The Hawk.

Painting abstracts this week felt freeing for a number of reasons. 

For one, I had just finished a commission that was very realistic and required great attention to detail.

Another was I was working with oils which is also unusual for me.

I enjoy the short drying times of acrylics, but the consistency and smell of oil paint creates an experience that's hard to match. 

Maybe it's a primal thing; the smell of the linseed oil. I feel a little like Tom Hanks in Castaway beating his chest after successfully building a fire.

Spreading linseed oil and pigment on a canvas and creating something beautiful (hopefully) feels good. 

"Look what I have done! I am painter!" 

I don't beat my chest, though.  EVERY time. 

I had given up on the idea of painting for a couple of days, because Erin was away and it was just Finn and myself.  

Happily, it was one of those times when everything for the two days seemed to fall into a rhythm. 
Maybe it's just that things are holding his attention for longer periods.

Earlier in the day, on our manly expedition to gather fire wood in Finn's red plastic wheelbarrow, we saw a hawk circling fairly close overhead.  

I had seen one earlier in the week on a hike.

If an animal shows up in close proximity several times in a row I usually look up the symbolic meaning online. 

There are always several, but one will usually stand out.

Years ago I heard a healer answer someone who asked what it meant when you see an animal over and over again.

His answer was, "Exactly what you think it does."

Later in the day, I was painting and Finn was happily "working" with a pair of pliers and cardboard a few feet away. 
 
"Is that a whale?" he said pointing at one of the paintings.

"What's that dog doing?!" he said referring to another one.

We play the cloud animal game a lot and I thought how it must be similar to him. 

I didn't see the whale or the dog even though he insisted. 

He settled back with his pliers and cardboard. About a minute later I made two quick strokes of yellow on the canvas with my palette knife.

Staring back at me was the perfect small silhouette of a hawk.

Of course I had to look it up.
 
The messenger, the observer.

Basically, take a look at what's around you.

I'll take that.

Chocolate, Candles and Bottled Water.

I'm often teased for my fondness of chocolate. 

I have some just about everyday. When a thoughtful gift of Vosges truffles arrived in the mail (Thank You, Thea!) there was plenty of teasing to go around.

The package had been lost in the mail, so the company sent a replacement and both packages arrived on the same day. 

The lost box was pretty crumpled up, but the chocolate was perfectly delicious. It happened to be the day before my birthday.   

Double the chocolate.  

When I'm kidded about how much chocolate I eat, I think about Jeanne Calment, who was for a while, the oldest living woman in France. 

She claimed one of her secrets to longevity was that she ate more than two pounds of chocolate per week.

French chocolate, of course.  

Considering myself one who's a level or two above "chocolate lover", that's a plan for longevity I could get behind. 

But I'm not the best at planning. I would like to be a planner, but I'm missing that gene. I'm more fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants.

Chocolate shows up unexpectedly. I eat it.

We lost power two nights in a row because of storms last week, and I was beating myself up a little for not planning better.  

While we sat with oil lanterns burning, I remembered times from my childhood when the lights going out excited me. It felt like camping.

Being an adult isn't as much fun. I kept thinking about the fridge full of food (and my precious truffles) and the well water pressure tank that lost its oomphf after two flushes of the toilet.

"A generator is definitely in our future," I thought. "And bottled water! We have to plan! We have to be ready! Maybe an underground bunker!"

After almost 20 hours the power came back on.

But by early evening another storm was brewing. I filled up a few containers with water just before the power went out yet again. 

It was a small bit of planning, but I felt much more at ease for that night.

A little planning goes a long way.

And then....... sometimes a lot of planning goes nowhere.

When Jeanne Calment was 90, a lawyer bought her apartment on a contingency contract. He would pay her 2500 francs ($400) a month and the apartment would be his upon her death. 

She lived to 122.

Who would want to read that?

On July 4th (which didn't seem like July 4th at all because it was cold and rainy) we flipped on the TV in the evening and came across Charlie Rose re-running excerpts of interviews with the writer, David McCollough.  

Years ago I saw a separate interview with Mr. McCollough on C-Span where he described a turning point in his writing career. 

The story stuck with me. 

He was young (I believe he said he was in his twenties) and was attending a party with a number of well known and well connected socialites.

He struck up a conversation with a woman who seemed very interested in the fact that he was a writer.

When she asked him what he was working on he told her it was a book about the Brooklyn Bridge. 

She responded, "The Brooklyn Bridge? Who would want to read a book about the Brooklyn Bridge?" 

McCollough was crest fallen.  

He said on his drive home that evening all he could hear was her voice in his head:
"Who would want to read a book about the Brooklyn Bridge?" 

