life and the universe Archives - Page 7 of 22

September 26, 2014 In appreciation, art, books, inspiration, life and the universe, words and language By Patricia Saxton

Friday Night Book Club: Devouring Words

A more delicious work of writing in recent months, I have not read. Anthony Doerr’s latest novel is a shining star.

from “All the Light We Cannot See”, a stunning novel about a blind French girl and a German boy whose paths collide in occupied France as both try to survive the devastation of World War II.

We’ve read quite a few books since I last wrote about our Friday Night Book Club ~ many of them noteworthy ~ but All The Light We Cannot See was, to me, the most notably delicious. It’s storytelling at its best, woven with a scrumptious use of language. Doerr marries prose with bold emotion and stark realism, the offspring being sentence after readable, captivating sentence.

And yes, the characters! Always the characters – you have to “care” about them, and we do.

This novel passes my “what makes a book really worthwhile” test with flying colors: It’s got to be purely great storytelling. That means brilliant writing. Personable, intriguing characters. Interesting plots, invisibly rich details. You’re immersed. You’re engaged. You care.

I’ll also add that I like to feel I’m learning something. And here, in All the Light We Cannot See, I learned about a different side of World War II (a subject I seem to be perennially fascinated by), primarily taking place in France and seen through the eyes of two intriguing children. But learning alone is not enough. I wanna be grabbed by the belt, taken on a voyage, filled with wonder. All The Light We Cannot See does all that. It’s one of those books that makes your life feel richer for having read it.

………….

For you book lovers out there, we gather on the first Friday of each month, if you want to read along virtually. Other Book Club Books read since my last Friday Night Book Club posting are The Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert (loved), The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh (loved), The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd (really loved), and Raven Black by Ann Cleeves (liked).

I also have a really long list of books on my GoodReads author page if anyone wants to connect over there.

Peace, love, happy reading.

September 16, 2014 In appreciation, leadership, life and the universe, optimism By Patricia Saxton

Trusting

I’ve found it hard to post my usual posts lately, the ones about creating happiness, about the joys of art, writing and such, knowing, as we all do, about the pain, anguish and atrocities going on out there in the world. So I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge. These are severe times in many ways. Talking about painting seems somehow trite.

Yet we go back to our Facebook pages and homework and poetry writing and “what’s for dinner” because what’s out there is all too ugly to mentally sustain ~ and what the hell would we do anyway? Aren’t there Leaders to handle this kind of thing? Sadly, I see no leaders…. and then a troubling cycle of thought threatens to ensue, poised on all the madness.

The thing is, when it comes to the Really Big Stuff in the world, it’s as though I simply can’t process it fully. I can feel horrified. I can feel disgust. I can feel really, really disturbed. But I can’t fully engage. Maybe it’s a form of self-preservation – as if to think on it too hard and long, to dwell, is too intense an exercise. A debilitating merry-go-round of worry and fear. Contemplating ruined lives and sabotaged events is too heavy a weight.

Is it my artistic temperament? My sensitivity that can’t handle it? I’ll think, “but am I turning the other cheek?” Am I uncaring, or selfishly absorbed in “my own little world”? “Shouldn’t I be doing something?” Is it some kind of cosmic guilt, a tripped-up compassionate pulse that I should enjoy a good meal while thousands of people across the globe struggle in unthinkable situations? That I landed where I did in this life, and they did not?

But I always come back to 2 things: 1.) an eternal optimism I seem to have been born with (or maybe it was nurtured in, or both) and 2.) maybe I can do something and maybe I am doing something, even if it’s not measurably touching the great mass of humanity… by taking care of my corner, and spread light there. Because that’s what I feel I can do.

I was raised to believe (and I do believe) that it really does matter what you do in your own little corner of the world. (And this belief, you may already know, was the basis of my 52 Weeks of Peace book / series. It’s about what we can do as individuals, right here and right now. And if we all did…)

Fretting and stewing about world events, the disgraces of humanity that exist, the evil-doers, the lies and deceit and manipulation, is unproductive for me personally; nor does it serve anyone. It’s way bigger than me, and to go there with too much prolonged fervor only makes me feel powerless to help, filling a space with negativity and projecting dread where there could be light ~ and I operate SO MUCH BETTER from a place of light.

