the carapace

crowning glory

of the incubator

where dreams came of age

must be shed

must be shed

and ready dreams

gathered in as grapes

by harvest moonlight

or shrivel

shrivel and die

die

die on the vine

so I try.

“There was a star danced — and under that I was born.”

William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616.

I’ve long favored this quote —

For many reasons. 

Mystery.  Movement.  Creation —

And the utter beauty in the randomness of things.

April 7, 2010 —

I have a random thought around 9:30 p.m as I’m winding down the day with CSI: NY and Detective Stella Bonasera — 

“If I ever decide to get a dog, Stella would be a good name.

“Hmmm,” I ponder.  “Should I write that down — just in case?

“Nah.”

April 9, 2010 —

It’s unseasonably beautiful in Minneapolis and I’m working from home.  Another random thought —

“I wonder if my neighbor would like to take a walk with me over lunch.”

We walk down Lyndale — a street he’s walked his entire life — over 60 years.  He reminisces about architecture and his family including the dogs he’s had throughout the years and eventually we stop for a quick lunch.  My first of the season on a patio.

He begins, “I’m trying to find a home for a really nice dog —”

“What kind of dog,”  I ask.

“English Shepherd —”

We talk more about the breed, the reasons behind the need for a new home and his familiarity with this dog — his special interest in finding her a good home.

Then I ask —

“What is her name?”

A star danced as I heard him say —

“Stella.”

April 11, 2010 —

I have a dog —

And her name is Stella.

Stella — “star” in Latin —

And with a nod to providence —

I’ll add a middle name —

Yep, you guessed it.

Bonasera.

A fresh snowfall on a lake is a wonderfully blank canvas —

A winter stage of sorts — if you’ve got the right perspective — and I do.

From my 17th floor office window overlooking Lake Normandale, I can watch the sun both rise and set for a certain number of weeks in the year.   And in the precious hours of winter daylight I am a skybox spectator at a dynamic art show in the snow.

The artists come and go as the snow flies.  Their works of art evolve with the elements.

Intricate whirled patterns made with steel-belted brushes, masterfully driven from start to finish with purpose and precision.

Pairs of foot prints stamped with intention to create large scale abstract geometric patterns. 

Grafitti-like smears here and there —

Declarations of hello and love and peace and—

Oh my —

Is that what I think it is?

In a bold salutation to the south facing windows of the 8400 Tower — the ultimate —

Hard on —

Ice!

Bravo!  Bellissimo!

And apparently — art being art — with the power to elicit strong —

And often extremely polarized responses from different people —

BOO!

The building management was called.  Human Resources was alerted.

And then — like a four-hour trip on Cialis, it was decided to bring this masterpiece down —

With a stomp.

Cheers from some —

And from others —

Fun —

While it lasted.

The above photo, entitled “bleep”, was taken after the stomping out which is visible in the upper right corner of the frame.

1.  Puddles are taking the place of icebergs.

2.  People and pets have ear-to-ear grins for complete strangers.

3.  The lake still doubles as a hockey rink —

4.  — and a cross country ski trail —

5.  — and a fishing hole.

6.  A man runs by in shorts —

7.  — and a tank.

8.  Someone stops to photograph a filthy crusty black snow bank —

9.  — and another uses a gloved finger to write a message in a surprisingly virgin stretch of white —

10.  ”Have a nice day,” punctuated by a smiley face.

Faith is a verb.

Active in the present tense.  Revealing its power —

Truth and beauty —

Like a double mctwist 1260 —

In the air.

And at the point of impact.

Without faith, there is no letting go.  Without faith, there is no flow.

And yet.

As far as I’ve come in my journey to live by faith, the vice grip of anxiety still knows where to find me.  Continues to slip through the window into my mind, uninvited —

A double shot of doubt and fear to the heart — so real, so intense, so credible that I cannot ignore it.  Feel I must act on it — and indeed I will, with haste, and let’s not forget gratitude.  Because this is my life that’s being saved, you understand, and thank you God for alerting me.  For sparing me these horribly painful consequences.  For saving my —

Life.

Whew!

