Giraffe Socks

It’s a gray day. And I’m wearing gray. Top to bottom, inside and out. And I wonder, am I feeling gray? Why all the gray, Patsy?

I don’t know about you, but when life requires a little extra thought, when it calls for a dose of self-reflection, I tend to retreat to sort it through. And only then ~ after I’ve sorted enough to have a sensible conversation about whatever it is, or sorted enough to be receptive to what someone else might have to say – do I share it, if at all. It might have turned into a nugget of wisdom by then, or a revelation, or simply a re-telling of when such-and-such made me examine such-and-such. But I don’t wear stuff on my sleeve. Nothing against those who do – in fact, who knows, you might be better off! It’s just not my way.

So I see myself on this gray day, all in gray, feeling gray. Not gray as in “down in the dumps” gray ~ but gray as in “not black and white”, not crisp and clear. And I see that I’m feeling a bit edgy. Uncertain. And definitely a bit vulnerable. I’ve shared parts of myself recently that I didn’t expect to. Good people, and it’s all okay, but still, I feel more exposed than usual. It’s as if a little sign popped up that reads: “Check it out. Dip in the road. Proceed with caution.”.

So I’ve dressed to hide. To soften the edges. To soothe. To avoid creating static or “noise”. To seek balance. To retreat and sort. Gray is a good color for quiet observation.

Then I look down, and tucked under the cuff of my gray jeans, I see my giraffe socks. (Yes, don’t make fun, they’re quite cute, really.) And am glad I’ve also dressed to remind myself to keep it light, that “life’s too mysterious, don’t take it too serious” (which is really bad grammar, whoever made that up, but the point is well taken. 🙂 ).

And that is that. Have yourself a good day. I’m off to the gray horizon to ponder my vulnerability while chomping on the nearest Acacia tree.

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Earthly Pursuits

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Thank heavens there are people like my really smart nephew with a passion for math and statistics; for people who strive to climb Mt. Everest and people who want to be dentists or race-car drivers. I’d be awful at these things (among others) and quite frankly, am grateful someone else has these bases covered.

When you get right down to it, we’re all creative beings. We’re in a constant state of creation, our atoms and molecules and who knows what other sub-this-or-that particles in perpetual motion. What we do with all that varies, of course, from person to person, just as it varies from flower to flower, bird to bird, bug to little bug. Even a winter tree, barren and cold, is feverishly feeding its roots, growing beneath the ground; each tree uniquely carrying out its creative urge. So there’s all this activity going on, a momentum of endless, ever-evolving, ingenious energy, all the time, day and night, year after year.

Okay, I’ve tired myself out thinking about all that! But, hold on, the good news is I don’t need to go any deeper with it; even if I could, I don’t need to fathom the inner workings of this amazing swirl of life we’re part of. All I have to do is my part. And you, yours.

And more good news – we can choose what we want that part to be. And within those options ~ a whole giant vat of them ~ there’s a leaning, a desire, a knack for certain things more than others. And I would venture that those leanings show up unbidden, no matter where we live or under what circumstances ~ our inner callings will find a way to emerge, and they usually show up when we’re little kids. We arrive in this world pre-packaged with a personal set of affinities. And they never leave.

But then we travel life’s twisting roads, and for one reason or another, may un-do some of those natural tendencies. Some are fortunate to retain the connection, some get lost. Maybe it’s strife, maybe it’s what we think others think we should do; a million detours and distractions, a million at-the-time good reasons that lead one away from that core, that essence. But it’s still there ~ I’m certain of it ~ and it’s never too late (or too soon) to revitalize.

If you’re wondering what that calling is, or if you even have one, ask “what lights you up?” Then tap in and get on with it!

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Breakthroughs

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Breakthroughs. Aren’t they great? Like clouds parting, the sun bursting through, we see with refreshing clarity, we understand what had been elusive, we discover something previously hidden, we step forward with renewed vision and vigor. The mire behind us. The mountain climbed! Ideas tumble crisp and clean. Insight sharp and heightened. Pieces fit with remarkable satisfaction.

Defined as “an act or instance of removing or surpassing an obstruction or restriction; the overcoming of a stalemate”, breakthroughs are typically associated with things like science and engineering, technology, negotiations and diplomacy, war and peace.