And God knows we need more light in this world.

When it comes to fretting and stewing about my own place in the world, or how the bills get paid and other earthly challenges we all face at one time or another, the same thing applies – I operate SO MUCH BETTER from a place of light.

Oh believe me, (and I know I’ve said this before and probably will again) I can worry like the best of them, but at some point I return to some sort of peace ~ because I have to. As if I’m wired that way. To have faith. In life. In love. In light. It’s my call to arms.

After years of practice, it’s almost become a type of daily surrender. Trusting. And so far, unless I’m deluding myself, it feels like the right course of action. We’ll see how it goes… Yes, I’ll continue to write and paint and share thoughts on happiness, because what is life without upliftment? ~ but in the meantime, for what it’s worth, my heart sends waves of hope to those in far greater need.

September 11, 2014 In appreciation, art, design, leadership, life and the universe, philosophy By Patricia Saxton

September 11: Hope and Remembrance

At 9:00 a.m. on 9/11/01, I’d just come back from dropping my daughter at kindergarten. The sky was robin-egg blue, the air a perfect September calm. A neighbor screamed to me from her car, and the rest of the day was sheer horror. I will never forget. Shock. Agony. Grief.

Forty minutes away. Too close. Much too close.

That night we all gathered on my front lawn, a circle of candles and hearts and prayers.

You just don’t forget.

If anything good came from that awful day, it was that for at least a brief time we were one United States of America. We were all Americans. We all felt a pain in the pits of our stomachs, the lurching of our hearts, the constriction in our throats and tears in our eyes. We loved our neighbor, near and far, from cities to remote little towns, black, brown, white, yellow, red, gay, straight, male, female. We were family, a wounded family, and we grieved as one. Red, white and blue became the new black. We were proud, we were strong, we were one, honoring the brave and the lost and the taken. They were us, we were them.

Our hearts may have softened towards each other, but I also think how sad that we couldn’t sustain that sense of pride and family. Things calmed down, we went about our routines. Fell back into old patterns. Terror still threatens this world of ours, and yet we fight our own small fights, our petty snits, our egos drowned in the latest trend, the latest news, the latest gossip, the latest celebrity sighting. As if we can’t sustain loving our neighbor without tragedy to bring it about. Oh, but that’s human nature. Weddings and funerals. Drama brings people together.

We argue on the right, on the left, and we suffer the idiocy of politicians. I hear a lot of talk that doesn’t walk. I hear each news cycle replacing the last. Like some strange reality show, yesterday’s unanswered wrong overrun by today’s, and today’s by tomorrow’s. We numb. We stay medicated on electronics. Opinions aren’t debated, they’re spewed. We don’t listen. We don’t really see. The world is in shambles. We seem very divided. Something is wrong here.

But for one day, maybe just an hour, maybe only 10 minutes ~ we’ll remember 9/11 and that flood of love and hope and “don’t you dare” will fill us up. We’ll be a family for 10 minutes. We’ll remember why we love this place and the people in it. But maybe, just maybe, we can nurture that love and hope and integrity a little longer? Might the foundational idea that we are a free people nourish and inspire us, just a little longer? That it’s worth fighting for?

Can we recognize that there is light and that yes, there is also some very ugly, very dark scary shit in the world and it’s up to each one of us to know the difference and take up the torch right where we are with a battle cry to spread a little more light, a little more love, a little more courage?

There are some amazing people in this world, and I’m lucky to know several who take up that torch every day with all their hearts. We all know them. They are sincere. Let’s all be more sincere. Let’s honor the brave, the lost and taken with some blessings. Be the blessing in someone’s day. Be present. Be good.

And I had no idea this piece of writing was going to go the way it did, but I hope we can use this memory to remember that at the end of the day we’re all in this together. At the base of the fallen towers let’s plant hope, and water it well.

August 26, 2014 In appreciation, art, creativity, design, drawing, inspiration, intelligence, life and the universe, philosophy, words and language By Patricia Saxton

A Plethora of P’s: #72 / Pioneer

proactively punctuating life with the plausible, powerful possibilities of positive thought presented through a plethora of “P’s”.

