tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191045702024-02-21T19:51:27.058-05:00Second Cup of CoffeeHis Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.comBlogger949125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-29402135225051789012023-09-13T15:20:00.000-04:002023-09-13T15:20:13.809-04:00Holes in my T-shirt<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiId4IwHiJgQoHl4qIrMVQW9Z63OhFvY94ceAcrawCOS0N-UZ_VOy0GU7hJE0h4mzAm76J_IHNeeTU4g_06FF3-q3ABLLRl5T0ZdGR2rBMLHhhdXY8gViVX91R-CMnr7VM1bqX2aMfczZOr98iKdtl9POlXPD1RP23QPJ71ojtBD_4nhdOCX-YB/s2016/IMG_4050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiId4IwHiJgQoHl4qIrMVQW9Z63OhFvY94ceAcrawCOS0N-UZ_VOy0GU7hJE0h4mzAm76J_IHNeeTU4g_06FF3-q3ABLLRl5T0ZdGR2rBMLHhhdXY8gViVX91R-CMnr7VM1bqX2aMfczZOr98iKdtl9POlXPD1RP23QPJ71ojtBD_4nhdOCX-YB/w300-h400/IMG_4050.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Recently I read a blog about what the writer calls ‘quirky’ and what I call ‘ingenious’ idea of giving people ‘soul’ T-shirts, with inscriptions that capture that person’s personality trait or life situation. Of course, unlike the kindhearted author most of us wouldn’t even dream of posting on a public blog some of the things spelled out on the soul T-shirts we give out to other people (and this - <i>not sharing it</i> - is a good thing!) . The idea of giving away the soul T-shirts, practiced by many whether we acknowledge it or not, jump-started me into thinking about what kind of soul T-shirt do I wear. In my characteristically modest way, I would say that on the front of my shirt, in bold ALL CAPS cool font, a single word is spelled out:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">HUMBLE</span><br /><br />The back of the shirt would sport all lowercase, less conspicuous:<br /><br />brag<br /><br />The Humble Brag. <br /><br />I’ve stolen the nifty descriptive phrase from the Urban Dictionary. The reason why it caught my attention was that I was seeing the wide-spread epidemic of the defined behavior all around me – on FB, on blogs, in the paper… Finally, in the spirit of the speck and the log (check out Matthew 7:3) it dawned on me that the whole world couldn’t be going crazy – it must be ME! And, sure enough, so it was! What a relief!<br /><br />I was quite amazed by how easy it was for me to spell out what my soul T-shirt says on the outside. But, then, I sensed that there was a message on the inside of my soul T-shirt, written with the invisible ink, that nobody can see…. So, as is my habit, I started a dialogue with the Nobody….<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />So, whatcha think…. What does the INSIDE of my soul T-shirt say?<br /><br />You know it…<br /><br />I do???<br /><br />A-ha…<br /><br />Really? You kiddin’ me… I have no clue…<br /><br />Sure you do. It’s scribbled all over, right next to those moth-eaten holes that Nobody sees….<br /><br />Moth-eaten holes… this is going too far! My soul doesn’t have any moth-eaten holes!!!<br /><br />….<br /><br />Or… does it?</span><br /><br />So, while Nobody is looking, I flip my soul T-shirt inside out and to my amazement, I see, with my own handwriting, messages that Nobody can see.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You are not enough… You are not enough… You are not enough… You are not enough….<br /></span><br /> </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">I am not sure if the ‘You’ refers to me... or Nobody.<br /><br />Next to the words, for the first time in my life I see some huge, some tiny holes… each one bearing the shape of particular discontentment with life and circumstances, my family and myself… The times when my situation seemed either too big or too small for God to care about and consequently just having Him in my life simply wasn’t good enough… Having Him wasn’t quite sufficient, for it was OBVIOUS that I MUST have this thing or that, approval from this one, and a FB like from another, a perfectly harmonious marriage, and equally perfectly respectful kids ALL THE TIME. The times when my intense desire for something notably beautiful, and good, and right - like being a model representative of 'Thy Kingdom Come' - punctured a hole on the inside of my soul’s T-shirt and made me forget who it is that made me, who counts the bones in my body, the freckles on my face and the hairs on my head.<br /><br />A single peek on the inside and I am awaked to the fact that what really matters about my soul’s T-shirt is what Nobody sees.<br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And there is no creature hidden from His sight, but all things are open and laid bare to the eyes of Him with whom we have to do</span>. Hebrews 4:13</span></div>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-85984071399171596422023-09-06T15:00:00.002-04:002023-09-06T15:00:42.389-04:00The Ugly Painting<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_TdWGq7cgq8dVXVRIgGGG0cw-bxl1IXeXazoVdGN7Js01LhNrQvgDu6AsOOtYbfhem9TqBxsUQ6OiX_It_B61JHc4GvK3Ittr3wZLVzQSqH0BgShB302-_afVF18BjFCfqHN7Jop9A_B0GDpwVmTogbnxidH-FXfbZP17H35Ku-jpr07IQID/s1655/IMG_3956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1655" data-original-width="1401" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC_TdWGq7cgq8dVXVRIgGGG0cw-bxl1IXeXazoVdGN7Js01LhNrQvgDu6AsOOtYbfhem9TqBxsUQ6OiX_It_B61JHc4GvK3Ittr3wZLVzQSqH0BgShB302-_afVF18BjFCfqHN7Jop9A_B0GDpwVmTogbnxidH-FXfbZP17H35Ku-jpr07IQID/w339-h400/IMG_3956.jpg" width="339" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">I am currently taking Find Your Joy taster course by British abstract artist, <a href="https://www.louisefletcherart.com/free-course" target="_blank">Louise Fletcher</a> and 'just happened' to come across this post in my drafts folder written a couple of years ago. It still resonates with me, so I decided to go ahead and make it available to the readers.</span></p><p><br /></p><p>Many would agree that one of the biggest barriers to creativity is pressure - whether internal or external - to be perfect. </p><p>To make beautiful paintings every day, every single time.</p><p>To write meaningful well-crafted poems, or stories, or blog entries... every single time. </p><p>To produce a jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring masterpiece day in day out. </p><p>This mindset is so destructive to creative process that it must be addressed. Faced head-on. And eventually... brushed off and ignored. </p><p>Nobody - I mean <i>nobody - </i>can sustain that kind of superior creative productivity over any respectable length of time. </p><p>I am not saying that taming the dragon of perfectionism is easy, that there would be no backsliding or injuries to our ego or anything like that. But the outcome is well-worth it!</p><p>It may not work for everyone but I found that being very intentional about making something ugly can get us well along the way of enjoying unencumbered creativity.</p><p>Today, we are not making anything pretty, or beautiful, or fine. </p><p>Today we are making... an ugly painting. </p><p>Ugly poem. Ugly story. Ugly blog post.</p><p>I know, it's totally counter-intuitive, but as evidenced by countless artists, it truly works. </p><p>Vast majority of my writing is largely garbage. As I continue to practice this craft, every once in a long while something surprisingly good comes out of my pen. </p><p>In the similar way, I have an entire stack of ugly paintings cluttering our home. They are always handy when I feel like I just want to push some paint around and see what happens. <i>This is fun! </i>I am learning! Wow, this is neat... or cool... or crappy. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxUwI3zbPFUt0uCmQi84i-YtfHcnKflTOKt0Xakp8xk8HaA10tYdqOUcrWDFXq_bIhh5Zy01Samqe3igGz51EKtIP6rSxBirLA0FB4v-RLpzyoY7rMHtW_63l5BdMbS9NpBI0Po7PC-N0YaPKgTGDrbP5PhSfyOCheIQOhCOM08Gq8hCjU3--/s2016/IMG_3970.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxUwI3zbPFUt0uCmQi84i-YtfHcnKflTOKt0Xakp8xk8HaA10tYdqOUcrWDFXq_bIhh5Zy01Samqe3igGz51EKtIP6rSxBirLA0FB4v-RLpzyoY7rMHtW_63l5BdMbS9NpBI0Po7PC-N0YaPKgTGDrbP5PhSfyOCheIQOhCOM08Gq8hCjU3--/s320/IMG_3970.