Peace, Love and Santa

Sleighbells. Snowmen. Bright red bows and brown paper packages. Reindeer on rooftops, stockings and candy canes, holly and nutcrackers. Angels singing. Hope. Goodwill. Peace. Love. Santa.

Yes, Santa Claus.

My daughter doesn’t believe in Santa Claus. She’s practically a full-fledged adult now, so has long put aside childish thinking. I, on the other hand, do believe in Santa (and I’m considered not just practically, but an actual, full-fledged adult, if you go by years on the planet). She, naturally, thinks I’m kidding. “Oh, Mom…”

But I do. I believe.

Granted, I’m not sure he wears a jolly red suit and drives eight flying reindeer over all the world on a single night. Nor am I convinced that he comes down chimneys. There are lots of questionable details. But is Santa merry? Is he generous? Kind? Loving? Do his eyes twinkle? Does he light up hearts on Christmas Eve? I say yes. And we sure could do with more light in this world.

Santa Claus, with a whole lot of helpers, shares not just toys, but hope, and goodwill, and peace, and love.

Santa is goodness. Santa teaches the joy of giving. (And receiving, it’s true.) He’s ingenious. He’s magical. Knowing Santa is believing in something unbelievable! Something you can’t see. Something bigger than you. Something bright. Something miraculous. Santa Claus, you see, is a lot like faith.

So, yes, I do believe. And I tell you this – beyond the shopping, the wrapping and cooking and crowds; beyond the fuss, beyond frustrations or the too much or too little, lies magic. I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I feel it each and every year, some time during Christmas Eve – a spark? a glow? the settling of hoofs on rooftops? – that fills the spirit with comfort and joy.

I wish you that comfort and joy. I hope you’ll be merry. I hope you’ll be glad. And I hope you eat all the cookies you want. (But do leave some for Santa…!)

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Here are a few designs to get you in the holiday spirit, if you’re not already there. 

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Gifts to Inspire

Here’s my collection of offerings for the holiday season!

And I’d just like to say that igniting imaginations and bringing smiles to young and old is an honor and one of my greatest pleasures. My deep thanks to all of you who’ve helped keep these books alive and appreciated! I hope they’ll delight many new hearts this season. Blessings to all – Patricia

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(All products are also individually listed on my Shop page. Happy Holidays!)

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Consider

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I usually bite my tongue here when it comes to anything remotely political, but I guess I’ve had a little more than I can take and am breaking my code for a moment.

Another tragedy has taken place (yes, of the far, far too many). And if that’s not enough, the divisive name-calling and hate-baiting is following in what’s become a much too typical fashion. Enough already.

There are going to be different opinions on the important issues of our time, and these opinions, fueled by passion and a sense of right and wrong from both an individual and global perspective, may or may not run deep. I get it. People are fired up, and we should be. But fighting with your neighbor doesn’t fix things; in fact, it breeds greater societal discontent which can potentially lead to chaos and misplaced aggression – and while we’re busy attacking our neighbor’s point of view, God only knows what’s transpiring between Those At The Top.

So here’s what I have to say. Stop it. Stop the in-fighting. And consider a few things: That disliking Obama’s leadership does not make someone a racist. Believing that abortion is wrong does not mean someone is against women’s rights. Being pro-choice does not make someone a murderer. Concern about undocumented immigrants does not mean someone is anti-immigration. (We’re a country of immigrants, for crying out loud, and we all know that.) Worry over radical Islam does not equal prejudice against Muslims. Being wealthy does not make you a selfish bastard. Being poor does not make you ignorant. Tolerance is seemingly relative. And a touchy one for this moment: Owning a gun does not mean someone doesn’t recognize that there is a problem, nor that they think that every Tom, Dick and Jane ought to be running around with a gun in their pocket. (To be clear, I’m personally not a fan of guns. They scare me. But they exist. And I understand the reasonings on both sides of the coin here, and feel that the assumptions and personal attacks on others’ views are counterproductive.)

These are difficult and dangerous times. It’s heated. Sometimes it feels like it’s spinning wildly out of control, so maybe people feel they have some semblance of control by speaking out. But in Facebook-land and other social media platforms, the tendency to spew without regard can be appalling. Labeling and righteous, broad-sweeping insults sometimes run rampant. Like a virtual bar brawl.

Instead of arguing, why not listen. Have the conversation. Instead of gulping and spitting, how about chewing first. You may think someone is completely wrong; you may think they’re an idiot. If it’s really that bad, and there’s no room for mutual discussion, let it go. But there are a lot of good, intelligent people out there who might deserve a little more respect and less knee-jerk judgment. If only. And then maybe we’d get somewhere better. Maybe. Because in the end, I’m pretty sure we all want to live freely and safely while pursuing happiness.

Okay, rant over. I’ll go back to being the sweet artist now.

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Twelve Months of Flowers

If only it were true. Unless you count holly berries, there’s really not much in the way of floral color in northeast winter months.

But “Twelve Months of Flowers” can be had via art prints, from the series published in 1730 by renowned British horticulturist and author Robert Furber. Mr. Furber’s name is highly attributed to these exquisite prints, and while I’m grateful that he had the insight, substantial research and knowledge (and, no doubt, the funds) to produce the collection, I’m mostly interested in the artistry.

We had two of these prints hanging in our dining room during my growing-up years – one May, one November, the months of my parent’s birthdays. Admired by all, they adorned a modest space with a rich, subtle elegance, (and now that I think of it, may have had an influence on my own interest in drawing things botanical) ~ but in all those years, while we probably did, I don’t remember talking about the artist. Regardless, for some reason they lodged in my mind’s eye today ~ so I went looking.

First of all, they are hand-colored engravings, produced by English engraver Henry Fletcher from paintings of Flemish-born artist Pieter Casteels . (They also produced an equally stunning second series, Twelve Months of Fruits.) Each work is a glorious detail of plants in seasonal bloom, with each plant numbered, and, at the time, a list of the corresponding names. More than 400 plant species were featured. This was no small project.

And so a few centuries later, I thank them ~ all three of them: Furber, Fletcher and Casteels ~ for their fine, luscious collaboration of study, talent and skill. They are so beautiful, I might even venture to call them a labor of love. But that’s what art is.

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