Some Mornings

Some mornings I begin the day by writing in my journal and reading from four inspirational daily readers that reside on my Kindle.  I’d like to say every morning but that would be a bold faced lie.  I’d like to say most mornings, but lately I’m not even close to most.  So, I’ll stick with Some Mornings, adding that those are the days that seem to go better than the rest.  If that is true, you might ask, why don’t I do it every day?   That is a topic for another morning.   Besides the books on my Kindle, there are three books (real books, hard covered!) on my desk that I read from: Dr. Bernie Siegal’s 365 Prescriptions for the Soul, Good Poems selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor, and A Year in Impressionism, a collection of 365 impressionist works by an assortment of artists.  One prescription for the soul, one poem and one impressionist painting … Some Mornings.

I.C.

Between the years 2005 and 2010, I filled two large portfolios with drawings and paintings (plus a few that ended up on my office walls).   The impetus for this surge in creativity was something called art journaling, which I first came in The Artful Journal – A Spiritual Quest by Maureen Carey, Raymond Fox and Jacqueline Penney.  When I found the book I had been doing Morning Pages (a form of freeform written journaling recommended by Julia Cameron in The Artist’s Way) for years.   Morning Pages is three pages of longhand writing done first thing in the morning, stream of consciousness, no stopping, nothing off limits.  Connect the brain to the pen and go.   There are many good reasons to do Morning Pages but the one I want to talk about is silencing the fellow who provides the title of this post, I.C. – your Inner Critic.  We all have one, that voice in our heads who is fond of telling us we’re not very good at things, especially that first attempt at a poem or short story … or a first watercolor or drawing with pastels.  Why?   Well, According to Hal and Sidra Stone in Embracing Your Inner Critic, it started out when you were a child as a guide to meeting the standards of those around you, correcting you internally before you get in trouble.   But somewhere along the line, it tries to take over, becoming a specialist in telling you what you can’t … and shouldn’t … do.  Mostly by telling you you’re not good enough.

Almost Daily

One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words – Goethe

Most mornings, I remember to read a Daily page from David Kundtz’ lovely book, Quiet Mind: One Minute Mindfulness.  It is part of what I call my Morning Practice … I’d call it Daily Practice but that would be a lie.  I am easily distracted, especially in the morning and Almost Daily Practice sounds dumb.   What I like about Goethe’s list is that each item takes only a few moments , in keeping with the title of Kundtz’ book, where as my Morning Practice takes over an hour.   But I do listen to music as I write in the morning (hear a little song, check).  At the moment the song is Cast Your Fate to the Wind by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.

Snow

I grew up in New England, Connecticut to be precise.  When I was a child, snow was a delight, a chance to sled, have snowball fights, build snow forts and snowmen.   As I grew, it became a source of income as well as fun … there were usually neighbors willing to pay a few dollars to have their driveways shoveled.   The Christmas light reflected in the glittering snow are part of my best holiday memories.  It even played a role in the courtship of my wife, Muri.  We made up after our last break-up standing on the bridge on the University of Connecticut’s Mirror Lake.  During a snow storm.  Apparently that’s a good place to make a commitment because here we are, 54 years later.

The Grey-Ghost

This is a post from my art blog, Artsy. about depression. It is bit different than what I usually post here but given the effect of the the COVID-19 pandemic on our country, I think that it is pertinent.

A few weeks ago, I was Rambling on Older Eyes, about fighting depression as I deal with the shit-storm that life seems to have dealt me in 2020.   I’m certainly not alone.   Time magazine reports that since COVID infected its way into our lives, about twice as many Americans are reporting moderate depression and about six times as many severe.  My wife and I were still adjusting a move into our new home in Utah after living in California for 50 years when the pandemic hit.  Like many people we are dismayed by the political rancor in our country and the way it is making the pandemic worse.  Add my daughter and wife dealing with breast cancer and you have the kind of environment that drives me from mild to moderate on the depression scale in spite of a daily anti-depressant.

Fun with Words

The year 2020 has has not been much fun and that has been reflected in my posts.  So, on this lovely Saturday morning (it’s finally cooled off a bit here in South Jordan, UT), I though I’d resurrect an old post from August of 2011.   A fun post.  OK, a fun post if you enjoy words.  I assume it’s obvious by the sheer number of words I generate here that I am a word-guy   . and given the number of readers I have compared to the time I put in here, you’ve got to know I do this for fun.  Now, for a word-guy, what could be more fun than Fun with Words, words strung together in interesting combinations so cool that they have their own name. If you’re on the ball today, you know from my illustration (which is, by the way, a pun) that the first word combination for today is known as an oxymoron, which Wikipedia says is a figure of speech that combines contradictory terms.