Then it occurred to him, "I would. I would want to read a book about the Brooklyn Bridge. That's why I'm writing it! So I can read it." 

From that moment on, he said he approached his work that way.

As an artist it's incredibly difficult to not think about what people will like when I'm creating.   

When I succeed in setting those thoughts aside, a little magic happens and people respond.  

In my case I hear the usual voices that don't really belong to anyone important or even any real person. Just the doubtful side of myself. "Who would want to look at that?" And the answer of course is, I would. That's why I did it.  

If someone else likes it, that is icing on the cake. OK, maybe that's not the best analogy because I like icing almost more than cake.

But my intention is to be true to myself and hopefully it will ring true and inspire someone else.
 
Mr. McCollough spoke about how the writing itself was a voyage of discovery:
"I've never undertaken a subject about which I knew a lot. If I was an expert, I wouldn't want to write the book. It's as if I'm going to another place having an adventure for the first time. And when I begin, I feel....boy, am I going to learn a lot.

No.

I talk to myself out loud quite a bit. If I mess something up, I don't mince words. 

One of those un-minced words escaped this morning as I was struggling to get a sliding screen door back on track.
 
Immediately there after, Finn found Erin and repeated it perfectly in a hushed tone, retaining the emotional essence of my delivery.
 
Not my proudest moment, though it gave Erin a great laugh.  
 
Finn has become a mirror for us, of sorts.
 
We have been amused for a while now about how he recalls the events of the day.
 
If we've been apart for several hours he begins by recounting all the things that Mommy said no to, regardless of how few. 

And visa versa. 
 
"How was the park buddy?"
 
"Mommy said, 'No!'"
 
More amusing are the emotional embellishments.
 
When he has eaten most of a four pound melon and I say, "Finn, let's have something else," he runs to Erin crying and creates an imitation not unlike a mini Darth Vader.
 
Thrusting his hand out and deepening his voice he'll say, "Dadoo said, 'NO MORE CANTALOPE!!!'"
 
From our stand point it's a simple "no". To him it's devastation.
 
At least for next two minutes.
 
Clearly, it's all in the interpretation.
 
It brought me back to the way I talk to myself in the first place and my own embellishments. 

My self-narration is far from supportive at times and my judgement of hurdles are almost always exaggerated.
 
I could think of a million cathartic applications for Finn's brand of expression, if it were acceptable in adulthood.
 
But I'm grateful for the choice of discernment.
 
A "no" or a setback, or a door falling off the track 
 
is not devastation. :-)

A man and his tools.

Here's a typical scenario when Erin and I go to Lowe's or Home Depot.

Once inside we split up to get everything we need. In a short while my cell phone will ring. 

It's Erin.  "Have you gotten everything on your list?" she asks.

My first thought is...."There's a list?"

I've spent the last half hour looking at Dremel accessories that are not on the list. If Erin hadn't been there with me I would have spent another hour looking at power saws.

I do the same thing at the art store where I get stuck looking at all of the brushes. 

Eventually a sales associate will start eyeing me suspiciously and I'll buy something and leave.

I look at all those tools and I get caught up thinking about the plethora of things I could make, build and create.... to the point where I have no idea what I should do next.

I become paralyzed by the possibilities.

The problem with looking at all of those things is that I begin to think I can't do anything without them, that I must have better tools to do better things.

I routinely remind myself of a Napoleon Hill quote: "Start where you stand, and work with whatever tools you may have at your command and better tools will be found as you go along."

When I paint, I typically use the same five or six brushes out of the hundred or so that I own.

Same with my carpentry tools. The tried-and-true get used the most.

The lesson here? Look, but don't buy.
I already own the essential tools for carpentry, art and life.

And most importantly, don't forget......

The List.

Dances with Wolves.

Guilty confession: Erin and I are fond of movie soundtracks.

Especially the one from Dances with Wolves which played an important role in Finn's first year.
 
There was the rousing number from the stampeding buffalo hunt scene (track # 10) where Finn would make galloping horse sounds and bounce up and down while pretending to hold the reins. (He may have been mimicking me.) 

One or two tracks later (the important part) he would be sound asleep.  

We hadn't listened to the soundtrack in a while.  Then about two weeks ago it came up on the ipod in the car. 

After a look of vague recollection he was soon galloping like a horse again.

Minutes later he was out like a light, though it was nowhere near his nap time.
 
The other night after dinner Erin said, "I'm envisioning a night curled up on the couch with a good movie and Finn falling asleep on my lap." 

This, by the way, never works. 

He ends up wanting to watch the movie, we abandon the idea, and it becomes even more difficult to get him to sleep. 

Erin is the eternal optimist.
 