Einstein comes to mind. Thomas Edison, Marie Curie, Benjamin Franklin, Henry Ford, Jane Goodall, Amelia Earhart, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Walt Disney, Galileo Galilei, Alexander Flemming, Leonardo DaVinci, Charles Darwin, Isaac Newton, Mahatma Ghandi, Margaret Mead, … the list goes on. They’re all pioneers, masters of discovery and exploration who achieved life-changing breakthroughs.

But what of us mere mortals who haven’t found our way into the history books? Our “instances of surpassing an obstruction” are just as valid, even though on a personal level (which, of course, is where they all begin…). Our breakthroughs may not change the world; just ourselves ~ our way of thinking, our way of producing, our direction, our relationships, our world.

Yet as we break our barriers, we affect the world immediately around us, whether we know it or not!

That said, I can recall several breakthroughs in my artistic life, and it never occurred to me that anyone might be impacted but me, myself and I. And for the most part, I still hold onto that belief.

But, as any of us become more confident, or satisfied, or spiritually or skillfully elevated, it changes us ~ and that change is bound to show, in some way, in our outward demeanor, in our actions and behaviors, impacting those around us if only by sheer interaction. How much or little, we may never know, but it’s there.

In any event …  my own first memorable breakthrough came in first grade when swarmed by classmates asking me to draw pictures for them. Most requested, next to a clown, was a drawing I did of a girl’s face whose main attraction seemed to be her swirly-whirly hair-do. This was very neat stuff.

Later, at the ripe old age of 9, I entered a national poster contest. I remember working very hard on my drawing of a fawn, which I’d chosen to represent the prescribed theme of protecting our environment, and I remember my total surprise at winning, and I remember feeling really proud.

After that, while going about the business of regular growing up stuff, I basically honed my craft for a long time, enjoying the steps of refinement along the way.

It wasn’t until my early twenties when perhaps my biggest artistic breakthrough arrived ~ in the form of a self-portrait. This one caused great alarm among family members who were used to my straight-forward, more realistic pieces. They didn’t like it. At all. But I was ecstatic! It was a huge moment. Unforced, un-fussed over, and oh-so-liberating. It was no longer just skill, it was skill + expression; for me, a wide river crossed. And without a conscious intent beyond “doing a self-portrait because that’s what artists do”, the result was a near perfect expression of all that pent-up creativity rising colorfully to the surface.

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Since then, more new doors have popped open in the ever-evolving landscape of creative expression. More breakthroughs, some minor, some major, sprinkled like fairy dust along a path set in motion long ago, a seemingly natural course of events ~ with its own timing in place, I might add! You can even start to feel them coming after a while ~ in fact, I’m sensing one coming up here real soon…… so stay tuned!

But enough about me ~ you’ve surely experienced some of your own. Maybe after a long, deliberate, concentrated effort. Maybe they seemed to form out of thin air, when you were focused elsewhere. Your breakthroughs might be far and few between, or bunched together, firing away one right after another. But however they show up, come they will. They’re a culmination of your experience, and they help shape your future, your choices, and your way of being.

And when the moment arrives, it’s a notable shift. A mark of progress. Light and bright and “yessssss!”

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Making Art & Making Time

A poster I made based on an Andy Warhol quote recently prompted some lively conversation in a Facebook thread.

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One friend commented that she knew many artists, writers and musicians who seem reticent to follow their artistic passion, for a whole bunch of reasons… and how she’d read something years ago that stayed with her ~ something to the effect that if you don’t let your creativity out it will beat you bloody inside.

I tend to agree. With both Warhol and my friend’s observation.

Actually, make that, I pretty much wholeheartedly agree. It’s something I’ve experienced first hand. Never expected to ~ because art, writing, etc was “just something I did”, I flowed merrily along. I took it for granted. But at a time when I became swallowed up in life’s other demands that didn’t allow room for all that stuff I “just did”, I thought I’d implode.

At first I didn’t realize the source of my misery. I didn’t know how inextricably tied my creativity was to my well-being. I even felt guilty when I sat down at a canvas after many months off ~ there were more responsible things I should, and could, be doing! But my spirit was suffocating; I finally understood what was meant when they say an artist is “driven”, that it’s something they “have to do”. And yet, I wasn’t giving myself permission. That awareness came in the unexpected form of an ex – in a rare, remarkable show of support at the time – who actually put it into words. He happened to stop by during that pivotal moment at the easel and said: “Don’t be stupid. Don’t feel guilty. You’re meant to do this. You have to.” It truly hadn’t dawned on me, in quite that way.