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>With all the stress plaguing our world, we all need a safe place of exploration, messiness and ugly, that sometimes, surprisingly, produces something good. Actually, really good. </p><p>Having a safe place like that doesn't only reduce stress. It also relieves the pressure from the creative process, allowing room for actual <i>enjoyment</i> of the moment, blissfully free from the need to 'deliver results'. </p><p>Strangely enough, results many times follow, unexpected, usually at the time when we least expect it and when we couldn't care less. </p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-86758102388600312962021-02-04T15:08:00.000-05:002021-02-04T15:08:39.151-05:00epilogue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UfclZ0s3ongos0VgdDGKPk8vtGurVmQ3WemJsHaT_njd0Aoq1J_haAZDckuGt7SxHkFtNefYE_0QqHiyvmNJtQfnRNB_eKt_htBAnOjwltGglPg5IU-oBv6e4B84G6Rm-BWO/s1605/IMG_5352+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1605" data-original-width="1082" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UfclZ0s3ongos0VgdDGKPk8vtGurVmQ3WemJsHaT_njd0Aoq1J_haAZDckuGt7SxHkFtNefYE_0QqHiyvmNJtQfnRNB_eKt_htBAnOjwltGglPg5IU-oBv6e4B84G6Rm-BWO/w269-h400/IMG_5352+%25282%2529.JPG" width="269" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>It would be presumptuous to say that this is the end of the love story.</p><p>Of course it's not the end! It's just the beginning.</p><p>Of many strange things in this world, love might be the strangest of all.</p><p>Sometimes I think there is nothing easier...</p><p>and other times nothing harder than to love. </p><p>It takes a lifetime of learning to love and be loved.</p><p>Or perhaps, more accurately, as Editor would say,</p><p>it will take an eternity plus one day. </p><p>But we must not be discouraged by this. </p><p>On the contrary!</p><p>We can begin to relax from our driven,</p><p>performance-oriented existence,</p><p>take a breath, or two or three,</p><p>and allow the vastness and the beauty of the universe around us</p><p>... and inside us...</p><p>to enlarge our vistas as we grow in the best adventure of all. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-89298865999938222712021-01-17T12:32:00.000-05:002021-01-17T12:32:01.559-05:00a place of love revolution<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN5fq8x4WQvhN0qB3XtkmMoObqCMhYEN22diltIomrEaXWvZxVYNGB3L_NvBKpw_J1UbNaSejU8DFIt2ummDrq4SfvV-qyP63CGJgJhcYOitk7hLOpEtIhDp4VbYnLkGaLOwoT/s1280/IMG_6402+%25281%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN5fq8x4WQvhN0qB3XtkmMoObqCMhYEN22diltIomrEaXWvZxVYNGB3L_NvBKpw_J1UbNaSejU8DFIt2ummDrq4SfvV-qyP63CGJgJhcYOitk7hLOpEtIhDp4VbYnLkGaLOwoT/w400-h400/IMG_6402+%25281%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />In the spring of 2020. I worked on The Garden of the World <br />for Recycled Art Exhibit. The piece was made out of <br />international newspapers my pre-COVID globe-trotting friends <br />kindly hauled clear across the globe for this very purpose. <br />The significance and value of this project has only increased <br />in my eyes over the past year.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The message of love is clear. Every citizen of the country whose native language is love understands this message without a need for an interpreter.</p><p>However, when you live on the delicate intersection of two such vastly different worlds, trying to bring them together, trying to spell out with your life this strange bi-lingual, bi-cultural, bi-continental identity, you are bound to mix things up, break some rules, make some spelling mistakes. </p><p>I sense the Editor on the inside, squirming a bit. He can't help himself, he is so well trained in spotting the mistakes, red-penning the mix-ups, enforcing the rules.</p><p>Strangely this time, perhaps for the first time ever, he appears disarmed, stripped off his red pen and correction fluid, taken in by something infinitely greater than immaculate sentence structure, purist grammar and perfectly followed syntax rules. </p><p>She grins. </p><p>My heart melts. </p><p>No small feat has been accomplished here and I think she knows it. Satisfied, she trots off, hopping from cloud to cloud, sprawled endlessly along the beach. I eventually catch up, take her by the hand and we walk back together. It's getting late but I have to see the epic message just one more time.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIhawPfYGDewRNt0kRePQLpfRQ3ehWAnFhMRhp_ebCx3VatRMJ5rMq-ZkkTo2zz5XBWmSTocWo5RUXaaLiXgl97lkrzqZq3JZ86JuRMCd3Qn_5taUA3p0wYZRlzFbL8XEPQo0_/s1919/IMG_6397edited.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1919" data-original-width="1821" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIhawPfYGDewRNt0kRePQLpfRQ3ehWAnFhMRhp_ebCx3VatRMJ5rMq-ZkkTo2zz5XBWmSTocWo5RUXaaLiXgl97lkrzqZq3JZ86JuRMCd3Qn_5taUA3p0wYZRlzFbL8XEPQo0_/w380-h400/IMG_6397edited.jpg" width="380" /></a></div>What I discover when I go for that one last look takes me completely by surprise.<p></p><p>When she started spelling her heart out, hers were the only broken-shell-carved words marking the pristine blank page of the sand.</p><p>But now, everywhere I look, all around me, there are countless new messages of love, scribbled in the sand by strangers, turning this glistening heaven-on-earth beach into a giant love letter!</p><p>I chuckle, because I know she has no idea that she has started a love revolution. </p><p>I hesitate, wondering if I should point it out, draw her attention to it, but something stops me. </p><p>It's better to leave it this way.</p><p>It will be our little secret.<br /></p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-19033354365780709662021-01-11T10:33:00.000-05:002021-01-11T10:33:27.037-05:00a place of vulnerability<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLg6RM2hzj4fkwdAQa_YLqFFYGI7aVFZwHU0RMocjM6T5zetKnZAg6Vg-Tb5KJkGVDrOX03dNwiUIOydv0va4o8rSlQfE3b8cWATN92bLWpUZCoYsTCcIoTVB7b3fgJlmDr_Cz/s1280/IMG_8494+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="918" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLg6RM2hzj4fkwdAQa_YLqFFYGI7aVFZwHU0RMocjM6T5zetKnZAg6Vg-Tb5KJkGVDrOX03dNwiUIOydv0va4o8rSlQfE3b8cWATN92bLWpUZCoYsTCcIoTVB7b3fgJlmDr_Cz/w288-h400/IMG_8494+%25282%2529.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />During one of the workshops, an artist shared this cool alphabet idea which <br />I used to create a Serbian Cyrillic alphabet version. Creativity has infinite <br />ways of being expressed. I am always fascinated when I see what others <br />are doing with this God given gift. The variety of the markings in this work <br />represents the unrepeatable nature of organic creativity... even though it's <br />universal, it is also as unique to us as our fingerprints. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>I think she would rather be caught dead than admit that she is anywhere close to being like her mother. For better or for worse, her father's resemblance - his brilliant mind; his perfectionism; his methodical attention to details - follows her everywhere she goes. </p><p>But, without a doubt, she is her own person. Independent. One of a kind. Adventurous. Carving her own way, making her own mark on this earth. She is frail and strong, cautious and brave, fun and serious.</p><p>She insists she is not a writer.</p><p>Her own essays begrudgingly submitted to the Language Arts teacher laugh in her face.</p><p>If she can't find a pen a stick will do. If there is no stick, she'll use a broken shell.</p><p>And the entire beach becomes her very own blank page.</p><p>One by one, she writes out the letters. So focused. So intent.</p><p>The birds swoop over and around her head, but she is undistracted by them.</p><p>I watch her curved back, as she moves sideways and backwards, stringing letters like beads on a necklace.</p><p>When she is done, she straightens up, turns around and looks at me beaming.</p><p>Her unfurled scroll now reveals a message for all to see although there might be just a few of us living on this planet who really understand it. </p><p>See, she grew up on a delicate intersection of the worlds where her mother tongue is not her first language. She is fluent in the language of the country where she is born and where she lives. But she knows that there is another country she also belongs to, her mother belongs to... where another language is spoken. The language she understands very well but she is still learning to speak, just learning to write. </p><p>Today, for some inexplicable reason, she decides to take a leap, she chooses to take a huge risk of expressing herself, of exposing herself in that other language.</p><p>She must consider this risk worth taking, because she wants her mom to know... perhaps she wants the whole world </p><p>- the heaven and the earth -</p><p>to know... that the language of that country is the language of love.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-8295618244451974202021-01-05T16:22:00.002-05:002021-01-11T10:27:07.433-05:00a place of encouragement<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCovja35FlAo6Q-zNroyBlmzn_Xa752ghWcKdbJ3nFiAh7h3E3QpbFJOta5OV-N3NmY1dBRfaCPajsBwOjmFw93O6f267YLHhWKB50U-YFZPs7H5Vj0vGwIYiH6rV8HWI4mW6p/s2048/IMG_8444.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1466" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCovja35FlAo6Q-zNroyBlmzn_Xa752ghWcKdbJ3nFiAh7h3E3QpbFJOta5OV-N3NmY1dBRfaCPajsBwOjmFw93O6f267YLHhWKB50U-YFZPs7H5Vj0vGwIYiH6rV8HWI4mW6p/w284-h400/IMG_8444.