted creativity now found in play. The images are prescribed, the dialogue is written, the songs are complete, and little is left to the imagination. The concern is that if we do not learn how to fill in enough of the images or stories from within our own imagination we will not learn how to create our own. It could also be said, however, that by giving us stories and images as seeds – however complete – they prime the pump for future creativity. Perhaps both are accurate?

We need to dream. We need to write and draw and build and imagine beyond what we know, absolutely. Dreams are how inventions are made real. Dreams are how we reach beyond our perceived limitations. Dreams are our freedom from confines.

Today’s painting in the ‘Play’ series is an 8″ x 10″ oil on canvas of a dog who is the main character in a children’s story, one of several I will publish someday.

So as I think about what I need to do to sort things out I immediately remember something my dad used to tell me over and over when I would get overwhelmed. If I had a lot of tasks at hand looking like insurmountable challenges, he would quietly say, “… just stop. Take your time. Rather than look at everything you have to do all at once, break it down. Look at things one piece at a time.”

That particular approach is not unique to my father. I have heard the concept repeated a number of ways over the years but having someone I respect remind me of that has continued to help me my whole life. I can get overwhelmed by the appearance of magnitude. I need to be reminded to stop for a moment, and take my time.

I am a list maker and that can be good or bad. On the good side it’s a very organized way to articulate and identify all the things I need to do, and as I finish something I can make a check mark next to it. That’s satisfying and encouraging. When it gets hard is when your list grows expotentialy, becoming unwieldy. It begins to grow out of control and each day you just add to the list, try to pick up speed to get a handle on it, and you may not get to make any check marks. Well that’s no fun! It can be suddenly overwhelming.

Tonight I am sitting on my back screen porch looking out at the last rays of today’s sunlight. It is the first sun we’ve really been able to enjoy in some time and it is uplifting. I was thinking last night about what my father had said about stopping and taking my time, and realized that I needed to do that.

I need to stop the inertia. I need to be self aware. Painting has the duality of both catharsis and illustration, the latter sometimes giving the captured negative bits too much traction. So when I put a canvas in front of me last night I decided that I needed to paint something that was defusing and positive again. I needed to take my time.

So what I painted last night is simply a portrait of a cow. There is no cloaked message, no statement, and no internal angst being processed. It is a step towards my inner peace. It is me calming down and hitting a reset button. It is an exercise in pushing paint around. It is play. It is art. It is honoring the other part of Kelly that sees joy and beauty in absolutely everything. That is the person that I need to feed and nurture and protect because that is the person who will persevere.

I hope you enjoy this 11″ by 14″ oil on canvas called “Cow”.

In less than a week we will begin a new year. We are always hopeful that somehow this invisible line in the sand caused by the flip of a calendar will somehow cause a miraculous shift to the better. The excitement and hope that we all experience causes us to make a plan, make a list, make amends, and universally go into the New Year with a tremendous level of optimism and determination.

Tabula rosa, the clean slate. I, myself, am right there with plans like that each year. In this approaching year it feels even more necessary. I suspect there’s not anyone reading this that won’t be happy to see 2020 in our rear view mirror, but I wonder why we’re so focused on a singular, set date to begin?

Yes, this has been a hard year for a myriad of reasons, all slightly different for each of us depending on our own circumstances and emotional state. I struggled, as many have, but am determined to be grateful for all of the blessings I have received. I enjoyed my Christmas Day with my husband and cooked and ate and watched some television. I also started this painting. I had begun to think about the year ahead and sat down at the canvas to push some paint around while I thought.

Sometimes the years are mundane, only becoming as good as we pre-determine them to be. Oh, I know, there are those things we have no control over (like illness) but we inadvertantly set limits based on our limited vision. What if we truly start over and remove the ceiling? I have to say that by this point in the year I am positive that the next year will be better than ever, and I feel the most control. Maybe that’s where I make my mistake. I’m not in control and really shouldn’t try to be because I will always aim low based on my limited vision.

As I started to paint I was thinking about my love for the dramatic sunrise, sunset, water reflection or shine and I realized that in all of those scenarios the light is already fully engaged and somewhat predictable. I enjoy painting light in full splendor. However, there is something truly amazing and inspiring to view emerging light that begins when you are in the darkness. If you’re in the woods, especially in the middle of the Winter when it gets very dark early and stays dark later, that darkness can be very deep. When dawn starts to grow the first little bit you are literally thrilled to be able to differentiate between solid and the space between limbs, branches and voids. Then, there is that magical moment just before you actually see the source of the light, but you can begin to see the effect of the light. The limbs and the edges of the branches begin to reveal because of what you can’t yet see, and wherever the light hits new snow it becomes almost luminescent in a joyous response to the light. As light increases, so does color. It is … awesome.