That all said, I’ve been fortunate to be able to incorporate a few forms of my creativity into a living all these years ~ but if it’s not part of your daily experience, I’m a huge advocate of doing what you can when you can! It does you no good, nor anyone else, to let creativity smolder and stew inside you. Ideas and inspirations are there to be used and expressed. So if you’re called to, or just want to – do make more art!

Make time. Find time. Carve it out of stone if you must. Maybe a kick in the rear is called for. According to a (rather wonderful) post by Elizabeth Gilbert, setting a timer for half an hour every day can do wonders for creating discipline. Maybe you set aside a whole day. Evenings. Something that’s “doable”.  Stick to it. 

And one more thing. You have to trust the process.

Maybe you set aside your half hour or half a day and wondrous things flow and you feel great! But, maybe, you stare at a blank page the whole time and feel awful. But guess what? ~ so what! That’s going to happen sometimes, and it’s okay. It really doesn’t mean a thing.

The process you have to trust is that there’s an ebb and flow to creativity just as in all things in nature. We don’t always have control (an understatement, right?!). Best laid plans and all that. The point is to keep going. Exercise the muscle.

You have something to express, and it’ll find its way ~ you just need to give it the time and space to breathe on out, so it doesn’t manifest as tension gone inward. Don’t think ~ “just get it done.” 

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Tools and Other Worthy Indulgences

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Some things are more worthy of indulgence than others. Long, hot baths come to mind. Good books. Time with friends, time alone, laughter, comfortable shoes.

And because I was just speaking of pens (previous post), my mind turns to the tools we use and how much the right ones matter. Even a simple, everyday pen can be a tool of ease or frustration, depending first on how well it’s made, then how well it’s taken care of, and finally, knowing when its time is up.

Not all pens are created equal; nor pencils, nor hammers, nor computers, nor cameras, nor carrot peelers. The list goes on.

Several years back I worked on a mural with a group of other artists. A handful of brushes were available, paints were provided and we’d all been part of the design, so it was just a matter of painting. Fun, right?  Sort of, but not really. Why not?

The thing is, we worked in acrylics, which was, at the time, a medium I was less familiar with than some of the others artists were, and I’d been feeling irritated by the way the paint went on. Then one day, towards the end of the project, someone handed me a different paintbrush. In that moment, within seconds of the first brush stroke, night became day. Winter became spring. Skies turned blue. Birds sang, trees blossomed! I was stunned. The paint suddenly flowed. All that time … struggling, thinking it was me, when really … what a difference a brush can make!

And back to pens for a minute ~ in the early days, when not using my trusty #2 pencils, I’d draw with an old-fashioned calligraphy pen – the kind with metal nibs; the kind that people of centuries-gone-by used for letter writing, under the light of a candle or a kerosene lamp, dipping the pen in and out and in and out and in and out of a bottle of India Ink. Precision was difficult, mistakes and ink blobs were relatively easy to perform, but if you took good care of your tools and practiced your craft, beautiful results could happen. I got pretty good at it.

Then, (thank the Pen Gods), someone invented a pen called a rapidograph. At first I was pessimistic. It wasn’t “the real thing”. But two minutes in, I was hooked. It was real, and wow ~ manna from heaven! ~ it made the whole drawing experience so much better. Changing and cleaning nibs – easier. Mess – hardly. Potential for precision – worlds apart.

Of course there will always be poor imitations, in which case any newness is hardly worth it. Just because it’s “new” doesn’t mean its “good”. Since the dawn of time tools have been made to make life 1.) easier and 2.) more efficient. If those two criteria aren’t met, (in my best New Jersey accent) “fuggedaboudit.”

Holds true of everything. Take ice cream scoopers, which also happen to be a favorite tool of mine. They have to be sturdy, with the scooper-outer part just the right depth, the handle firmly attached and nicely grippable. Definitely not made of cheap plastic stuff. The last thing you want is a sprained wrist when indulging in a much-deserved treat. Ice cream is intended as a happy experience.

I’m sure most of you have a “bad tool” story, and probably know as well as I that when it comes to tools, quality counts. So indulge, I say! – not because they’re a treat, but because the difference can be like night and day. The right tools can replace cursing with whistling. And time spent, that most precious commodity, becomes more productive and pleasant if not downright fun.

So here’s to the value of tools; no matter what you do, wherever you go, may the right tools be yours. : )

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A Plethora of P’s / #70: Pen (and Ink)

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

saxton.P_penaandink“The pen is mightier than the sword.”