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />I created this piece during an exceedingly frustrating abstract art lesson that <br />kept going from bad to worse with each layer. In an exasperated attempt <br />to 'erase' my 'horrible mistakes' I literally washed the paint off the page in <br />my kitchen sink! What appeared was this beautifully textured background <br />which now I wish I could re-create😊 . As Miles Davis said, <br />'Fear no mistakes. There are none.'<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><br /></p><p>These heaven-above-heaven-below, walking-on-clouds endless shallows are so mesmerizing, so inviting, so beautiful and safe and welcoming, my soul suddenly pops out, all cramped and wrinkled, from the confinement of its inland button-hole. </p><p>It wants to park and live right here, sprawled out, naked and unashamed, on this endless beach. </p><p>Forever.</p><p>Not a single argument comes to my mind to shut down the fantastic idea.</p><p>"Mom! MOM!!" The Mom-Hat lands on my head bringing me back to earth.</p><p>"What? WHAT???" I always think that M-O-M is a code word for some kind of dire emergency, not unlike the Morse S-O-S. </p><p>"What happened??" I yell without even trying. </p><p>"Nothing happened. Everything is just fine. Look, there is a snowman!"</p><p>I look up, and sure enough, there is a snowman, hat, 'broom', baseball bat and all, perched on the beach ahead of us. </p><p>It most certainly is the ugliest Snowman I've ever seen, but somehow that doesn't matter, because as we approach to inspect it, we are surrounded by a joyful crowd of thawed-out Canadians, who are so pleased that somebody - ANYBODY- showed interest in their masterpiece. </p><p>They laugh and point out all its special features as I take pictures. Then, we give them thumbs up and they wave enthusiastically as we continue on our way. Their happiness is quite contagious and trails behind us long after we can't see either them or their creation. I know we must be kindred spirits, our hearts set on building a Snowman on the beach. The only difference is that they got to build theirs and I didn't get to build mine. </p><p>Surprisingly, in this moment, such 'unfairness' doesn't bother me. Doesn't bother me at all. </p><p>In fact, as I reflected on their contentment and joy - which became OUR joy -a thought crosses my mind that... </p><p>... sometimes...</p><p>it might be as - or, perhaps, even more - important </p><p>to encourage other artists in their creative attempts, </p><p>no matter how quirky, small and seemingly insignificant they may appear, </p><p>than building and showing off my own perfect snowman.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-78837652964764731492020-12-31T11:54:00.002-05:002020-12-31T11:54:29.302-05:00a place of reflection <p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgII4Ql3rHv4ncmPYZFCU_SA6JEF8hjJu7d9q1hk5kDi48bqoWp5ak1cJvEQxppFGAPnQm6d45bDmuJZ2T9D2olD3bwl3it_v7-nFi4v8K2ih0EzWpsbXzhD4AGHUow6p6dvBU-/s746/IMG_8018+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="745" data-original-width="746" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgII4Ql3rHv4ncmPYZFCU_SA6JEF8hjJu7d9q1hk5kDi48bqoWp5ak1cJvEQxppFGAPnQm6d45bDmuJZ2T9D2olD3bwl3it_v7-nFi4v8K2ih0EzWpsbXzhD4AGHUow6p6dvBU-/w400-h400/IMG_8018+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />I can't think of a better time than New Year's Eve to reflect. <br />For some of us the end of 2020 can't come fast enough. We all <br />have changed, we all have something to learn, something to take <br />to heart and care for it, like one cares for a seed... May those seeds<br />grow, blossom and bring good fruit in our lives in 2021.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p></p><p>I am always keenly aware that the ocean has depths. Those who know the ocean have profound respect for its depths. Some people may call it fear, but I think that reverence is a better word. </p><p>The depths can be both exhilarating and terrifying. I discovered that even when my feet can't reach the bottom, and I am in way over my head, the ocean somehow never fails to support my full weight - effortlessly! And it does the same thing for the guy next to me, three times my size!</p><p>I am not the type who lingers long in the shallows. If I go to the ocean, I mean business. I don't mess around with petty stuff. Within minutes, I am off into the deep end.</p><p>But, today, the little hand guides me along the shallows, tiptoeing on the edge of the glistening robe, chasing lazy birds that have no fear of humans and no end to their greedy appetites. I watch her skipping over the sea of glass sprawled endlessly in front of us.</p><p>"Wow, I never realized how BIG the shallow end is!" A thought strikes me. "It looks... it looks like a giant... mirror!"</p><p>Indeed it does. The water is barely covering a large shoulder of the sandy beach, turning the entire thing into an enormous mirror - reflecting a million shades of the blue sky dotted with wispy and puffy clouds, with perfect veracity.</p><p>I look behind me, and it's there too - sprawled endlessly behind me as well. </p><p>I've been walking on the clouds and I didn't even know it! </p><p>I can't peel my eyes away from the sight even if I wanted to... </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTwS3P0txH2haUejRxJyrSopwRSVEOw9w6MEtsChGR7QBP69hjTDFPSSqUe00TFa3-6YkGxkIomZPrwajOUNmOEhjRPH03F4SEkA5aOt-x0XsW6ukI2OGxZnwwhg2ci2cFTNc/s2048/07DB272E-552E-4063-B0F9-AEBFF3195ADD.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTwS3P0txH2haUejRxJyrSopwRSVEOw9w6MEtsChGR7QBP69hjTDFPSSqUe00TFa3-6YkGxkIomZPrwajOUNmOEhjRPH03F4SEkA5aOt-x0XsW6ukI2OGxZnwwhg2ci2cFTNc/w319-h400/07DB272E-552E-4063-B0F9-AEBFF3195ADD.JPG" width="319" /></a></div>There is unspeakable glory and unspeakable sadness in this strange union on the edge of the ocean... this unlikely marriage of heaven above and the earth below.<p></p><p>The familiar words bubble up... a promise and a taunt, a prayer and a longing... </p><p>"Your will be done...</p><p>...on earth...</p><p>... as it is in heaven..."</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-39964843076315696242020-12-26T12:43:00.025-05:002020-12-26T13:25:25.980-05:00a place of prayer<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGBbN8vSnMaRmdILdb3DFh7m83AzsVyAN819dJ5BRz7nMeVIAo4ftSCuWMnOfgSX_QlH3s8ZgpWdnQTwoX-_agXYygnGJMoRrTg_IlmK-UjcVGja40iV75PzrQgR98sFb95Stx/s2048/Broken+Christmas+%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1155" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGBbN8vSnMaRmdILdb3DFh7m83AzsVyAN819dJ5BRz7nMeVIAo4ftSCuWMnOfgSX_QlH3s8ZgpWdnQTwoX-_agXYygnGJMoRrTg_IlmK-UjcVGja40iV75PzrQgR98sFb95Stx/w360-h640/Broken+Christmas+%25282%2529.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><br />I dropped my phone and broke the screen at the time <br />I was working on this painting. 'Broken' has a bad <br />reputaton in our perfection-driven world, but as I looked <br />at the painting through the shattered glass, it seemed <br />fitting as it added depth, dimension and meaning<br />beyond what was originally intended. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><br /><p>Funny thing, this answer-to-prayer business.</p><p><br /></p><p>Sometimes, we don't even realize we prayed. </p><p><br /></p><p>To us, it was just... a sigh. That deep waiting-to-exhale out-breath that escapes our lungs apart, even against our will. </p><p><br /></p><p>"What was THAT all about?!?!!"</p><p><br /></p><p>"What?!!?? Oh, THAT! It's really nothing... it's... just a sigh."</p><p><br /></p><p>"Oh. O.K. Glad you are fine". With that, both of us are greatly relieved that the sigh was a nothing and not a something that we may need to face or talk about.</p><p><br /></p><p>Or, it might be a tear. A single tear that rolls down the cheek, we surreptitiously wipe away before anybody else notices.</p><p><br /></p><p>Or, we feel an overwhelming sense of powerlessness and confusion, we can't make sense of any of it, much less put into words. </p><p><br /></p><p>Or, like a drowning man, we shoot out a plain old yelp for help, in desperate hope against all hope that it will somehow, somewhere pierce the impenetrable silence of the sky.</p><p><br /></p><p>There are many languages in this world, but the language of prayer is by far the most fascinating, the most diverse, and truly, the most unifying of all.</p><p><br /></p><p>Sometimes, we forget we even asked.</p><p><br /></p><p>Sometimes we forget what we asked.</p><p><br /></p><p>I do both. A lot!</p><p><br /></p><p>Sometimes the answer comes, but we are so set on how we expect the answer should come that we miss, or almost miss it. Because it came in such gentle and unassuming way.