And then, with the grace of a flying tomato, I remember —

Faith is a verb.

A well-toned muscle I’m learning to flex precisely at the moment I want to run for my life.  A voice that says —

“Go ahead and pause.  Then take a deep breath and let it go, let it flow.”

Easier said, than done — I know.  But I think I’m on to an effective little short cut.

When things begin to twitch, and I want to ditch — I call forth an experience when I didn’t have to think, or force or strain — when I was completely loose and one with the moment —

Which is oddly enough, when I have also had less of a stake in needing something to turn out a certain way.

The chance meeting, the unexpected arrow to the heart —

Or, the most amazing photo opp that comes at the most inopportune moment.

Somehow I find the grace to do just about anything to get the shot —

Knowing there are no guarantees.

Only intentions and actions.

In the end, the shot might be more spectacular than imagined.   Or it might suck.

Either way —

It is worth taking.

I love quotes.

Listen hard for them in everyday speech.  Find them on the pages of dialogue between friends —

And yes — even strangers.

In books.  On the screen.  Floating in the air.

Jotted in shorthand on post-its and stuck on the wall facing me at my desk.  Copied and pasted from the screen and carefully tucked away for a rainy day.  Scribbled on the fly  in my battered composition book — dare I confess —

Even while I’m driving.

Oh god, I’m sounding like some kind of addict —

Or, god forbid — hoarder —

But really, it’s more like a beautiful obsession.  One that helps me make sense of the world —

And steady myself on the tight rope that is life.

Today — feeling a tad melan-choly — leaving-a-close-friend-after-a-nice-long-visit-choly —

I cozy up with one of my favorite quotes.

By Paul Gardner, it goes like this:

“A painting is never finished — it simply stops in interesting places.”

And since I also just “never finished” my first watercolor painting — featuring my favorite concrete expression of man’s enduring capacity to nurture and protect who and what he loves —

You guessed it —

A barn —

I am even more fond of it today.

Yes, after a prolonged period of waiting, it’s time to part with the way it has been — and that comes with both hesitation and slightly overcast skies.

Still — I move forward taking comfort in the knowledge that the last stroke always leaves something interesting —

And like a well-worn t-shirt under a new suit —

It’s next to my skin —

And never far from my heart.

Waiting. 

Waiting through the last leaf and the first snow fall, the seconds of day light fading gradually into darkness as I finally let go —

Begin to fall and then try to stop myself.  Grasp at anything.  At nothing.  Until I let go again.  And again.

Accepting, out of desperation, this state of groundlessness.  No floor.  No ceiling.  No point of reference.  Or context.

Oh god, a writer without context.  A strategist without a plan. 

I think —

I am nothing. 

And at the same time — I think —

I could be —

Everything.

On the longest night of the year —

I am —

Expectant.

How long will it take?  How long before it’s complete?  Over and done?  Good and ready?  Time?

How will I know when it’s been long enough?   What should I do while I —

Wait?

Is there anything I can do?  Will it matter?  Should I go or should I —

Stay?  And —

Wait.

Wait.  Oh —

The weight —

Of the word.

Wait.

Hate it.

Extremely aware of light.

Aware —

Of the way light enters a scene and mixes with the shapes in the shot to create a statement in that moment.  A mood perhaps.  Maybe even a feeling.

If I am lucky.

And I know I am —

But a careful observer in the process.  Know that my power lies, not in controlling the light —

But in collaborating with it.

The light is the source.   The leader.  The creator.

I pay attention and —

I follow.

(I write today at 10,000 feet:   I write in the spaces between the rivers of gold reflecting the September light.)

So —

“In life, we end up having to empty ourselves to achieve that which is beautiful,” Matt Maher says.

“If you don’t, you never really get made beautiful. It’s a weird dichotomy, especially in the world we live in because there’s so much focus on beauty.

“The whole idea of having to empty one’s self to achieve beauty is completely counter cultural, but that’s what happens — marriage, service of the poor, sharing the beauty of the gospel.

“That’s what Christ calls us to do, and I hope these songs will help inspire people to follow Jesus in that way.”

http://www.mattmahermusic.com/index.php