I’ve always liked this quote. It assumes the great power of words, language and intention, which are just a few of my favorite things, along with pens themselves, of course.

[Side note: I’d always assumed this was a line from Shakespeare. Sounds like it ought to be, right? But I was wrong. This is what learned: This line was quoted in 1839 from a play written by Britain’s Edward Bulwer-Lytton, both an Author and Politician of his day. No one remembers the play (Richelieu: or, the Conspiracy) but we’ve all heard the line. Apparently he’s also famous for the opening “It was a dark and stormy night”. I just love learning new things. 🙂 ]

In any event – back to P for pen. This is actually a guest P, created by a friend of mine and presented as a surprise, which truly delighted me. She’d taken a Zendangle course, and this was something she produced. Isn’t it great?! I adore it.

It’s also great because pens have always been an important positive in my own world. I am, in fact, most comfortable with a pen in hand ~ I just think better with a pen in hand. I’m also able to doodle if things are dull on the other side of the table or the other end of the phone, or in meetings, or just as an unconscious release of nervous energy. They’re great for making lists, and of course, for jotting down flashes of brilliance (that may or may not be brilliant on second look). My thoughts flow most easily when writing. As if the connection between mind and hand takes just enough longer than the one from mind to mouth, allowing for a richer expression, rather than a quick one.

Pens and I go way back. As a child I was always drawing and writing. My mother, a poet, was always writing. My parents had fallen in love through letter-writing. Pens were the natural order of things.

Then as my drawing skills developed, I got more and more courageous and soon stepped out of my comfort zone with pencils (which can be erased) to pen and ink (which cannot be erased). This is when I learned, sometimes the hard way, that mistakes a.) happen and b.) are not always remedied, but c.) can sometimes be made into something better. A life lesson from an unlikely source, but a good one I’ve carried with me.

So I, yes, am grateful for pens. And I do believe they are mighty. <3

Here are a few pen and inks from my archives.

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(see our ongoing Plethora of P’s here)

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A Moveable Feast (of Eggs, Baskets and Bunnies)

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Way back in the year 325 AD, it was decreed by First Council of Nicaea that Easter would fall on the first Sunday after the first full moon following the March equinox. As a result, there is no fixed date, but rather a “moveable” one for this high Christian holiday.

And I imagine it’s considered a moveable “feast” because the holiday season is actually quite long, when you take into account the observances of the 40 days of Lent, Holy Thursday, Palm Sunday, Good Friday, Easter itself, followed by a fifty-day period of Eastertide, ending with Pentecost Sunday. Interesting.

Also interesting is the fact that Easter and Passover not only coincide, but in many languages the word for Easter and Passover are the same or similar. While the reason for celebration differs, the timing and some of the symbolisms share a curious resemblance.

The plot thickens when one recalls the Pagan holiday of Ostara, held at the spring equinox in celebration of the seasons changing from dark to light, from winter to spring. Ostara, or Eostre, is an Anglo-Saxon goddess representing the dawn, whose role is to watch over the fertility of the earth and the emergence of new life. Today’s word Easter derives from the old English word Eostre.

I find it all kind of fascinating. How religious holidays often overlap, interweave, intersect. Like a great big message from the universe to be good, to appreciate, to love, expressed in different ways within different cultures, but all with powerful interpretations. So that you can’t miss it; you’ve got to take note.

However you see it, however you experience this time of year, its roots are deeply spiritual the world over, and the symbolisms of lamb, chicks, bunnies, and baskets filled with sweets and colorful eggs all represent the promise of rebirth, renewal, liberation, resurrection, festivity.

However you celebrate, it’s a time worthy of honor and respect, reflection and gratitude. So feast well and be joyful. Happy Easter!

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A Plethora of P’s / #69: Palette

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

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Palette is defined as a range of colors, especially those typically used by an artist. But we all have what I think of as a personal palette. Our palette can reflect how we feel ~ or project how we wish to be perceived. What we wear, the colors in our home, foods arranged on a plate.

And surely our personalities have color too ~ the sunny, the brooding, the comic, the serious ~ the whole wide range. And within that, are the shades of our moods. And around all that, there are the colors in our aura. (Imagine, what a kaleidoscope of brilliance we all must make together!)