</p><p><br /></p><p>But, then, there is also this imperceptible pat on your back you can't miss. Like a quiet yet unmistakable knock on the soul's door. You look up, and look again, and there it is! You see it, really see it, as if for the first time. </p><p><br /></p><p>I admit I almost missed it. </p><p><br /></p><p>There was so much ruckus, such disorder in the courtroom - the Editor, the PR Manager, the Facebook Prosecutor, the Defense Attorney, the Judge - all insisting on the indisputable value of their own unique perspective - that I almost didn't hear the small voice, and I almost didn't feel the tiny hand inside mine.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-42128287674637231642020-12-21T12:35:00.001-05:002021-01-11T10:26:14.796-05:00do you want to build a snowman?<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjiJOSNk6PhGOPkDNCLKVt0qLdBcuUrwLzMG18wLWsm6GZvLt5iTUN1j8MVuFIg8vg93ABV4-b4FTujzFjxaRmBSEoRQHNp9VP3NY8QsMmUjZpoZLiCbKSKiIvWVWenhVK9M4G/s640/IMG_5768.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjiJOSNk6PhGOPkDNCLKVt0qLdBcuUrwLzMG18wLWsm6GZvLt5iTUN1j8MVuFIg8vg93ABV4-b4FTujzFjxaRmBSEoRQHNp9VP3NY8QsMmUjZpoZLiCbKSKiIvWVWenhVK9M4G/w300-h400/IMG_5768.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Every once in a while I like painting little greeting cards.<br />They are easy, fun and cheerfully lightweight, providing both balance <br />and welcome distraction from the weightier things of life and art. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>"Today, I want to build a Snowman", I announce to the ocean. </p><p>"Well, a Sandman would be more accurate", I immediately correct myself. It's really the Editor speaking. Accuracy is very important to the Editor. Inaccurate sloppy language is an indication of inaccurate sloppy thinking. And inaccurate sloppy thinking coupled with inaccurate sloppy language leads to inaccurate sloppy living. Needless to say, the Editor can't stand sloppiness however you look at it. It's one of the ten deadly sins in his meticulously kept little red book.</p><p>Then, for some reason, I proceed with the explanation, as if the ocean needs me to explain everything, or anything at all, for that matter.</p><p>"You know, it's winter. It's a very appropriate seasonal activity." </p><p>Now it's the Public Relations Manager's turn. The PR Manager is intensely concerned with all things appropriate and suitable, with a discreet emphasis, 'just a touch', she would say, 'of seasonal'. She is a tireless vigilante ensuring we never cross the invisible albeit ever-shifting lines of 'proper'. My PR Manager has the most difficult job because she always wants to tame my naturally color-outside-the-lines, fiercely disheveled, messy messy life. But she is also a very smart lady and knows how to play my Cool-Me persona.</p><p>"This would be soooo cool", the PR Manager continues. "We could take a picture of it once we are done and post it on Facebook. People would love it."</p><p>It slipped just like that. This <i>people-would-love-it </i>part. </p><p>Suddenly there is a wailing of sirens inside my head, a red alert, indicating imminent grave danger.</p><p>"Are you telling me we are doing this just to get some 'likes' on your Facebook page?!!! I thought we came here to have fun for fun's sake, not to parade it to the world so we can prove to everyone how much fun we are having!"</p><p>But before I could even begin to think of how to respond to this deeply personal betrayal creating uproar inside my mind and heart, I feel a tiny hand slip into the palm of mine, and a small voice overwhelms all the noise with its simple invitation.</p><p>"Do you want to go for a walk with me?"</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-71685635692294390042020-12-13T11:39:00.000-05:002020-12-13T11:39:28.935-05:00a place of awakening cont.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDH03s9fhbzQdGs-8Io4vMh6WOgreZgOOjZKn0HcdX_nEpyFZE3PD7WFCGetLz-U2GvrPaMLWMN0hUxtEXoAjA9tErB9kPby-1x9JYfwFj-36ddqoMLcYaETXQFBCl9iaN8nY/s1280/IMG_7412+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="974" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDH03s9fhbzQdGs-8Io4vMh6WOgreZgOOjZKn0HcdX_nEpyFZE3PD7WFCGetLz-U2GvrPaMLWMN0hUxtEXoAjA9tErB9kPby-1x9JYfwFj-36ddqoMLcYaETXQFBCl9iaN8nY/w488-h640/IMG_7412+%25281%2529.jpg" width="488" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p>The sand is seeping into my flip-flops, lodging between my toes. I know it's just across the bridge and over the dune...</p><p>"There you are!" I light up. "I SEE you!"</p><p>"And there YOU are", roars the ocean, always happy to see me. "I see YOU too!"</p><p>I run and trip, the dry sand heaving under my feet until it turns soggy and I reach the very edge. </p><p>Like the edge of a lavish robe. </p><p>I can smell him.</p><p>I can hear him roar.</p><p>I can hear him breathe.</p><p>I can see him. </p><p>Pregnant with incessant motion and rest. Dark and glistening silver and white. Deep calling to deep. </p><p>The wind intensifies, enveloping us both.</p><p>I linger on the edge, waiting for him to make the first move. I don't need to wait long. </p><p>Now, I can feel him tickling my toes.</p><p> I jump, backing off.</p><p>"You are too cold!"</p><p>"And you are too silly", laughs the ocean because little children are splashing and giggling and screaming all around me. </p><p>"C'mon, let's play!", he calls.</p><p>"No, not today", I shake my head. "Today I need to stay in the shallows." </p><p>"Whatever you wish my dear..."</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-40549900226027171492020-12-07T14:19:00.002-05:002020-12-07T14:59:09.540-05:00a place of awakening<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwF-8709JJh1dgwW-X5HLUIPUlHml_Prbx0SxmtrfNOuzBnfI0yVUPvJWpzvYgXVcLyqzH_eqxjbNanAVg0-agYwBoyyfmVlR9cVD0e6MeNwbsoslzs1EYgXpLsKH0jNiVuXk/s1280/IMG_7412+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="974" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwF-8709JJh1dgwW-X5HLUIPUlHml_Prbx0SxmtrfNOuzBnfI0yVUPvJWpzvYgXVcLyqzH_eqxjbNanAVg0-agYwBoyyfmVlR9cVD0e6MeNwbsoslzs1EYgXpLsKH0jNiVuXk/w304-h400/IMG_7412+%25281%2529.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'hope rising hope descending' I love this piece as it tells the same story<br />but from two different perspectives when you flip it around</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>The moment the air hits me, I know I am at my destination. </p><p>You wonder how do I know?</p><p>I can SMELL it!</p><p>The unmistakable salty-dried-sea-weed-coconut-SPF30-Subway-spicy-Italian tingling my nostrils reminds me to do something I so often forget:</p><p>Inhale. </p><p>Hold.</p><p>Exhale!</p><p>And, then, again, but slower:</p><p>In-haaaa-le.</p><p>Ho-oooold.</p><p>Ex-haaaa-le.</p><p>This forgotten breathing-in-and-out-thingie reminds me there is more to me - more INSIDE me - than meets the eye. There is this BREATH inside me, but, sadly, most of my life I live holding it back really really tight.</p><p>I am near. I can smell it. But I still can't see it.</p><p>The wind is messing up my hair and whispering into my ear. Through its sound, like a layered symphony - the screeching seagulls and inarticulate noises people on the beach make - I can distinguish a steady rhythmic low-rumble - wave in, wave out.</p><p>I can hear the ocean breathe!</p><p>Wave in.</p><p>Wave out.</p><p>Already there is a dialogue between us while neither one of us has said a single word!</p><p>I can smell him. </p><p>I can hear him.</p><p>But I still can't see him.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-87107175680076203512020-11-29T12:08:00.001-05:002021-01-05T16:44:29.349-05:00a place of in-between<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1KzVSPdfJruFIwyCE45Rr-crNGBrhN_EPckZ1m-QrHl8CyPogZAvHlk0t8hQH1isJ_YACbszvVB2GdpZc7BBzDCgcuV7BcnjXPxd6rrblVlGGBSsieqT1GwGMoRyhKULYz7Hs/s2048/Sjostedt_Gordana_frAGILE.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1815" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1KzVSPdfJruFIwyCE45Rr-crNGBrhN_EPckZ1m-QrHl8CyPogZAvHlk0t8hQH1isJ_YACbszvVB2GdpZc7BBzDCgcuV7BcnjXPxd6rrblVlGGBSsieqT1GwGMoRyhKULYz7Hs/w354-h400/Sjostedt_Gordana_frAGILE.jpg" width="354" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This collage was made as a part of Viral Collaboration during <br />COVID-19 quarantine. Each artist created a 10X10 <br />monochromatic piece with a single word to describe <br />a feeling during this unprecedented time. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>When I am in desperate need of help, when I don't know what to do, I backpedal a little.</p><p>I linger and loiter. </p><p>Wait and sniff.</p><p>Which is also what I usually do when I have a date with the ocean.