We flipped on the TV and there was Dances with Wolves right on the stampeding buffalo scene. Finn had his galloping fun, then a scene later was fast asleep.

That movie is always inspiring to me, not for it's epic nature, but the incredible story of Michael Blake, the author of the novel and the screenplay. 

While living out of his car, sleeping on friends' couches and being fired from his job as a dishwasher, he wrote the novel that would become this iconic film. 

I couldn't help thinking of his story throughout the entire movie, imagining the satisfaction he must have felt seeing his story become a piece of film history.

At the end, while the credits rolled and we wiped our tears, Erin casually mentioned that Kevin Costner just happened to be in her two favorite films.

Hmm. What a coincidence.

Looking over at Finn, still sacked out, I was reminded how personalized inspiration can be. 

What I find inspiring in one way, moves someone else in another.  And may put others to sleep.

Literally. 

I suppose the important thing is just to be inspired, whatever that means for you.  Inspiration finds you or you seek it out.  But it's always there.
 
I hope this has inspired you.

If not, pleasant dreams.  :-)

A cool 5 million.

I won 5 million dollars yesterday.

Who knew that a lifetime of financial security would come from a split second decision. 

After dinner the other night, there was left over salad that had been sitting out. I wanted to save it for lunch the next day, but Erin said it would be gross. 

"I'll bet you five million dollars you will not eat that," she said. We shook on it.

I admit that as I was eating it the next day, there were challenging moments. (Nothing important is gained without a degree of difficulty.)

It helped to imagine the lettuce was cold, sautéed spinach. That, and thinking about my future plans for the five million got me through.  

Erin chimed in as I was eating, " You have to finish at least half to win the bet."

"Ha,Ha,Ha," I laughed to myself. 
I was already two thirds of the way through it.  "What the heck," I thought. "I'll eat the whole thing!"

Still, I couldn't help but think how this was the easiest five million I had ever earned. 
No real test of my creative ability. No painting or writing for months on end. No failing, succeeding, failing, succeeding....I just had to chew.

And it's supposed to be all about the journey, right?

Then there was my guilt for taking advantage of Erin's naiveté.  
After all these years she should know I'll eat anything.

It has been remarked that if I was the character in Green Eggs and Ham, the book would end on page one.  

I love good food, but I'm not picky if I'm hungry.

Clearly I won the bet fair and square, but there's already talk of "deferring" payment.

If that should happen it won't be the end of the world.

I know she's good for it.

1/2 inch too long.

To begin unpacking the forty boxes in my studio this week, I needed to build a big honkin' bookcase.

After measuring the space where it would go, I determined that the shelves could be six feet long.
This was great!

I could buy boards that were exactly six feet and not have to cut them.

I would need to make cuts for the side pieces and one for the support, then I could throw this baby together.

I picked the perfect day to do it. Sunshine most of the day. Rain in late afternoon.

I started a little behind schedule, but would have no problem beating the rain.

Two thirds of the way through my project I realized that all the boards I had already nailed into place were a half inch longer than they were supposed to be.

The remaining boards were the right length, but now they wouldn't fit. I had to take the whole thing apart and shave a half inch off the longer boards.

It began to rain. I was so angry.

I actually yelled and shook my fists in the air.

Erin ran out to see what had happened. Attempting to bring levity to the situation she mimicked the 'toddler speak' we do with Finn. "David is really angry right now." 

I laughed...about an hour later.

I was so angry because everything had been going so smoothly. It felt like it was "meant to be." Now it was all falling apart.

As it turned out, the rain passed quickly. I was able to work at a more leisurely pace, finish the bookcase, and it was more enjoyable than trying to beat the rain.

It got me thinking about my belief that things go smoothly when they're "meant to be."

And how the unpleasant can lead to a more gratifying experience.

If I let it.

Moved and Inspired.

Sitting amongst moving boxes stacked seven high, I realize that promising to get this newsletter out tonight was being optimistic.

After a mildly chaotic week, I have vowed that this is my last DIY move.  

The soreness is otherworldly. 
And not due to the loading and unloading only.  

But rather to our non-complacent UNpacking. 

We like being settled quickly. Especially in a new inspiring place.

Our friend Suzy, remembering how quickly we settled into our New York apartment, emailed me yesterday, "Are you unpacked yet?"  

The boxes around me are in my studio/office space. The rest of the house is practically done. 

There is plenty to be enthusiastic about here: a yard, a national park nearby, an artsy community. 

But most of all, I'm excited about having the space to create again.  

When these boxes are cleared, there will be space to leave a half finished canvas sitting on an easel, and when I come back to complete it, there won't be a strawberry fingerprint on it. 

Not that I don't love the strawberry fingers.