I must admit that I don’t believe I fully captured on canvas what I had in my head but it was good practice and good to think. I will no doubt try to capture this predawn time of day again sometime because the hope of this first light is very much like the first day of a New Year. It does not, cannot, and should not attempt to predict the weather for the day, the temperament of the month ahead, or the forecast of events for the year but we forgive the beginning of a day or the beginning of a year because we know that noone or nothing can see the future. We forgive because it did, after all, start out with pure hope like we do.

It’s up to us whether we sustain that new hope, impact the next month with our stockpiled supply of new hope, and potentially set a good course for the rest of the year. Moreover, we are not limited to one calendar day and doomed to wait until we start again. New beginnings are repeatable. Despite what looked like a disastrous year, we have done good things both large and small. Whether you’ve stayed healthy, calmer or resiliently upbeat, you have a proven record of successes every day to show for it. You have endured. You have loved. You have become stronger.

Make this New Year like that of the first new light of the day; full of new hope. If we stumble out of the gate, start again.

I share this image with its flaws and struggles much like the passing year as an excercise in pondering – a 16″ x 20″ oil on canvas entitled, Dawn in the Dark Wood.

Gosh, I miss spontaneity. I miss road trips to wander off grid with little pre-prep. I miss unrestricted play. I suspect I will never take those things for granted again.

Until this year many of us struggled to make time in our busy schedules to set up a weekend play date with friends, or pencil in a vacation on a company calendar. We made do with the quick picnic or bike outing. We hurriedly gathered for a campfire and guitar evening or a luncheon date with friends because we understood the balance that we needed between our work and our play. It’s a hard thing to do under normal circumstances.

Now, in this year of extra complicated challenges, it feels astronomical to plan and even harder to pull off the simplest event. We’re constrained by shifting business environments, by demands to our overtaxed financial status, and by a strange fuzziness of what is considered time off work. We mix going to the office and working from home and go through daily gyrations to figure out how much of the time working from home can be verified. It all feels like the ‘if a tree falls in the forest and no one hears/witnesses…’ conversation. It all feels hard.

Dining with friends has become more than the spontaneity of picking up the phone and saying, “what are you doing tonight?” Now it becomes, “where should we meet… when can we meet… what has your behavior been for the last 10 to 14 days… what’s the temperature outside… is your sitter in quarantine?” The novelty of strict discipline has worn off and the Christmas holiday is coming. Even though we know we need to think about any time spent with others, it comes at the same time that we are tired and wanting to go rogue and gamble. Consideration of others over self is certainly being put to the test now.

I yearn for the luxury of coming home from work and saying “gosh let’s just go out …who feels like cooking”. For the spontaneity of “let’s just go camping this weekend.” “Let’s go see our friends.” “Let’s get in the Van and drive for 2 weeks knowing that we can get gas, can be at a hotel if we want to, can eat at a greasy spoon off some interstate if we want to, can go into a little shop and walk around for distraction or buy some sundry that we forgot. I miss the spontaneity of sitting beside a lake or river and finding the mental and emotional stimulation that resets our priorities.

Any envy of retired friends that tell me that they’ve been walking along the lake shore, biking through the woods, or strolling on a beach is short lived because I know they are only slightly less impacted than I am since they don’t go to a workplace. Self motivation, self entertainment and even the determination to stay positive is a genuine struggle for us all. It is hard not to throw up my hands and say I’m done, but in truth I am way too stubborn to get this far around the track, see the finish line out ahead of me, and quit!

I appreciate the humor people share. I appreciate the uplifting memes they send. I appreciate the photography of everything from kittens to cabins to stare at. We all get it. We all mask our emotions along with the lower half of our faces to everyone except family, and coworkers in zoom. It is not easy to be spontaneous with Zoom and not all friends and family have the capability, inclination or hardware. Some of my snow bird friends have flown South, and others are putting up their Christmas decorations now. We cannot just go visit and the holiday cheer feels a bit less festive in Brady bunch configurations.

I sat down at the easel yesterday and struggled to find a photo that I wanted to paint. This ‘tired to the core’ feeling is a hard one to stare down, but I felt calmer when I started to look through my phone photos. I do look forward to the day when I can go out and breathe fresh air and see the abundant loveliness in nature but scrolling these I recalled moments that Ray and I just pulled the van over beside a lovely meandering river and felt the peace that this brought. Many of these photos had nothing dramatic about them such as a colorful sunset, rock formation, waterfall or unique creature, but were just what they were, a snapshot of a peaceful moment in afternoon sun.

