Monthly Archives: September 2012

coming of age


I look in the mirror and see, finally see, my oldness.  It’s been coming slowly enough that i was able to ignore it for quite awhile. But, now the image in my brain has finally caught up with reality. I can see why so many have compared aging to the changing of the seasons as it comes in slow turns. I not only now see my oldness, i am also feeling it deeply.

Old has come and there is no going back. Men’s eyes no longer follow my form. I am invisible to onlookers. Teens become silent. Young women keep their distance not wanting to become me. I am now a member of the old woman gang. The gang with chains of prayer and black leather boots. We have been stripped and refined. We are fierce.


Art is fairly simple to define.

What anyone does at any given moment. Your life.


Can you see that everyone does art?

Do your art well.
Use creativity and care.
And most of all, do it in Love.

friday photo

I like images of windows and reflections. When i took this photo, i was parked in front
of a shop with a semi rolling by. I waited for the semi…watching it in my rearview mirror.
It was a lot more exciting than the other side of the street or the other cars. It even put
some red and white reflection on the front of my car. Can you see the black snare drum?
How about the brass trombone slide? I also like that bit of the “open” sign.

Hal Borland

An excerpt from
Hal Borland’s Twelve Moons of the Year

Migrating Monarchs . September 27

Frost has come to rural fields and gardens and the fires of life burn low in the insect world. The bugs and beetles are nearing the end of their time. Crickets and katydids seem to sense it; when you hear them on a warm evening now there is a new sense of urgency in their calls. Bumblebees sleep late, sometimes in the shelter of a tousled zinnia blossom, and wait for the sun to warm their blood enough so they can fly. Most butterflies have had their day and slumber as hostages to tomorrow in the egg, the cocoon, or as caterpillars.

But not all of them. Not the monarchs, those remarkable big black-and-orange butterflies. They migrate, even as the birds. Some of them travel 2,000 miles southward. Their migrant flight is under way now, past its peak in New England.

Like migrant birds, the monarchs follow regular migration routes, down major river valleys, along coastlines, across the high, dry plains. They travel the length of Cape Cod, cross to Long Island, follow its length, then cross to lower Jersey and go on down the coast. THey go down the Pacific Coast in record numbers.

No one is sure why these butterflies migrate, or how they navigate. All we know is that they migrate, by the millions, and that monarchs come back every spring. Some probably are survivors of the host that went south; many—perhaps most—are a new generation hatched on the way north. But they won’t be back until frost-free June.

Harold Glen Borland
May 14, 1900 – February 22, 1978

via essaylet

At the age of five, Borland moved to Colorado with his family in order to live in closer proximity to the natural environment. Borland became aware of the Ute Native Americans as a result of the tribe’s location in Colorado. Borland grew up with an acute familiarity with the outdoors. His experiences in taming broncos have contributed to his depictions of the sport in When the Legends Die. In 1918, Borland attended the University of Colorado for two years before transferring to Columbia University, where he graduated from the School of Journalism in 1923. After serving in the Naval Reserve, he worked in several aspects of the publishing industry, including copy reading, editing, editorial writing, and publicity writing. From 1937–1943, he specialized in nature writing as a staff writer for The New York Times. He also worked as a reporter and a journalist. Borland soon began his literary career with two young adult works of fiction, Valor: The Story of a Dog (1934) and Wapiti Pete: The Story of an Elk (1938). For nearly twenty years, Borland worked as a freelance writer, producing poetry, documentaries, essays, Native American folklore, and two autobiographical works, High, Wide, and Lonesome (1956) and This Hill, This Valley (1957).
Borland began to focus on fiction writing in the 1960s, publishing his first adult novel, The Seventh Winter, in the first year of the decade. Two years later, he published another juvenile novel, The Youngest Shepherd. Borland published his most famous work, When the Legends Die, in 1963. The novel was later adapted to the big screen and translated into nine languages.