</p><p>See, we have a little routine when we have a date. The ocean and I.</p><p>It takes less than an hour to get there from our house. This serves well as a much-needed transition time allowing me to re-program my mind and let go of my inland-bound life which tends to grow these long tentacles all into and around me. </p><p>It's not necessarily a bad life. In fact, it's rather comfortable and predictable, and most importantly I am (or think I am) in charge. This life makes me think it's all there is - jobs to do, chores to knock off, responsibilities to fulfill. Sure, like everyone else, I weather storms, withstand pressures and navigate the chaos and turmoil of our world with various degrees of success and failure. Then, at night, I watch a couple of episodes of Criminal Minds because it makes me feel my life is not so bad after all. It may not be as Pinterest-perfect as the life of my friends on Facebook, but it could be much worse. I could be having a serial killer breathing down my neck! Thus calmed, I brush my teeth, double-check that all doors are locked and tumble into sleep until the next morning. </p><p>Inside my head I know that life is not about checking off a to-do list, but you wouldn't know it watching me scurrying around my moments and days. Some people may call this condition a 'tunnel vision' and they might be right. Going to the ocean helps me to get outside my tunnel.</p><p>The drive is usually smooth and quiet. This, along with physically leaving my little claustrophobic inland life behind builds anticipation and excitement that goes with it. </p><p>Even though the ocean never ever fails to deliver, I admit I am tormented by questions and doubts each time.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-12777015913735685252020-11-23T15:32:00.004-05:002020-11-23T15:35:51.296-05:00a place of tug-of-war<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH9gPavbvZGNigIrZaUpK4nF4FjnfeEA4hTo4V_JRuLTL8VUz9uBZxH4faVbNGzCTG_YxfYu0kVGhFa5wEIof97FZSoT-VHSUnYvtgu8qUJ8Ic6sagd5J8LdPdElH4zQgcoHfP/s1632/56C5844A-6EA3-4150-89D0-20BB135CCB85.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH9gPavbvZGNigIrZaUpK4nF4FjnfeEA4hTo4V_JRuLTL8VUz9uBZxH4faVbNGzCTG_YxfYu0kVGhFa5wEIof97FZSoT-VHSUnYvtgu8qUJ8Ic6sagd5J8LdPdElH4zQgcoHfP/w400-h300/56C5844A-6EA3-4150-89D0-20BB135CCB85.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>This all-out, way-beyond-my-little-fist's-grasp extravagant greatness seeps through my pores and sinks down to the place I am mostly unaware even exists deep inside me. I feel the tension in my neck melting away and my fingers loosening the choke-hold of the impossible and petty demands I place on myself, others and even God!</p><p>The noise of the small claims court, as well as the grand jury investigation which somehow always seem to be in session inside my head are tempered by this outrageous unwarranted mercy extended above, and below and all around me. </p><p>Tempered, I say, not completely silenced.</p><p>I admit it's a struggle, an exhausting daily labor dealing with them... </p><p>The Scrooge. The Judge. The Critic. The Editor. THE PREACHER!</p><p>They are all so very smart. They know A LOT. </p><p>But, they have absolutely no clue how to sit back and relax. </p><p>As valuable as their gift of responsibility might be, they don't understand that their services are not always needed. </p><p>But how do you convince a band of scowling crows that hovering over my head and pecking at my brain with their particular point of view as if it had absolute and eternal significance may not be the calling from God? </p><p>In the past, I would simply hand them a particularly engaging and impeccably thought-out book on spiritual theology and that would keep them distracted enough. Quiet if not happy. They would much rather sit in a comfortable chair inside their library, sipping lemongrass tea than deal with the screeching of unruly children and seagulls, and the annoying untamable wind messing up their hair and flipping their pages before they had finished reading them. </p><p>Today, however, I want to try a different approach. </p><p>But, I know I will need some serious help here.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-68106437700656683082020-11-17T13:09:00.000-05:002020-11-17T13:09:34.933-05:00a place of acceptance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsL8a4M7xT_Uuxu9TTjDg3kixK9-opyxqaDBJ4_WB2qmvItuEJzdJod7ZKNYsLbjPlH3tAByuvwtPaTMZ3H5DS9qVAzgGX05I9-_uFi7i80ujf6BKW6WFHh8xvv5JdF33mOB2T/s2831/IMG_8441+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2831" data-original-width="1111" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsL8a4M7xT_Uuxu9TTjDg3kixK9-opyxqaDBJ4_WB2qmvItuEJzdJod7ZKNYsLbjPlH3tAByuvwtPaTMZ3H5DS9qVAzgGX05I9-_uFi7i80ujf6BKW6WFHh8xvv5JdF33mOB2T/w250-h640/IMG_8441+%25281%2529.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The ocean has been here long before I made my little grand entrance. It will remain here long after I depart at my days' end.</p><p>Every person dotting the beach is here today because they want to be or somebody who loves them brought them along. Of course, there might be few who feel forced, manipulated or guilted into coming. Sadly, such approach, even if it's driven by good intentions, effectively ruins the fun available to all who come of their own free will. </p><p>The ocean doesn't need anything from me nor does it place any expectations on me. It doesn't judge me for being fat or skinny, smart or stupid, introvert or extrovert, clean or messy. </p><p>This is hard to grasp for most of us who grow up and live under the burden of impossible demands our surroundings - family, school, church, social media, and even our own deluded selves - place on us. Sometimes I don't even realize I've compromised my soul in my futile attempt to fit in and be accepted.</p><p>The ocean in turn says to me,</p><p>"You already fit in with me! You are already accepted here just the way you are."</p><p>I am a blessed beneficiary of all its affection, generosity and grandeur.</p><p>There is no age limit to enjoying the ocean - you are never too young, never too old to play. </p><p>All our little labels - what you do, who you are, who you know, how many followers you have, even what you believe - matter little here. The ocean is equally at ease with the scarred used-to-be's and the naive wanna-be's; the woman covered from head-to-toe in burka, the bald guy in Speedo showing off his full-body tattoo and the wounded artist plagued by unresolved anger and angst.</p><p>Surrounded by the vastness of the sky above, the endless sand beach under my feet, and the great big blue, my huge, unsolvable problems, my enormously unbearable burdens are scaled down to size. </p><p>Curiously, as my problems are being reduced, I don't feel diminished as a person.</p><p>There is something deep inside me - something good, and gentle, and kind - that actually gets at least a little bit enlarged. </p><p>Or perhaps, awakened...</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-89294421963008330452020-11-11T16:24:00.001-05:002021-01-03T13:48:44.876-05:00a place of safety<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHbXM2X1Up1ZiBW1SGZT4OkyACMNc0MdGtvjXhC8NNeucplEckNxq50CONlxf_JC2BRwfqIGnaXARp_KZIfrfefUvNLI2F81O_FUtMhZwXsZ88HHclulUAk17MgnofbBQzlq6/s1280/IMG_8456.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1128" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHbXM2X1Up1ZiBW1SGZT4OkyACMNc0MdGtvjXhC8NNeucplEckNxq50CONlxf_JC2BRwfqIGnaXARp_KZIfrfefUvNLI2F81O_FUtMhZwXsZ88HHclulUAk17MgnofbBQzlq6/w353-h400/IMG_8456.jpg" width="353" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />I have discovered that palette knife is my favorite tool. <br />I love the rough texture it leaves and the message it conveys, <br />that even when we find ourselves in the rough waters of life <br />there is plenty of beauty all around us.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>My daily dose of three pages of longhand sometimes feels like wading through a layer of muck that reaches up to my eyeballs. Other times it's as exhilarating and terrifying as a free-fall off a cliff while I count seconds before crash-landing. </p><p>Even though I sure can talk, I want to think of myself as being a pretty good listener. I am discovering, however, that I might be listening to everyone else except to my own soul. </p><p>In my head I know I am safe, but my heart is unnerved by the torrent. I need a place that would assure this anxious heart that it's O.K. and calm the rush of swirling thoughts.</p><p>Going to the ocean for my first artist's date seems most appropriate. </p><p>Ocean has always been a dependable wellspring of safety for me. It never fails to welcome me with open arms, no questions asked. Not once have I heard him pout,</p><p>"Where have you been??? Why haven't I seen you in so long??!"</p><p>I admit that I do tend to say to myself,</p><p>"God, I MISS this!", every time I make it to the beach. </p><p>I must be imagining because in the rumble of its roaring waves I think I hear an echo, </p><p>"I missed you too. I'm glad you are back."</p><p>No cold shoulder. Not a hint of reproach.</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-11610155983140298572020-11-06T14:14:00.013-05:002020-11-06T14:18:46.061-05:00mother courage<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJukPBDuFxWwfOo6_gLt5WCk9wBLXfLvmy_A9eKO0r1KzKvPYO1xkg9CMRrGK75D1rkFGcbQa7PNMcQKaUTMTU8L2dn3Emo8r07ElTy6d1keplEYiYE2d1iUJTBzq3AFhlpbY/s1496/IMG_6324.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1158" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJukPBDuFxWwfOo6_gLt5WCk9wBLXfLvmy_A9eKO0r1KzKvPYO1xkg9CMRrGK75D1rkFGcbQa7PNMcQKaUTMTU8L2dn3Emo8r07ElTy6d1keplEYiYE2d1iUJTBzq3AFhlpbY/w494-h640/IMG_6324.jpg" width="494" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />Mixed