– ♥ –

When I was little, we lived on 7 acres of land, much of which was rich, thick forest with babbling brooks and scampering deer and a million sounds ~ a virtual chorus of bird calls, rustling leaves, frogs and crickets chirping ~ surrounded by all shades of green under a canopy of blue high above the tallest trees. I loved taking it all in. And I liked imagining how I’d get back if I wandered too far. Of course, I knew I’d find my way by remembering this particularly shaped boulder alongside that creek, or twin fallen logs a few feet from the fence ~ but it was the idea of the adventure. And I was an explorer, a pioneer!

Sometimes I pretended I was Lewis or Clark on a special expedition, discovering new lands, befriending Indians, looking for food, calming wild animals, dodging peril! Or I might have been Rebecca Boone, minding the homestead while Daniel was out doing good deeds on the frontier. Maybe I was Daniel on a mission with Mingo. Never knowing what would come next, if I’d get lost, how I’d survive, if anyone would hear me. This was exciting stuff.

But I realize now that being a pioneer doesn’t necessarily mean you’re navigating foreign lands, or inventing the next transistor radio or happening upon a never-seen-before animal on the Galápagos ~ or landing on Mars, for that matter. It can be as simple as adding some wild to your thought process, a little crazy and untamed. “Out of the box” as they say.

We can all be pioneering. We can walk the unbeaten path. (And there we might even find very cool things like this P-shaped branch!) We can chart a new course. See what’s around the next bend. Seek adventure. Write a new song. Open a new door. Inquire. Inspire. Lead. Teach. Dream a new dream.

We can delight in discovery. Big, small, personal or worldly ~ there’s always more to see than meets the eye, always more to learn than what we’ve been taught.

Life is the adventure, and not one of us has seen or done it all. There’s always more treasure to find, whether within ourselves, down the block or in the great out there. And I, for one, hope to never lose that sense of excitement from stepping now and then, even gingerly, into unknown territory.

(see our ongoing Plethora of P’s here)

August 23, 2014 In appreciation, life and the universe, philosophy, Uncategorized By Patricia Saxton

College and The Long Good-Bye

I know it’s different for each kid stepping on to campus for the first time, and there are different kinds of angst for every parent. Happy. Proud. Sad. Nervous. But we adjust. After all, we’ve been saying good-bye for years.

It starts when they’re born, really. Almost right away we’re mesmerized by what they can do next, and then next, and then next. In our enchantment, even as we hold them close, we encourage more independence. We cherish their baby steps, we applaud their successes and cheer them on to greater achievements.

Even as we can’t imagine a life without them, without holding their hands, without their precious little hugs, without sharing their daily joys, triumphs and struggles, we reward their moving on and needing us less.

We give them roots to stand steady and wings to fly high. It’s all rather wonderful until the time comes – the previously unimaginable time – when they actually do take flight.

Oh, we know it’s coming. We try to prepare ourselves. We know that to flourish in life they need to grow and leap and land on their own two feet. We know that one day they won’t need or want to hold our hand. But when the time comes, we ache.

Even though they’ll be back in a few hours time, we ache on their first day of kindergarten. Our babies, so grown up.

And even though, as time goes by, they unconsciously help us to let go ~ the infuriating rolling of the eyes (not my child!) ~ and even though they’ve tried us and challenged us and worried us, at times seeming like some alien creature in human teenage form ~ when the time comes to say good-bye, we ache.

It’s a good-bye long coming. Even though we’ve pushed and reassured and supported every step of the way, even though we knew it would come, even though sometimes we thought we were ready and even though they may have helped us ~ we don’t really want the good-bye. But it comes.

And so the inevitable moment arrived for me. I join the ranks of empty nesters, feeling a bit displaced after 18 years of devotion to this beautiful being I brought into the world.

I’ve been fairly stoic, I think. Intellectualizing the whole process, waiting for the dam to break ~ which, yes, it does about an hour away from our destination. My heart is all I feel, except for tears drifting down my cheeks, knowing the hour is near ~ the hour when she’ll stay and I’ll go.

But I pull myself together, not to give it away, and I think it works because she seems to have been oblivious to my quiet emotional burst. And I manage just fine through the unloading, unpacking, helping to put things away in her cozy new dorm room. I stay outwardly upbeat, calm, cool, collected – parental. I take her out to dinner. And then the wave returns, because the time is almost here, for real, and this time there’s no hiding it ~ the wave breaks and I don’t care. As long as I don’t make a big scene, we’re good. No wailing, sobbing, grabbing by the ankles. The last thing she needs is to worry about Mom. But it doesn’t hurt to let her see “I’m gonna miss you!.” (As if she doesn’t already know.)

