We have things to do, me and you. Planning this and that, scouting provision, assessing the rhyme and reason in today and tomorrow’s to-do. We’re not just taking in the view here. In a land of mirages and unsteady sands, we put our heads together to weather the daily demand. It’s how we function. Then, interruption. Hold that thought while I make out what just happened. Something unexpected just corrected our well-intentioned control, I mean, plans. We can’t even remember what was next on the agenda because now it’s all shifting. The heat is lifting what we thought would be, like a vapor, here today gone tomorrow. Instead of going too, we hold still. If it’s the Lord’s will, we will change what we do.
Why do I consider the ravens? Ravens are known for their high cognitive skills. They are problem solvers and planners, not just in the forethought, but in response to what they observe. They are unstuck in their patterns. I’m challenged by their acceptance of what may seem like inconvenience or interruption to pivot wisely and recognize provision and solution. 24 X 18 in (triptych, each panel is 24 x 6 in) mixed media painting I come from a long line of over-reactors. We make big deals out of molehills, flapping our wings. Sustained volume, ceaseless singing, simultaneous chatter; ears ringing. A strange bird alone. But when together, birds of a feather. A passionate crew. Doing what we do. You’ll see where I get it. Cackling, yelling. To the point truth telling. Getting loud. Being fools in a crowd. Crying when you don’t need to. Pranking when it suits you. Fighting and fishing for what’s wrong. Making up words to a new song. The resemblance is too much, too telling. A family happily playing in thorny places, sharing lots and lots of words and ruffling feathers. No-one messes with loud birds in the desert.
30 X 40 in mixed media painting Those marks on your beautiful green skin tell me a story. The pain and glory of living in a desert place. A routine of protecting self and guarding the wealth inside. You tend to hide in certain seasons with all your reasons and ways of how things can go wrong. Marks of weather and abuse, bad decisions, no excuse, times of drought and near death, for sure. You know what can leave a mark. You’ve seen it, but you’ve also dreamed it too. An unfair thing to do, calling the shots before any damage has been done. But, Beautiful One, you see how the sun is your keeper, healing deeper than your flesh can resolve on its own? You’ve blamed the sun in the past for being rash, but now you have a different view. On your own you cannot see your place, how the scars and spots on your face are marks where new growth begins, and fruit extends, and the blooms — oh, the colors, like neon in the dark — how they mark your world with grace. You, with your kind, the ones you find on the fringes and edges, by the highways and in the hedges are, well, breathtaking. The most vivid blooms are among the marred, not the groomed. You’re the opposite of what we assumed. (Luke 7:47)
12 x 36 in (triptych, each piece 12 x 12 in) mixed media painting Watch me gather and sew and take what I know to fashion where they lay their heads. Every noise is a threat, every flight is a bet I’ve made on the nest I wove and secured in this hidden place. I’ve noticed others do it a different way. They build in eaves or trees with mud or hay, they have much to say about my tactics and place of rest. But this is my nest. And what it holds is in my care. And I was built to hold them there… well. As only I know to do. Bedtime stories are of desert glories and the mirage of lies, of enemies below and suns that rise, and skies that they will feel one day when they fly. A constant feeding and leading before they test what they’ve only heard was true. My nest is the best of what I’ve done, but my joy is to watch them become.
40 X 30 in mixed media painting The canyon at the narrows is a paradox. This river has me buried deep. What I thought was looming shame was only the shade of this canyon’s keep. What was meant to erode and crush me, make me a fool, has become my footstool. The current that would surely drown me in this narrow place has only lifted and moved me around unknown places and bends, toward golden light. In the valley, I have sight. Kept between these fortified walls; they are tall watchmen, seeing what I cannot. Humbled, am I destroyed or kept? I lift up my eyes. Where is my help? My Rock has hemmed me in behind and before. The Maker is my keep.
Inspired by The Narrows in Zion Canyon. A beautiful Puritan prayer from The Valley of Vision is integrated throughout. (Psalm 121; Psalm 139:1-12; Isaiah 6:1-8) 36 X 12 in mixed media painting I grew up in a family that functioned much like musical theater with random outbursts of song combining dialogue, dance numbers, and a heavy dose of theatrics. Someone was always singing. Even more so at the table when we gathered — setting the table, during the meal, and clearing the table. Singing loudly was never improper. This was a time for unison, for harmony, for matching another’s joy as we ate. We didn’t have much, but we were rich with song.
The table at Pedernal is set every morning — laid in gold, with a spread of the season’s bounty. Pull up a seat humming a tune. The day’s musical has just begun. Match the drama and rhyme of the scene. Keep in step and sing a song of gratitude, loudly. “Those who dwell at the ends of the earth are in awe at your signs. You make the going out of the morning and the evening to shout for joy.” Psalm 65:8 12 x 36 in mixed media painting The sun, seed and soil wait their cue. Winter placed a white canvas in view. Washed it gray, now a green hue for quite some time. It’s seems a bit of a tease to pull out the palette and paint with warmer rushes of air and birds prelude, but amid occasional rains the dry brushes sit, like naked sticks. Until the dew wets them enough to load a color or two onto Spring’s palette in hand. And from her plein air stand she will stroke the field and yield God’s sketchbook of blooms. Layered lightly, then thick and mighty until brushes, bonnets, and blankets, black eyes and gold cones, cups of butter and roses so prim cover and trim every spare square inch of unclaimed land.
36 x 12 in mixed media painting Running, and when I have time, running more. The colors and forms fixed along this road are blurred lines I catch in my peripheral. A visceral drive that shames pause. Breaking laws of Sabbath, a regular habit of taking higher ground, barring sound, looking around, taking in where I’m headed, where I’ve been. It’s a sin, this not-stopping, not dropping my to-do for the view. You, wooing me into the wilderness where you tenderly speak and map out for me a territory of peaks and valleys, all your making, all my taking. The highs and lows stretch to a horizon line and define your land. My spinning vision slows... and the colors and forms take their place and I can see what was lost in haste — my position in the topography. You are the maker and the key. Now, finding North and South, judging distance, mapping it out.
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