media collage replica of White Angel from monastery Milesevo <br />greeting the
disciples on Easter morning with the words, <br />'Why are You Looking for the Living
One among the Dead?' </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /><br /></p><p>The little butt-naked word, the escapee from the rigorous sentinel of my Internal Editor, turns out to be a kindness of sort. The raw energy of its un-Photo-shopped truth does its magic inside our group. </p><p>It scrub-cleans our ears, dull from being accustomed to hearing only what others think we want to hear. </p><p>It acts like a mouthwash that wakes up our tongue accustomed to saying only what we think others want to hear.</p><p>She volunteers to be next. A mother to many; a faithful, dutiful wife of a respected leader. Mostly invisible accessory to a greater mission.</p><p>On the outside her bowl is beautiful and rich and full of opportunities and experiences the rest of us can only dream about. Fascinating people and exotic places. We've known each other for years and I never bothered to look, to ask what's on the inside. </p><p>Perhaps I wasn't ready then for what I may find there. I am not sure I am ready even now...</p><p>The bowl she brings to our communion table is full of emptiness, loneliness, depression, and meds that work and don't, and an ocean of unshed tears over a lifetime of losses. </p><p>She attaches a label to herself that makes my heart sag. Somewhere along the way, in the crucible of life and ministry, her vast capacity for experiencing the exquisite joy of this life as well as its gut-wrenching grief was reduced to a mental illness tag. To be numbed by alternating the assortment of religious platitudes and daily dose of Prozac.</p><p>We listen to each other and bow our hearts to the One who knows us better than we know ourselves. Worn out from carrying our own, we lift up each other's bowl to Jesus.</p><p>She wraps up our prayers by praying for me.</p><p>"Thank you, Lord, for these three daily pages of longhand vomit", she says. Then, after hesitating a bit, she adds in a barely audible whisper,</p><p>"Perhaps it's time for me to start my own..."</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-13364330183703514152020-11-01T12:30:00.031-05:002020-11-01T12:34:20.359-05:00artists anonymous<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAL4jaxbA5X1T4TMvxwZknGk-zHzSLbzio_ShwNX9ovDNVUfvwRo3wWCCoZcnJbjkhow-HqdtajebogMJC1kjmyoeWaUhLmdTI9P17G5Kyfp9q5UT9KMilUzC-7Ho53uYGWaj8/s1530/BD177F04-A240-4E40-A8DD-725BB24AD1BB.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="1224" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAL4jaxbA5X1T4TMvxwZknGk-zHzSLbzio_ShwNX9ovDNVUfvwRo3wWCCoZcnJbjkhow-HqdtajebogMJC1kjmyoeWaUhLmdTI9P17G5Kyfp9q5UT9KMilUzC-7Ho53uYGWaj8/w510-h640/BD177F04-A240-4E40-A8DD-725BB24AD1BB.JPG" width="510" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />Much of my art starts out with random mixed media mark-making that evolves<br />over time. Often I am the one most surprised by what shows up on the page. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We are huddled in our little groups of twos and threes, passing around in whispers our empty bowls of prayer requests. She is a seasoned veteran in this business of service, sacrifice and self-negation. Her husband a respected leader. Each of us hesitates a little before I finally take a chance and set out my bowl first.</p><p>"I am doing this...", I search for words to describe the Artist's Way and keep falling short... </p><p>A book? A workbook? A 12-step-like recovery program for wounded artists?</p><p>Their gentle eyes rest on my face, waiting patiently for me to clothe my squirming thoughts into ill-fitting syllables. Finally I confess. I settle on a simple action verb that has over-arched my existence as long as I can remember.</p><p>"I write... Three pages. .. Of longhand... Every day... Of whatever goes through my mind."</p><p>Even as I say this, the filled-out pages flash before my eyes, and I know that these words don't give a shadow of justice to the reality of what these pages represent.</p><p>"Oh!" Her eyes having endured the burden of my silent quest for adequate linguistic wardrobe suddenly light up in recognition.</p><p>"It's like a prayer journal!"</p><p>"Nooo!" I blurt out. "Not at all! I would call it more like ... vomit", I explain and my eyes pop wide open the moment the word reaches the auditory processing system inside my head. I am thoroughly mortified together with my shocked praying friends. We laugh even as I kick myself for being such an idiot and I want to kick God for making me look like a fool in front of these women.</p><p>My Internal Editor hisses: </p><p>"You blabber-mouth! You should have said something like, </p><p><i>'It's a ham radio for the soul.'</i> Or, even better,<i> </i></p><p><i>'It's a lush, ever-present oasis of absolute safety where you get to hear your own thoughts and feelings...'</i> Or,<i> </i></p><p><i>'It's a critics-free zone where I get to be fully myself!' </i>Or at least, </p><p>'<i>It's a self-deception lie detector tool that helps me navigate through confusion of life where the truth and the appearance of truth often don't occupy the same space.'</i></p><p>The Editor, of course, is right. There are a million other things I could have said, but no!</p><p>Of all the beautiful words in richly stocked up English language, my brilliant brain chose to publicly humiliate me by landing on... VOMIT!</p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-54298942500886864772020-10-28T11:27:00.005-04:002020-11-04T15:52:45.554-05:00writer meets editor<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIT21eDhe3n-5tMpWZdaTlacwdhB_764uyKgU5_jbppvol0jl8t1cQ70u6yWga210zbmy4WOeRbP1QCIiuCA1ZdHjs4pCP-49ds1O3YtKno9C8pKPyrGgBMafde5Qr9IaU4q2g/s1167/writer+meets+editor.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1167" data-original-width="854" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIT21eDhe3n-5tMpWZdaTlacwdhB_764uyKgU5_jbppvol0jl8t1cQ70u6yWga210zbmy4WOeRbP1QCIiuCA1ZdHjs4pCP-49ds1O3YtKno9C8pKPyrGgBMafde5Qr9IaU4q2g/w469-h640/writer+meets+editor.jpg" width="469" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used home-made onion skin pigment in a series of ink sketches. <br />The handwritten text blurs into background creating interesting markings.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
"How about you, Mom? How was your day?" <div><br /></div><div> The dinner is on and so is the conversation about the events of the day. We pass around questions and answers along with serving dishes from one person to the next.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It was pretty good. I went to a meeting..." </div><div><br /></div><div> "What kind of meeting?" </div><div><br /></div><div> "It was a writer-meets-editor meeting..." </div><div><br /></div><div> The collective groan that interrupted my sentence is punctuated by, </div><div><br /></div><div> "Oh NO! The dreamer meets the dream-CRUSHER!" </div><div><br /></div><div> The experience of our family fully confirms the bitter Dreamers vs Crushers stereotype. Every day one battle erupts or another between the right-brainers and the lefties. </div><div><br /></div><div>The creatives and the realists. </div><div><br /></div><div> The dreamers and the dream crushers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes it's an all-out war raging under our bobbing roof. Nobody seems to notice that in this war both sides play the part of the half-wits. </div><div><br /></div><div> "I know how it sounds, but it wasn't like that at all. I really like Marianne."