Perhaps I am numbed by too much drama in my every day. Perhaps I have reduced the importance of how a quiet, spontaneous moment allows you to you look and see subtle beauty. I don’t need a big plan or a long drive, all I need is the impromptu glance out my kitchen window at the birdfeeder. I’ve got to remember not to amplify what I cannot have right now, and focus instead on what I can have. This challenging time will pass and we can go back to our adventures. That spontaneity of a road trip will be worth celebrating, but in the meantime we can endure.

This is a 16″ by 20″ oil on canvas called ‘Roadside Break.”

There has always been a romance affiliated to the act of correspondence. We are intrigued by the images in paintings of a woman sitting at a writing desk, pen in hand, writing a family member or sweetheart. There is evident body language and a transparency of emotion in her face that yearns for reveal.

This kind of writing goes above and beyond the utility of passing information from one person to another. It is the latter mechanism by which we do business, write those formal letters of recommendation, and do legal transactions. It is also true that this utility has sustained itself through emails, texts, tweets and any other digitally transmitted initiatives, and has evolved into another form of correspondence that dilutes the author and disconnects them from their targeted audience.

But let me pause my diatribe and focus for a moment on how lost the core art may be. We don’t have to look as far back as 1803. We can look in our near distant past with parents who still wrote the sweet greetings, the thank you notes, the letters to pen pals in some other country, or to the boy that they liked across study hall, albeit only in their diary. Prose and poetry still held true spots in our vocabulary and penmanship was still taught in school. Stepping back more generations we can look at our grandparents or great grandparents. There was no computer technology so all writing stood for who we were. There was no condemnation for emotion, but there was for the art of penmanship and English sentence structure. These were the basic tools of good communication.

I grew up watching my parents write. Since our family was a fair distance from the core families, they wrote long chatty letters to relatives to keep them abreast of what was going on. They didn’t pick up the phone and fill them in quickly in snippets sentences. They wrote their stories. They expressed their emotions. They put it on paper. They brought you along through a transformation.

From the moment you received the post to the quiet drawdown into a letter when you opened it, it was ceremonious. When you got a special letter you excitedly lay it down beside your chair and went to make that cup of tea because it was expected to honor the gift. Reading was to be an intimate experience, done with eloquence and ceremony. It took time both to compose your thoughts to write, and to imagine the writer as you read their words.

Both my parents had beautiful handwriting, Parker born and bred. My mother’s handwriting was pure artistic poetry. It would follow along with a solid baseline and a fluid scroll and sadly, it was the 1st thing that she started to lose as the dementia began to wash over her in her latter years. She lost the ability to remember how to write in cursive and it broke her heart in a way that I never could have imagined. Writing is that personal touch between the author and the recipient. For her to be able to write friends or relatives and express her opinions in her own hand was important. She spoke boldly and graciously through her writing.

I think about literally sitting and watching my aged grandmother’s hands as she wrote. I think about my mother’s hands as she wrote, and my father’s hands as he wrote. In his later years he knew how absolutely important this process was. As a pastor he knew what a personal, emotional touch that a hand written note can have on a person’s heart. It was vital. I watched him write back to every single Christmas card. I watched him write back to every single get well wish that he would get in the mail. Yes, he typed e-mails, his sermons and his weekly bulletins well into his later years, but oh my word what an eloquent writer.

I’ve had several friends over the years who have talked about this with me and one dear friend, Lorie, and I tried to reestablish writing letters. We knew that we could pick up the phone and we could talk for an hour and I would heartily say that we loved those moments, but we also knew that special joy of mail and as we talked on the phone we would say “no I’m saving that one for the letter”. We would send 3 and 4 page letters back-and-forth monthly. She understood me, and loved me despite my flaws so she would overlook my spelling, and run on sentences, and she would see past it to the passion of my heart. There aren’t too many now that are willing to restart that kind of thing. I lost that friend far too early on, just as I’ve lost my parents and my grandmother and others who still believed in the strength and wonder of correspondence.

When was the last time you get out a piece of paper and an envelope and you wrote someone you cared about just to say “hello my friend”? When have you written to say, “I was thinking of you”? I guarantee that you interact on Facebook, Twitter, or email at best. Our correspondence is confined to shared jokes, images and links. If you allow your emotions to show they may be confined to a single emoji. If you really feel strongly about the person they may warrant several emojis in a string. I do it myself. I completely understand, but I also find myself very sad and nostalgic. We exist in anonymity and parrot others’ words.

As for myself, I am afraid to reveal my stream of conscious writing style and the poor spelling that often emerges as a result. Correspondence without spellcheck for me becomes a matter of emotional trust that my recipient will not judge me too harshly and see beyond the errors. It is a bittersweet sadness.

Today’s painting is a 16″ by 20″ oil on canvas called My Father’s Hands.