Given his background in journalism, Borland also continued to express interest in non-fiction writing, completing Beyond Your Doorstep: A Handbook to the Country in 1962. He also released a collection of his editorials and essays, Sundial of the Seasons, in 1964, followed by a second volume, An American Year, in 1973. Borland died on February 22, 1978, in Sharon, Connecticut, where he had lived on a 300-acre farm with his wife, Barbara Ross Dodge. His farm had been the site of an old Native American village on the Housatonic River many years previous to his residence there.

Borland presents his readers with a remarkably sensitive and insightful portrayal of Native American life in twentieth-century United States. He seems to understand their profound connection to the natural world and their sense of loss at the dissolution of culture and traditions. In When the Legends Die, Borland repeatedly emphasizes the importance of the concept of “roundness,” or the continuity and eternity of old ways, in Ute culture. He recognizes the threat modern American society presents to this continuity.

Borland has made important contributions to the literary world. He is most remembered for his ability to paint vivid pictures of specific geographical areas, through dialect and in-depth visual description. This local color plays prominently in When the Legends Die, which takes place in the southwestern United States.


what is art ?


Art is for everyone.

Hey, I know it’s a small word, but it covers a lot of ground.
The origin of this word gives us a look into what art is all about.

It came from

Gk. arti “just,”

artios “complete, suitable,”

artizein “to prepare;”

L.artus “joint;”

Armenian arnam “make;”

Ger. art “manner, mode”),
from root *ar- “fit together, join

To make, prepare or bring together. I would say that it’s
an important thing to do with an open heart.
This “art” sounds like relationship making, communication,
a joining of people, hearts, spirits, and things together.

It can be started by someone in the past and complete
something or connect with someone in the future.

It’s something we all do, and it seems central to how we
were made.

Now, that’s what i call art.


Okay…I  would really like it if you would tell me what you think about art…


I am thinking out loud here… about online communication and friendship compared to face to face communication and friendship.  It has occurred to me to leave this comparison for a moment to think about communication, and to think about friendship.

I’m awed at the possibilities within communication. And i think that perhaps friendship is a word that defines an expectation of past understandings to happen again. Communication is the actual process, people are touched, something makes a connection with a person. Friendship is a memory of something that has happened or something that is expected to continue.

The last thirty years has given more devices to interact beyond breath and touch.  That has it advantages and pit falls. To walk in the shoes, in a life, helps us to understand one another a little more.

That can be done in many ways, but, mainly it is done in each moment, with Love opening the heart to hearing, seeing and feeling without fear or expectation.

It all comes down to what is happening within our own heart, once again.  What is happening in our heart… in the moment.

How can the heart be ready, how can it understand?
How can it be open without fear or expectation?


Only in the asking.
Asking God
to take the stuff and handle it for us.

You know…give it up.

Moment to moment.

Life flows into and out of our open hands.
Death is usually the stuff that we hold onto.

in Jesus

friday photo . the coffee house

The Coffee House was a home when Peter, Sydney and I first built our house in the Newberg area.  The folks that were living there were just turning the garage into a coffee place. This photo is of the garage and the covered outdoor seating. Eventually the owners moved out of the house and the first floor became more indoor seating. A few years later they sold it. Another addition was made in a purchase of the home next door, which became a drive-through and conference room. It is located in the old downtown area and is about two blocks from George Fox University.

matter of life and death

body old
forced to see death
in my tightly gripped hands
fingers uncurl
as they
should have done
body young
i did not want to see
to know
what i now know
that life is death
and handing it over
opening my hands
over and over
is the real Life
between God
and me

i’m dangerous
you see
you might
get Love from me
and who knows what
could happen
under the influence
of such powerful stuff
you know
it could be catching
and do we really want
this could cause
a Love riot in the streets
or worse




we need to care about what we do
whatever we do
caring about it
like Love
flowing out of our heart
a sweet song
pouring out from the mouth
electric current
escaping from our finger tips
our eyes speaking like soft sea waves
Love shining out of our pores like sweat
on a hot mississippi day