The Art of Napping

If you have ever owned a cat (or more correctly, if a cat has ever owned you), you know that cats sleep a lot.  According to catster.com, cats can sleep up to 16 hours a day, more as they get older (I can relate).   As a somewhat fitful napper, I am always jealous of how my cats have seemed to be able to nap comfortably almost anywhere … and appear blissfully at ease in the most interesting positions.   Yes, there’s stretching, too, but we’ll leave that for another day.  However, my newest feline companion, Claude, between his Rorschach-Test markings and the variation of positions he assumes in his beds, raises napping to the level of art.   Here is a collage of just a few of his abstract patterns.

Art History

Recently, I posted an photo of me, my parents, Florence and Frank, and my siblings, Glenn and Pat in the living room of the house I grew up in. That room was the center of my universe from the time we moved there in 1952 until I went off to college. When family … grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins … visited, we sat in the living room. Dad would often move the table from our smallish kitchen to the living room to give us more room for Thanksgiving. Christmas trees were decorated and presents opened there. I told my parents that I had proposed to my college sweetheart there. Dad took countless naps while reading the paper in the chair by the door and I learned my love of classical music listening to Mom’s records on the stereo under the picture window. In my college years, Mom and I would sit up watching Johnny Carson and talking on the sofa under “Dad’s mirror” (he never walked by it without a little gavotte). More than once, he’d call from their bedroom at the end of the hall, Would you two keep it down out there?

Artsy

Suppose you are at a party.   Trying to make small talk, you strike up a conversation with someone you don’t know.  Sooner or later, you are likely to ask the ubiquitous question, What do you do?  If the person replies, I’m a doctor … or even better, I’m a neurosurgeon … you are likely impressed, as well as encouraged that a path for an interesting conversation lies ahead.   If your new acquaintance says, I’m an engineer, not so much on either account.   But what if the answer is, I’m an artist?  How do respond?  With interest or skepticism?  Do you subtly check her out to see if she looks like an artist?  Are you intimidated?  Do you silently wonder, Do you have a real job?  If instead of introducing himself as an artist, your new friend says, I’m a painter, do you automatically assume he paints houses?  Or, if she says she’s a writer, do you ask, Have written any books?  Which means, for sure, Have you published any books?  Do you mumble, I don’t now anything about art, and escape to talk to someone else.  Or do you say, I used to like art but I wasn’t very good at it?  Or, recall that when you began to dabble in drawing, your parents cautioned, You can’t make a living as an artist, you know.

Monday Smiles – 4/20/2015

This post has been buzzing in my head for a week or so, and today, it is determined to get onto the page.  If this wasn’t a Monday, the post would be titled, Art for Art’s Sake, not a very original title.  But it works, even if I use it a way different from the meaning intended by the French philosopher, Victor Cousin, when he said L’art pour l’art.  He meant that art needs no justification, that it need serve no political, didactic, or other end.  I believe that for sure but it’s not what I’m smiling about on this warm Monday morning, when the skies are hazy with smoke from a wildfire several miles down the freeway.

I was raised by a rational Dad and an artistic Mom, and my Dad’s influence has dominated my professional career with my artistic side relegated to hobbies.  If that sounds dismissive, that is an echo of what I felt for much of my life.  I painted in oil and watercolors, drew in pencil and charcoal and pastels, but never considered myself an artist.  I loved writing and even earned a certificate in creative writing in my fifties.  A short story I wrote in one of my classes was published in a minor literary magazine and I actually completed a novel.  But I never felt like a writer.   My upbringing had taught me that you had to make a living at something to earn the title.  Older Eyes – Bud’s Blog was intended to talk about the experience of growing old(er), the positives and the negatives.  Yes, there are positives, like shedding the notion that to be a writer, I have to earn money or have thousands of readers.  Or that to be an artist, I need to sell my paintings.   The fact that I have posted 1702 posts here is adequate evidence that I am a writer, and while I love Likes and Comments, I write for writing’s sake. I post my photographs here and that makes me a photographer, and when I base a drawing on one of my photographs, I am indeed an artist.  I am happier when I create.

If that sounds like much ado about nothing (another stolen title … I do steal from the best), think again.  It is one of the true gifts of having An Older Perspective.  And it makes me smile.  But you don’t have to wait until you are older to do it.