Thursday, June 29, 2017

The Portfolio





Being particularly fond of vintage art, I recently purchased a group of pictures from an online auction.  Unless it is something exceptionally rare, most of the time these forgotten pictures can be purchased for little of nothing.    In that group of framed pictures that I bought for less than $10, was also a portfolio of art signed and dated by the same individual.  As I rifled through the amateur artwork, I began making assumptions based on my perceptions.  The signature on many of the paintings simply said “Carlyle”.  While this was a gender-neutral name to me, I assumed it had been assigned to a male.  While there were a few paintings in the portfolio depicting men, most of the art depicted women.  Again, I assumed a man possibly painting the woman he admired, as the model seemed to age in some of the paintings.  I also made the assumption that the artist was perhaps melancholy in nature as so many of the paintings portrayed dark colors and heavy strokes.  I also entertained the idea of another artist, perhaps someone related to Carlyle, adding a few pieces to the portfolio because some of the art seemed so out of character with my preconceived notions of the artist.  To add to this theory, I found artwork signed with two different surnames. 

When my husband looked at the portfolio, he had different assumptions.  He immediately believed the artist to be female and thought that the entire portfolio was created by one individual.  Having already formed an opinion, my mind immediately began to argue with his theory.  After all, I had this mysterious person’s story line already started in my head.  As Mike began to expound on his thoughts, I began to soften towards his ideas and could see how my preconceived notions could very well be wrong.  He offered the thought that the use of two different last names could indicate that the artist had married and taken her spouse’s last name.  And, while many of the paintings depicted dark colors and a heavy stroke, there were pieces that indicated the artist did have a lighter, less serious side.  One painting depicted a couple in a sailboat and one could almost feel the stress of the artist sailing away with each stroke that created the illusion of salty winds and waves.  For  more fun, there was what appeared to be an original pattern prototype for paper dolls in the portfolio, complete with detailed outfits sketched on thin paper.  Some of the architectural sketches that I first assumed had been drawn by a man contained colors and details that could have been more likely drawn from a woman’s detailed perspective of the things that make a house a home. 




Most likely, this novice artist will remain a mystery to us and while it is fun to try to reconstruct history and imagine the lives of the people whose hands have painted the pictures, drawn the sketches, written the words and lived in the past, making assumptions in our daily lives can be dangerous business.   Having the mind of “a writer”, I tend to want to weave what I see into a story line, even if it’s only in my head and never makes it to the written page.  How damaging this can be for those we find ourselves “studying” when we allow our assumptions to influence truth.  We never see things so clearly until we are on the receiving end of the scrutiny and the stories that are woven together by those who refuse to see the truth become daggers that pierce our hearts.

As I find myself on the other side of such a situation and try to see through the hurt and make sense of a senseless situation, I am struck with two lessons.  The first lesson is so obvious and gives me the opportunity to become a better person if I am willing to be critical of my own thoughts and actions.  I must stop the negative assumptions in regard to others and open my mind to truth rather than construct my own story lines regarding those with whom I interact.  This lesson has an internal to external application.  The second lesson is the external to internal application.  As I listened to my husband’s interpretation of the artist’s portfolio, I was finally able to laugh, realizing how different our perceptions were.  So many things influence our responses to what we see in life. We dissect everything through the lens of our own personal grief and joy.  Somehow finding the ability to laugh, or even just be slightly amused, at the erroneous misconceptions of others in regard to our character, motives or actions, is the door to being free from internalizing all that hurt.  It’s certainly not easy when the story lines that have been spread in no way resembles the person we know ourselves to be, but it seems to me if one can find a way to laugh at the ridiculousness of a situation, some of those negative emotions can be released and we can find ways to continue to foster growth in our own lives instead of resorting to the vicious cycle of defending ourselves to those who refuse to see truth. 

In the end, neither my perceptions or my husband’s perceptions of the portfolio filled with sketches and paintings really makes any difference.  What matters is that the artist found an outlet in which they were able to express their creativity.  And those story lines that others attribute to our lives when they can’t bring themselves to see or admit the truth?  They don’t matter much either.   Mostly what I see in the old portfolio of art created by someone I don't know is the obvious progress they made with their persistence to keep on practicing and creating and growing. 