But creative space is a close second.

Trust.

When someone mentions trust I rarely think of it in terms of trusting myself. And that's what came in to play today as we waited to receive the lease on our new place. 

We're moving back out of the city. 

(A friend commented upon hearing this: "I can't keep up with you guys!")

We have been casually looking for a rental house upstate over the last few months. Maybe a little too casually. 

Suddenly April was upon us and our lease is set to expire on the 30th.

"It always works out," was my mantra. But the more houses I saw, the more difficult it became to believe it. 

After a few too many Craig's List specials we were losing hope fast. "Cozy cottage" is a description I will forever be wary of.

Enter Sandy, the self proclaimed matchmaker of people and homes. I will elaborate in my blog later (after we've packed and unpacked), but suffice it to say, she is who she says she is. 

Coincidences happened. Things flowed. It felt right.
 
When things are flowing nicely, it's easy to trust. 

It's the spaces in between where I spin a million scenarios.

In that space we were waiting for the lease.

On a side note, it's never advisable to tell another Manhattan resident that you haven't actually signed the lease yet on your new place. Signing of the lease here is swift if not instantaneous, for fear of losing the apartment.

Spin, spin, spin....

I kept saying, "Trust yourself." I failed miserably.

Then we got the lease.

Lesson learned.  I hope.
 

Life in a one bedroom.

Every now and then, preparing orders becomes a comedy routine.

There aren't many places to go in a one bedroom apartment and when shipping materials come out, Finn transforms into Flash, the boy superhero in the movie, The Incredibles.

The packing tape dispenser is snatched from my hand when a millisecond earlier he was blissfully stacking legos clear across the room.

Then I start with the distractions. "I hear a firetruck!" I say. He runs to the window.

I fold a card and he's back again. I put it on top of a bookshelf.

"I need that!" he says. 

"Hey, where's your bulldozer?" I say, knowing it's in the stroller in the hallway.

He runs to his closet to look for it and I have a few more minutes. I spend them looking for the card I was just folding.

By the end I'm mad at myself for not managing my time better.

But if I'm honest, I kind of enjoy it.

I know he won't always be under my feet.
 

Wait, where am I?

Walking along Broadway on a not-too-chilly evening this weekend, I had one of those moments where for some reason the worries of the week fell away completely, and I felt an almost overwhelming sense of abundance, love, family, and friends.

In a wave of enormous gratitude I felt "everything is as it should be."

(I hadn't consumed chocolate for at least 20 hours so I know it wasn't a spike in blood sugar.)

The feeling stayed with me the whole evening until I went to bed. When I woke up, still in it the next morning, I thought for a moment, "Where am I?"

For years when I was touring, I would often wake up wondering where I was. This was clearly different.

Then one by one all of the little things I had been worrying about entered my thoughts again.

It occurred to me then that I really should be asking myself "where am I?" when I've left the present moment and my mind is stuck in worry. 

Alright.....this moment..... as I'm sitting in a coffee shop (not Starbucks) where I'm writing this, the song "Don't Worry, Be Happy" has begun playing.

Whoever put this music on obviously didn't get the memo that I'm writing a serious piece for a distinguished newsletter.  

What can I say? Sometimes the universe isn't so subtle.

Ride the wave.

Compartmentalizing areas of my life is a concept that I have always had trouble with. 
   
"It's just business."

"You've got to keep your personal and professional life separate." 

These are phrases I've often heard repeated.

Not only is that nearly impossible for me, but I'm also not convinced it's the most beneficial. 

A compartment is like a box.  It closes out possibilities. 

I'd rather picture areas of my life as waves that flow one into the other.

Work CAN be personal.  It can be hectic, meditative, challenging, fun, emotional, and productive.

Off time can be infused with inspiration to fuel work and still be relaxing.

Finn has no trouble with this concept.  Play ("work") flows effortlessly into snack and cuddle time.

I guess it's like surfing through life. 

Ride the wave.

People, possibilities and passion.

I have often longed for clarity in my life. Clarity of purpose, mainly.

I have assumed up until recently that one's purpose must be tied to one's vocation. As a result I've often felt that I was on a path toward certain uncertainty.

Outside the door of my printer's studio is one of those lists of things to do to be a successful artist. About halfway down is "Make friends with uncertainty."  

I achieve this for short periods... then we become enemies again.

I think it's more helpful to become BFFs with what is certain.
And I'm certain that I'm grateful. 

I'm grateful for the people in my life, the possibilities that get me out of bed in the morning, and the passion I give and receive from those two things.

I really didn't mean to come up with three P words, but it does kind of sum it up nicely. 

People, Possibilities, and Passion.

Remember the three Ps! You heard it here first!