Because this time she won’t be back in a few hours; it’ll be more like a few months. And that cycle will repeat for the next four years, becoming our new normal. And I’ll get used to it.

Oh but it’s hard to say good-bye. All I feel is my heart. Proud, aching and hopeful all at once.

We walk out together ~ one last hug ~ and as she heads to a new student event in a sea of orange, I see the spark in her step, the twinkle of excitement in her eye, a readiness to take on her new world, and I get a vision of the much smaller version of herself, the indomitable, “here I am!” little girl, ready for life’s adventures.

And I’m grateful. It’s time.

August 12, 2014 In appreciation, intelligence, life and the universe By Patricia Saxton

A Light Passes

It’s hard to know what to say, but hard, too, to say nothing about the passing of one of the world’s brightest lights in performance. I pray you find peace, Robin Williams.

You, who lifted the hearts of millions with your incredibly sharp wit ~ a brand of humor clearly fueled by great intelligence and sensitivity ~ you were brilliant. Absolutely, remarkably, shiny brilliant. And we are so very, very sad to see you go. It feels somehow cruel and wrong, for one who gave so much.

Thank you for having graced us. May you rest in the arms of angels.

August 7, 2014 In art, black and white, life and the universe By Patricia Saxton

Forks in the Road

They just keep coming, don’t they. Forks in the ever-twisting road of life. Crossroads. Milestones. Decisions.

Sometimes you see them coming from a distance, sometimes they fall from the sky. Sometimes, if you’re busy plowing ahead, you may not even be aware that you’re choosing this way or that way ~ but there’s always a choice, whether it’s a physical or mental turn. There’s always more than one way to go, to see, to believe, to act. You’re always hoping you choose well.

And so it is that I’m facing a crossroad; choices have been made and I’m hoping for all the best as my girl goes off to college in a couple weeks. Another marker on the journey; one that has me thinking things that a million other parents have probably thought… Did I teach her well? Did I cover this or that important thing? Did she hear me? Will she remember? Will she miss me, even a little? It’s a tricky balance of parenting and distancing, sharing and letting go. You want them to be happy, strong and safe. To blossom. You hope you’ve laid a solid foundation. You’ve given them wings; now it’s time to fly.

And then there are one’s own wings, so used to holding and protecting and staying close to the nest in case they’re needed… now they need some dusting off, as you stretch ’em out, shake a fresh batch of glitter on and, ready or not, head for yet another fork in the road – this one for you.

You hope you choose well!

July 20, 2014 In art, inspiration, life and the universe, philosophy, writing By Patricia Saxton

The Windrow

Vincent van Gogh, 1887

Sometimes, while Willis worked a mindless task in a field of wheat, he’d make things up. Like how he might go about building a rocket ship or how to carve a baseball bat that would send a ball farther. He’d try to figure out how things worked – anything. He wanted to know what made things go; what made them tick, whir, move fast or move slow. How a kernel of wheat turned into one of his Mama’s fine loaves of bread.

Sometimes, though, he’d get tired and he’d just be there, grimy and hot in the sun, looking at this enormous piece of land he had to tend, and just like any young boy, he’d feel overwhelmed. And he’d think, ‘I’ll never get this done. I’ll never get to do anything else. Ever. I’ll be here in this field for the rest of my life, until the cows come home and go back and come home again’. And that’s how he felt today.

Seeing Will slumped unproductively, his father came by and said, “Son, you’ve just got to take it one windrow at a time, is all. It won’t be so bad.”

“But there are so many rows Dad! I’ll never get it done!”

“Willis, you will get it done and you’ll do it right. I don’t want to hear you complainin’.”

Sheepishly, Will replied with an obedient “Yes, Dad.”

After a pause, Charles sat down next to Will. He looked at him harshly. Took a deep breath. And then, in a kinder tone, Charles said “Alright. Listen now. Hear what I’ve got to say. I’m gonna tell you this, and you think about it while you work. So listen.