Thursday, June 15, 2017

Paying for the Words ~ A Personal Essay





I have a complicated relationship with other humans.  Observing from a distance is more my style than being actively interactive.  Yet, there's some draw I believe is in all creatures, to communicate.  We all seem to need to be heard, understood, and to understand.  Perhaps some of us are too sensitive for a lot of interaction or maybe we just don't process hurt very well.  And then there are some who have had more than their share of pain dumped upon them by others.  I remember as a kid wanting desperately to fit into a world in which I felt alienated.  I resorted to sarcasm and humor mostly in order to establish my rank while at school, church, and the few social events I attended.  At home, I roamed the farm and found solace alone in the woods, often in a damp, mossy spot where the creek only ran when there was lots of rain and where occasionally the ice in the winter would form a cascade from the highest ledge of the rocks, a place that looked as if like the earth had once been broken and then restacked in that exact spot.  Only in this hidden, magical forest did I feel safe and free. 

As an adult I have used writing to communicate because it somehow feels safer.  I can hide at home behind my computer, not having to interact face to face.  Here I can choose when to read or make comments on the things I have written.  Here I can go long spells without interacting at all and then pick up where I have left off.  That's not the way to build a blog or grow a steady following in the blogging world.  But, that has never been my reason behind blogging.  For me, it's about connecting with that one individual to whom my words make sense.  Often, in speaking, my words don't make sense, but when I write them down, I can make them make sense to me and to others. 

I admit, I have not tried very often to "fit in" to the world around me but the few times I have tried, I realize again that it's just not for me.  There have been two incidents in the past three years that have sent me scurrying back into introvert mode.  The one incident caused me to limit what I shared openly to the general public.  The other, more recent incident, showed me that some I assumed knew my heart and that I thought were friends, were in fact quick to not only assume the worst in me, but to involve others in their drama, thus hurting some of the folks I love the most. 

I made the decision to shut down both my personal and farm Facebook pages and take a sabbatical.  I am committed to taking the next year to sit quietly with my heart, read, and begin writing in earnest once again.  This time, I am not writing for anyone else, but I am writing for me.  Perhaps along the way, someone might glean something from what I write, but the purpose of my writing is simply because of the benefits it brings to me.  Thus, this blog will contain some of the things it has always contained such as recipes, farm life, perhaps still some photos and tutorials.  However, it will also contain personal essays and observations as well as topics I have not approached here in the past that are of importance to me. 

Mike and I have entered together into a new season in our life and while the recent events that were extremely painful to me led me away from many types of interaction and exposure, they have worked toward the good to bring about a time of soul searching and reflection and hopefully a time of personal growth.  Mike and I are moving toward semi retirement, downsizing the farm, letting go of some of the farming ventures that are taxing and not as productive, and cutting back in areas that require us to devote more time to them than we do to us.  You will see sometimes subtle changes in content to the blog as our lives evolve into the next phase.  For those with pure intent, I invite you to follow along.  For those in the world who continue to seek out information in order to manipulate, control, or destroy, I pray for you.


Monday, June 12, 2017

Un-Shattered ~ Personal Reflections on a Broken World


Un-Shattered
Personal Reflections on a Broken World


The sound of the creek outside my open door and the morning sun shooting shafts of light onto my porch as it makes its way across the final peaks of the Blue Ridge gives light to the small flock of Eastern Turkey scratching for a morning meal. The various deer graze just beyond them.  A small chipmunk runs from here to there, busy with its task, and a variety of birds come to roost on the archway that is just outside the door where I sit sipping my morning coffee.  I breathe in the peace knowing it is temporary. 

This is my sanity, these moments alone in the mountains.  Moments of peace orchestrated by the sights and sounds of the natural world around me bring a quietness to my soul, no matter how temporary.  One call,  text, or email can change everything.    Or, when I simply step away from this haven back into the reality of day to day life, a chaotic world filled with struggles is guaranteed to bring at some point another crisis. 
Like the sudden burst from a hunter’s gun, the words and actions of mankind often bring deep hurt.  These acts of destruction are sometimes brought about through carelessness, while at other times by direct intent.    Like the deer baited and then killed by the very hand that temporarily offered it life, those who work so diligently to earn our trust sometimes lie in wait for the moment of opportunity to strike, as we sit, an unsuspecting target.  Once hurt, there we lie trying desperately to bind up the wounds and find the strength to pull ourselves together so that we can return to the task at hand.
I grab my camera to take a picture of the untamed creatures outside my door. Their heads come up and then they freeze as they wait for the first sign that they should run.  I recoil from the idea that their peace is disturbed by my presence and  retreat into the shadows. 

I will hold the scene of a morning not yet shattered in my memory, rather than seek to capture it digitally. I may not recall exactly the way the sun looked rising above the mountain ridge, the dew sparkling on the grass, the exact turn of the deer’s head, or the graceful lines of her body, but I will hold to the moment left un-shattered.