And beyond all that ~ beyond what they may represent, beyond their gift of making the world more, well, colorful ~ colors, in my opinion, in all their tones and hues and flavors, are essentially magical. They can calm and soothe, they can excite and energize. They can heal, and they can disrupt. They’re emotional. They tell stories. They’re loud or soft, subtle and sensitive, harsh, tender, generous; they’re unyielding, protective, submissive, lighthearted, stormy, hot, warm, cool. They are infinite and inexhaustibly interchangeable. There are worlds within worlds of just the color red alone. The whole spectrum of expression is unfathomable.

So, with all that possibility, you can mix your palette to your heart’s content ~ a dash here, a broad stroke there, a sprinkling of this, a spot of that. (Note: mixing with love and a generous pinch of harmony produces the best results.) However you please, there’s magic for the making, if not only a lift for the spirit.

(see our ongoing Plethora of P’s here)

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Seizing the Moment to Do Nothing

Last weekend I spent an entire day reading a book. (I’m a pretty avid reader, but even by my standards, this was a lot.) Not because I didn’t have anything else to do. Life’s administrative duties were still there, lurking, prodding, waiting in various degrees of perpetual disarray, clamoring to be sorted, cleaned, tended ~ things I’m normally all too willing to oblige with great habit of responsibility and an ever-present urge to be productive. This doesn’t even count the paintings wanting to be painted, the stories to write, music to make, dreams to chase. Toss some work in there, too.

For a good 12 hours, I abandoned all of it, hermitting myself inside the pages of a book.  “Just because.” Phone off, computer off. Very unsociable, actually.

And life went on. It was lovely.

I’m not suggesting that reading resembles a waste of one’s time (au contraire!), but it does involve letting go of more “pressing things”. That said, I’m always a bit envious of people who seem capable of being unproductive with great and natural ease. But it’s never too late, and I’m still learning. Balancing the have-tos and want-tos and need-tos and can-waits. Knowing when to be and when to do, and trusting that it all has a place in this beautiful, chaotic, imperfect dance of life.

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Beauty and chaos
Light and shadow
Sun and moon,
The dance of life.

Balancing
on shifting sands
on best intentions
Drinking from the well
of change ~
Ebbing, flowing,
Breathing, being,
Marvelously
Magnificently
Irresistibly
flawed.

~ P. Saxton

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Margaritaville and The Lost Island

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While the planet continues to shift, rearranging the northeast into some kind of Arctic replica, I took some time away, letting my muse wander among talking dolphins, small dragons and lazy hammocks under a hot, shiny sun. Had a cheeseburger in paradise, looked for Jimmy Buffet’s lost shaker of salt (thought it might be in the old Hemingway home, but no). And I pondered which island on the horizon might be the one that my mother purchased years ago.

Yes, my mother bought an island. She would, not often, but on occasion, do things like that. Buy a convertible when a station wagon would be more sensible. Write a letter to the Queen of England. Buy an island. Maybe to defy an orderly life, to make dreams real, to remind herself during times of inevitable routine that she was more than laundry folded and meals on the table; to remind her four children that our dreams were also valid.

We never saw the island. I’m honestly not sure she ever saw the island. The island that might one day be a family gathering place, or an artist retreat, or a healing place, or who knows what ~ a dream without limits. It could well be that the island was no more than a single palm tree on a lump of earth bulging from the Gulf of Mexico. Or it could have been a small but bona fide piece of paradise. It was sold, so we’ll never know ~ but the idea of it ~ the loveliness, the throw-caution-to-the-wind of it, the hopefulness and cheer of it, lives on in me.

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An Island Lost

Stars like freshly polished gems,
Close enough to touch –
A sprinkling of stardust
Soundlessly rests on giant palms
And sweeps across the sea,
A silent chime,
The whisper of a song
With familiar, forgotten words from
The language of dreams.

How far the distance between then and now?
A heartbeat? A century? All of time?

A story unfinished, a vision unseen
Green and blue on sandy shores
Ripe with adventures not taken.
A red sail, a setting sun,
Flowers in our hair.
An island lost awaits
A barefoot waltz,
Promising secret treasures.

But instead, a more reliable path.
Feet on solid ground. And yet ~

And yet,
A cactus grows in winter, and
Mysteries breathe in hickory trees
Where cardinals, red and fit,
Watch from lofty branches.
A poem from the future,
And guiding stars
like freshly polished gems,
Close enough to touch –

Stardust falls on me,
On you,
Then, and now,
There, and here
Inside this sky
Where dreams wander
And Prometheus plays
And Shakespeare sings
And Copernicus soars
And hands are held
And laughter swells
And love is forever
And ever.

~ P. Saxton

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