They look at me as if I just produced a flying pig belting out '<i>Let it Go</i>' inside a winter wonderland of the Frozen over hell. </div><div><br /></div><div> A 'LIKE' relationship between a writer and an editor??? Impossible! </div><div><br /></div><div> "She suggested that we go through this book, kind of a workbook, together...see where it takes us..."</div><div><br /></div><div> "A workbook?!! But, you don't do workbooks!" </div><div><br /></div><div> You would think I just sold out my soul to the devil by trampling upon yet another time-honored family stereotype. Although I have to admit here that I still cringe from the fill-in-the-blanks, right-answer-left-answer type of learning tools. </div><div><br /></div><div> "Well, it's not a TYPICAL workbook ", I proceed slowly.
One must carefully defend their seemingly cowardly compromise. </div><div><br /></div><div> "It's called...", I pause savoring the marvel which placed these two unexpected bed-fellows - the writer and the editor, on the same crumpled up page... </div><div><br /></div><div>"The book is called ...The Artist's Way."</div>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-59420146794069893182020-10-26T15:54:00.014-04:002020-10-26T16:15:06.918-04:00the artist's way remix<p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0qYTtTbR_tZ65yvwzlxCPDGoAf8oDvkEOpv3F05-NGI3h7hNB8Es2FgyAEqx_W6XSKnOEflgnbxiBm9lfaM9p68qiqy2MZFD_JSKjX6HypCGUK0UiTJFkmxtwLq1zi7xxjQKT/s640/IMG_8343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="458" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0qYTtTbR_tZ65yvwzlxCPDGoAf8oDvkEOpv3F05-NGI3h7hNB8Es2FgyAEqx_W6XSKnOEflgnbxiBm9lfaM9p68qiqy2MZFD_JSKjX6HypCGUK0UiTJFkmxtwLq1zi7xxjQKT/w456-h640/IMG_8343.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first couple of layers of a piece I worked on<br />recently at an abstract art workshop. I chose to include <br />this image here because of it's unintimidating<br />messiness. Many people find creative process <br />terrifying, so I hope this eases some of those fears. <br /> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><br />My friend Susan encouraged and inspired me few days ago by re-reading one of the 'home-made' books I gave her quite awhile ago. She came across it last week while organizing her piles and had the love and patience to sit down and read it. </p><p><i>How many friends do that these days??? Like, NONE! </i></p><p>Except, of course, Susan.</p><p>Her enthusiasm was so contagious that I went back to my old files and re-read it too! The message was so fresh, that I decided it's worth sharing here, especially during this crazy time. </p><p>A lot has happened since the time I wrote it - my children are older and so am I. But the truth is the truth and remains the same, it may need just a little bit of dusting off and freshening up and it's as good as new, or perhaps even better, because more layers have been added that enhance it's richness and depth. </p><p>
The one thing that changed is instead of using <a href="https://morguefile.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Morguefile</a> photo collection to illustrate the stories, now I have my own artwork! This, in and of itself is a testimony to God's amazing creativity and his ability to teach us, old dogs some new tricks, even when everyone, including ourselves, might have given up on us.</p><p>I hope you enjoy this remix and are encouraged by it's refreshing truth. </p>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-82914777790869654842020-09-25T11:16:00.004-04:002020-09-25T11:19:17.125-04:00The Lost Art of Letter Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUdIt2Tn9wM9wihj9CALUEf3Ec-AB5-DT0dEvkx9N4WumtnDSha99XlrMA4XsbPawq9I9XRoO1FMdgEP06SqgY7OFCX6VHMxSat3NJwmU-Jews8dAJDywbDsHEwMCfYIzLyOX/s2048/file0001483976844.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUdIt2Tn9wM9wihj9CALUEf3Ec-AB5-DT0dEvkx9N4WumtnDSha99XlrMA4XsbPawq9I9XRoO1FMdgEP06SqgY7OFCX6VHMxSat3NJwmU-Jews8dAJDywbDsHEwMCfYIzLyOX/s320/file0001483976844.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>After picking up our mail this morning, my husband gave me a letter. <div><br /></div><div>It was from a friend.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Written on paper. </div><div><br /></div><div>Front and back. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mailed the old fashioned 'snail mail' all the way from California.</div><div><br /></div><div>Such incidents have become so rare in this day and age that some may think our friend is one of those 'living off the grid' weirdos... </div><div><br /></div><div>Let me assure you, she is not. </div><div><br /></div><div>She is extremely technologically savvy lady. </div><div><br /></div><div>Connected to the Internet.</div><div><br /></div><div>She even has a cell phone. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, instead of emailing...</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead of texting...</div><div><br /></div><div>Or even calling..</div><div><br /></div><div>- which would be...</div><div><br /></div><div>faster...</div><div><br /></div><div>cheaper...</div><div><br /></div><div>more efficient...</div><div><br /></div><div>more convenient... -</div><div><br /></div><div><div>She took the time... </div><div><br /></div><div>put forth the effort...</div><div><br /></div><div><i>chose </i>to say 'no' to all these obvious, logical choices</div><div><br /></div><div>and 'yes' to something else...</div><div><br /></div></div><div>I can not begin to describe how this sheet of 8.5X11 plain bond paper made me feel. Dancing on the inside is the best I can come up with. </div><div><br /></div><div>I immediately stopped whatever I was doing, and started reading... really more like savoring...</div><div><br /></div><div>Her name, address, the day of the week and the date - month, day, year... September 20, 2020 - in the top right corner.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our name and address on the left, a bit below. </div><div><br /></div><div>Does anyone remember that this is how the letters used to be formatted?</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Dear...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I don't remember when was the last time I received a letter like this... I realize that some people have NEVER received a letter like that... personal, from a long-time friend, thoughtful.... that makes you feel vulnerable, treasured, connected beyond the marvels of modern technology that so loudly brags about 'connection'... </div><div><br /></div><div>I used to get A LOT of letters like that in the past... I used to both receive AND write... </div><div><br /></div><div>But something happened and that delicious exchange was suddenly interrupted, and eventually stopped altogether on both sides...</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, however, it hit me that with all the awesome high-tech advances, I feel kind of impoverished,.. </div><div><br /></div><div>perhaps even a little cheated... </div><div><br /></div><div>as if I was duped by all these</div><div><br /></div><div><i>helpful</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>convenient</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>efficient </i>ways we do life these days<i>... </i> </div><div><br /></div><div>and the trade-off doesn't seem worth it....</div></div>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-12447432393749467212020-08-10T22:56:00.024-04:002020-08-11T14:07:51.283-04:00Luda Manda<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78OzIJUbcSCK6QK61VDOaErWjN2QOHWjoTQRw_5o0owCQXCkG3Cy-N1Ayp60rIPkx_3dmqkmu56FNpmzxXup0a-HeTPPX8agqWH7NhpV7qA5Pz-_Z99bXOlfdfJg9c96P1L9T/s1280/IMG_7595.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78OzIJUbcSCK6QK61VDOaErWjN2QOHWjoTQRw_5o0owCQXCkG3Cy-N1Ayp60rIPkx_3dmqkmu56FNpmzxXup0a-HeTPPX8agqWH7NhpV7qA5Pz-_Z99bXOlfdfJg9c96P1L9T/w328-h328/IMG_7595.JPG" width="328" /></a></div> <p></p><p>My aunt on my Dad’s side was well into her seventies when
she was still riding their donkey to and from working the tobacco fields and
vineyards, chasing goats up and down the rocky Dalmatian mountainsides, and
climbing fruit bearing trees. All the adults called her Luda Manda
meaning Crazy Manda. To them, her life and everything she was doing with it was
nothing short of crazy.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To Manda, it goes without saying, everything she did was
completely normal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, when we would descend onto their microscopic villagefrom
the capital, hardly setting our shoe-clad feet across the doorstep, begging
her,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Strina, make us your bread!,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">now, <i>that</i> she found odd. Really odd.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Vrag vas odnia, what do you see in the cursed bread???
