NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #27

JUST SAYING

2015

 

Is life about becoming the person we are? Or perhaps the person we choose to be, or think we should be. Which ever it is, it is an ongoing experience, evolving, hopefully growing and maturing, and not remaining stagnant and stale. If my life has been a series of “becomings”, at this age, what more can I become?

I may have abused my work, leaning on it too heavily, relying on it to give meaning and purpose to my life. Over the past several months my art and my writing seem to be unable to meet the demands placed upon them. I find myself lost and drifting through the days with no direction and no deeply engaged purpose. I can’t fine the center. More than anything else, I want to be strong and resilient, sustained by an inner strength that enables me to withstand all the challenges of life’s circumstances.

We interact with life two ways, with our feelings and with our intellect, and we are best served when they are in sync with each other, in a healthy balance. Each has the power and the ability to overwhelm the other, or to lift it up when needed. I believe I have relied heavily on my feelings to direct and give purpose to my life, and on my intellect to hold me up when the feelings were failing me.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #26

Standing on their Shoulders    

2015

 They had little to give but themselves, which they gave freely and abundantly.  Josephine, who never knew her father, at age eleven had to leave her home, quit school, and move into an apartment with three older brothers to assume all household duties. Spartaco, known to all as Duke, lost his mother when he was eight years old. The youngest of four brothers, he left school after the eighth grade to work on the family farm, while his brothers and 3 older sisters completed high school and college or business school. Unrelenting hard work, financial insecurity, and more than their share of personal disappointments and illnesses defined their life on that small farm. Comfort and happiness were found in their large, extended family and friends.

It took forty years of living for me to fully appreciate all that these two remarkable people have given to me.

My mother died in December 1991, and my father in the autumn of 1995. I am 76 years old, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of my parents. I don’t know if this is unusual for someone my age, if it is because I was an only child, or if it’s because I am such a sentimental softy. I suspect the real reason is because they were remarkable people, and that they gave me so much. Ironically, in spite of all the writing that I do, writing about them is very difficult for me because I’m afraid I will not do them the justice they deserve.

I believe that I am the person I am because of my parents. Whatever I have accomplished of worth, or may yet accomplish, is the result of the gifts given to me by my family. 

The greatest of these gifts was a sense of self worth and self-esteem, which have allowed me to choose some of the difficult paths I have followed in my life. I believe there is no greater gift parents can give to their children than a strong sense of their own self worth.

My parents taught me about love; they taught me about tolerance and forgiveness, and they taught me about humility. They showed me that a person of worth treats everyone with the same respect and warmth, and that behavior toward others is determined by their humanity and not by their social position or importance.

They never spoke about these beliefs; they simply lived them because that is who they were. Pretention was foreign to them. I am convinced my life is a reflection of those two remarkable people, and I want it to be worthy of them. My greatest responsibilities have been to live a life honoring their gifts and to pass these gifts on to my children and loved ones. 

Where do I go from here?  The journey is far from over, and I don’t get to choose when it ends. I have lived the last 40 years embracing the life I felt called to live. Perhaps it is time to recommit myself to that task.

After 76 years I’m still standing on their shoulders.

THE CONDUCTOR AND THE ARTIST

THE CONDUCTOR AND THE ARTIST

 

We were listening to the Paducah Symphony Orchestra’s last concert of the season. I have absolutely no knowledge or understanding of music, let alone classical music, which puts me at a disadvantage when it comes to appreciating the scope and the nuances of the music. But I can appreciate the passion it evokes in the listener and even more, the passion so clearly obvious in the musicians and the conductor, especially the conductor. 

The musicians were, for the most part, limited to facial expressions imposed upon them by their instruments of varying bulk. But the conductor - his every emotion was betrayed by his body movements, and when visible, his face.  First he stood very still, and the orchestra was quiet, then his arms began to move gracefully in purposeful arcs and the music followed. Suddenly the baton, an extension of his right hand began to bounce and gyrate, pulling his body along with it, and the music kept pace with every movement. Here was an artist immersed in his work with such physical and emotional passion. I was envious.

I can be engrossed in my work, sitting or standing and I may walk away momentarily and pace, which I do quite often. But to be able to experience the sound and the physicality of my work like the conductor did, that is something else. The best I can do is to have music blaring from a CD, Johnny Cash, Luciano Pavarotti, or maybe Queen.   OK…I have a confession to make.  On rare occasions, when I am especially moved, I will actually dance (I insist on calling it dance) around the studio, but not until I have checked to see if Patience, or anyone else could see me.

That is the difference between a symphony conductor and a painter. The conductor can let it all hang out in front of his audience.  The painter, at least this one, must be devious and sneaky. That is my opinion and I’m sticking to it.

NOTES FROM THE 8TH DECADE #25

A FUTURE BEYOND IMAGINATION

May, 2015

Who among us has not exercised their ability to imagine and/or fantasize about their future? From the time I had the mental capacity to do so I often imagined my future. I saw myself in medical school and imagined what life would be like as an intern and resident. I imagined my first medical practice years before It came to be, and when Patience and I decided to move to the country my mind was filled with notions and images of country living. I was living in Paducah months before I was living in Paducah. What ever it was to be, I could envision the next chapter in my life or the next stage of the journey…until now.

Over the past several years the future has been quietly slipping away from me. I can no longer clearly imagine what it holds for me. I’m not even sure I know what I would like it to be. For the first time I have no long term plans to lean on beyond my current studio projects. It has occurred to me that my future is in the canvas on the easel or the watercolor in progress on my drawing table, or perhaps the essay on ageing that I have been struggling with for the past several months. I will occasionally get caught up in a gust of enthusiasm over a new project and reclaim at least some vision of what may lie ahead for me, but it is never sustainable. I’m being forced to do something I have never been very good at doing…living in the moment.

It is all a bit disconcerting.

Arch. Drawing #32