When you stand here and look out ‘cross this big ol’ field, you see there’s lots and lots and lots of ground you’ve got to work. It looks like it’s near impossible and it’s too much for you to do. Yes, now I know it’s big. But I tell you son, if you stop looking at how big it is, and just start right in with what’s right there in front of your eyes ~ right here, under your feet ~ and you just take care of that one spot, well right away you’ll be done with that spot and you’ll be movin’ on to the next one. Pretty soon you’ll have a whole row done. And then it won’t look quite so big anymore. If you just look at one of these rows, instead of all of them at once, you won’t get so tired before you’ve even got started. You’re only tired thinking about it, and then nothin’ gets done and it’s still just as big as before.

Now I want you to remember that, because there ain’t nothin’ in life that’s so big it can’t be done if you just start from right where you are and don’t get scared off by the size of it.

All you’ve got to do is one windrow at a time. That’s all you got to think about right now. Just this one. That’s right. Now, go on.”

Charles stood, walked away, then over his shoulder he added, “And Willis? You just might build that rocket ship one day. It might even be the best rocket ship ever made, because you’re gonna build it one piece at a time.”

……………………

July 18, 2014 In appreciation, art, creativity, design, drawing, inspiration, intelligence, life and the universe, philosophy, words and language By Patricia Saxton

A Plethora of P’s: #71 / Portals

proactively punctuating life with the plausible, powerful possibilities of positive thought presented through a plethora of “P’s”.

– ♥ –

There are moments ~ sometimes big and unmistakable, sometimes just pinpoints in time ~ where we step through a portal from one world into another; from old to new, from shadow to light, from closed to open, from veiled to aware, from childhood to maturity.

Passages are inevitable. Still, we sometimes have the choice to walk through or stay behind, and we have minds and hearts to guide us towards those that are good and right and to turn away from those that are not.

And so, whether figuratively or literally, for the better or even the temporarily or seemingly worse, we find keys, turn knobs, open doors, step through. With little outward fanfare, and often imperceptibly, we learn, we grow, and are forever changed. And our experience here becomes all the richer.

(see our ongoing Plethora of P’s here)

July 10, 2014 In creativity, design, life and the universe, philosophy By Patricia Saxton

Hey, Um, Yea, Uh-huh

Distractions abound. Pictures. Ads. Videos. A constant hum of information. Noise.

Everywhere you go. Millions of people glued to their phones, checking messages, emails, texts, loading pictures to their social media favorites. Where is the luxury of time to ponder private thoughts or digest what’s being delivered virtually non-stop, 24/7/365?

And it’s not just our kids. Granted, they seem more obsessed, but it’s us, too. The adults. How many times when we’re with someone are we put in second place to an incoming call or text? How many nuances are missed, how many moments?

As a breed, we’re plugged in. But are we tuned in, or tuned out?

I, too, love the access. I love knowing I can reach loved ones at any time. I love the ability to seamlessly promote a business, to reacquaint with old friends, to make new ones around the world, to write this blog so that anyone on the planet might read it. I like the ease and unobtrusiveness of a text message. I like that I can shop without fighting crowds. I like finding information quickly. There’s some really cool, inspiring stuff out there. It’s a marvel. It’s a blessing and a curse. All of that.

But what starches my shorts about all this is not just that as a people we are “being distracted” and seemingly succumbing to it quite happily, but that “being present” is being threatened. The art of listening. The richness of conversation. The act of undivided attention.

Yet ~ I see glimmers of hope in the rise of things like meditation and yoga practices. It tells me that people don’t want to lose touch with their core. They want to slow down the “go go go”. They don’t necessarily want to be tethered to an electronic source, as much as it’s become almost essential.

I also find hope in the fact that there are still people who read books; and based on the sheer number of blogs out there, the realization that people still want to write. There’s a hunger to be heard, a desire to share.

And I think ~ I think ~ that within all the technological wonder, despite distractions, the “quick fix” and the instant everything, and even as some seem to be more awake and others falling asleep ~ there’s a real thirst for what’s genuine. For the organic. For the painting done with hand and brush. For the acoustic. For the face to face. The touch and feel. The messy. The unscheduled. The engaged. The spontaneous. The uninterrupted. For the very humanness of being human.

Let’s not forget! (What was that? Oh, sorry, just kidding…)

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