Pobenaviste od oni trula zraka biogradska nek' ga vrag nosi!<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She cursed the foul city air for causing us to lose
our minds, and kept grumbling and
complaining about the strange ways of her city-dwelling relatives.while
reaching for the giant vangla and stained cloth bag filled with sand-colored
flour. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It took years for me to finally realize what she was making and
what we went ga-ga over was sourdough bread. Panja is what
she called it. She couldn't understand why would someone turn their nose on pure-white melt-in-your mouth kiflice and go nuts over her dark ‘peasant’ bread.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKbHSmgIcNS8PxECKWthyPK8eflw8NpHaK9tXFdBzzktvVyna93BUODKOm8RlDbY84tqJvDX0FOs2xm4vm4wIZe2GuLlP0dL_UerhtQvB8SQVzgYha8G_IFRTXbfx1rseeONM/s1480/IMG_7596.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="1480" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKbHSmgIcNS8PxECKWthyPK8eflw8NpHaK9tXFdBzzktvVyna93BUODKOm8RlDbY84tqJvDX0FOs2xm4vm4wIZe2GuLlP0dL_UerhtQvB8SQVzgYha8G_IFRTXbfx1rseeONM/w328-h252/IMG_7596.jpg" width="328" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If I’d told her that in the third decade of the 21st century,
during global pandemic, inside the fancy modern kitchens armed with digital
scales and instant thermometers men and women all around the world would be
making – or at least trying to make – her crusty, chewy panja, she
would conclude that the whole world indeed had gone crazy.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or, perhaps, it's finally becoming a bit more sane…who’s to
judge?<o:p></o:p></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEvhs7QlolvfQkCP_ttE6MIqrBD8j0lnx_oqiI9HbunC4QNFKttiDSlRId8AtKMumC5CXX5IwxBiyaQPFGB_0kpR-A2pusLubn8lq0xEngF5aI61yg4TnwGMY1vHxBhe9_Cyii/s1480/IMG_7596.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-58740510133614171152020-07-29T21:55:00.002-04:002020-07-29T21:55:30.684-04:00The Prolific Garbage Creator<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPx2bMYizRVg_dGlXdQa0R1lkFB9JHCxK3t6e-PBIOrl3NNaOEu4DmAJE3VguTfWlvzBY8Pa5E6DKOE-sfja81jEuj3HfYpOpyYi0S0mRxgiKrODvTdQPG2lVzZaON_kEXQhca/s1600/a960aafc55d73659f7f57bbb9b618e3a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPx2bMYizRVg_dGlXdQa0R1lkFB9JHCxK3t6e-PBIOrl3NNaOEu4DmAJE3VguTfWlvzBY8Pa5E6DKOE-sfja81jEuj3HfYpOpyYi0S0mRxgiKrODvTdQPG2lVzZaON_kEXQhca/s400/a960aafc55d73659f7f57bbb9b618e3a.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">Somebody
said that it is impossible to get better and look good at the same time. In the
similar vein, in order to make something good you have to make a lot of garbage
first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">I would
say, and my family would agree, that I am an expert in making a lot of garbage.
I rarely set out with that as my goal. In fact, most if not all the time, I set
out to make something good. Perhaps even REALLY good. But one way or another, I
end up with trash.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">For years
I struggled with this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have an
irrepressible urge to create – I can’t help it. But most of what I make isn’t
that good. Sometimes it feels like sheer waste of time, energy and resources
and that goes against my deeply ingrained frugality. You wouldn’t know by looking
on the surface, but there is a proportionate amount of guilt associated with
being such prolific garbage creator. Try as hard as I could, I couldn’t resolve
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">It became
quite a conundrum… if I stopped making things, that would be the death of me.
My soul would shrivel up and die. I may still look alive on the outside, but on
the inside, I am as dead as an Egyptian mummy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;">But
burdening the world with so much unwanted garbage isn’t a way to live either… What is the prolific garbage creator to do???<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-39523452323104965032020-07-21T21:06:00.000-04:002020-07-21T21:18:17.203-04:00Complete Idiot's Guide to Lazy Baker's Sourdough<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-R6PJyf19bkuXDmljYRKS21dN035A9SjDXdXPVUNJN7Ey0jUUcOJ0Fka8sdCt4IQg-v-tcR3O64IPlT-Pmm5ojnJiReZ5Ffu1oTLcs-r1Wc02EnbUn_DzjA6c3fr2Mm2hx9TA/s1600/99f2b333c70141730e7cf185554fc79e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-R6PJyf19bkuXDmljYRKS21dN035A9SjDXdXPVUNJN7Ey0jUUcOJ0Fka8sdCt4IQg-v-tcR3O64IPlT-Pmm5ojnJiReZ5Ffu1oTLcs-r1Wc02EnbUn_DzjA6c3fr2Mm2hx9TA/s400/99f2b333c70141730e7cf185554fc79e.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Along with everyone else, I jumped on
the sourdough bread baking bandwagon during the pandemic. Years ago, I had
attempted this culinary suicide mission with mediocre results. Looking back I think my real motivation to do it was not so much the allure of the exotic
bread making. I just needed inspiration, something to write about and the
process promised to provide sufficient drama. I know, writers are weird
like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Back then, I was inspired by a <i>Complete
Idiot's Guide to Sourdough Bread</i> I'd stumbled upon in our local library.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Times have changed since then, we all
went digital. So, one day, couple of weeks ago, as I was scrolling through
YouTube, a video caught my eye, promising sourdough for lazy
bakers. In a split-licking instant, I was hooked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">All these emotions started bubbling
inside like a healthy batch of yeast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>This is going to be
grea....! </i> But before I could finish the thought, new more ominous
voices clamored their way in...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>No, it's not going to be great. It's
going to be a disaster. Do you realize how tricky it is to make sourdough? If
it was easy they wouldn't be charging four bucks a pop for a small
boule... <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>But, but... they guy said that the
recipe is for the lazy bakers. I qualify! <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Of course you do! So spare yourself
unnecessary pain and suffering and just go to Publix...</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Somewhat perplexed by the intensity of
the opposition and the brevity of the naïve enthusiasm stage, I grabbed a bag
of white and a bag of whole-wheat flour, and pushing through the noise of
dissenting voices begun to scoop…</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-4741812854810558052020-06-14T14:51:00.001-04:002021-01-11T10:29:40.085-05:00Confessions of an Artist<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;">I stumbled upon these words that struck me as genuine and fresh,
part confession, part prayer, even though they may not be introduced with 'Dear God'. I rarely hear anyone speak in these terms anymore. It
resonated with me because of its courage, humility, self-awareness and determination.
It was spoken by an artist but I feel like it could have been spoken by any of
us, regardless of the label we attach to ourselves and others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I have lots of habits that are self-defeating. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I’m my own worst critic, a people pleaser.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I compare my work to others and get discouraged.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I’m a perfectionist with a bit of OCD thrown in.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I’m pretty much always afraid to step out and try new things
that are outside my abilities...<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I really want to loosen up and give things a try and know that
others fail too.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>I get really caught up in
staying with what I know to the point of shutting down on occasion. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt;"><i>Fear of failure is so ingrained,
and I need to move beyond that to become a better artist.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""Helvetica",sans-serif" style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>I want to be brave.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19104570.post-30346429819707915042020-06-09T08:10:00.000-04:002020-06-09T08:10:00.767-04:00#BLM<br />
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To say that we are living in historic times would be an
understatement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is difficult to keep
up with the events and the subsequent emotions generated by them. We all have
so much to say. We all want to be heard. But, some of us have been dominating the conversation for far too
long and there are
times when it’s appropriate to shut up and make room for the unheard (or heard
but not heeded) voices, no matter how uncomfortable they may make us feel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As artist, my heart is expressed through
my artwork, I believe better than any words I might use. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't breathe</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaw8Uf7_RjRCoLHmPcYCA7bX7BEQJZazlmxGFfBZ35QZtJuYSwrrHqgVQAwKGQBNjlnuUZJmSrN7AzWA5NtG0K_8UuKpyIfRXoKT8iK0Y7MXBCRiK_J-k7wOWkoaqoZzATrDlJ/s1600/image1+%25282%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaw8Uf7_RjRCoLHmPcYCA7bX7BEQJZazlmxGFfBZ35QZtJuYSwrrHqgVQAwKGQBNjlnuUZJmSrN7AzWA5NtG0K_8UuKpyIfRXoKT8iK0Y7MXBCRiK_J-k7wOWkoaqoZzATrDlJ/s400/image1+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#B&W<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJgAMso1nIuwpjH8dzGXNj4o4tLHZ0ONYrBEIYk3oUaqB42fg_I61-3_m9tXDseoVGOEB3OGOtieSwmQFIW1ycqYnKyW2KzEZwgXYD93DRvw4zhuFM65FEt9hifd7JPuiJfcau/s1600/IMG_6866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJgAMso1nIuwpjH8dzGXNj4o4tLHZ0ONYrBEIYk3oUaqB42fg_I61-3_m9tXDseoVGOEB3OGOtieSwmQFIW1ycqYnKyW2KzEZwgXYD93DRvw4zhuFM65FEt9hifd7JPuiJfcau/s400/IMG_6866.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RIP George Floyd</td></tr>
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<br />His Writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14605571295912635629noreply@blogger.com0