Some light bowling

Winter light, January 2013

Catch the sunset, February 2013

Let's try that again, February 2013

Waiting for the results, February 2013

Summer scenes

A beautiful end, June 2012

We spell it SOME MORE, June 2012

Unkept and proud, June 2012

Don't look inside, June 2012

The clouds on my knees, June 2012

My fist, through this board

I didn't know I could do that!, May 2012

Lost for words

Detail of sculpture, June 2009


Detail from Grand Hotel, May 2009

Larry grew up about 15 miles south of Maidstone. There was an alkali lake nearby, bleached white crust over sticky mud. He wasn't too interested in school. Finally quit around grade 9 and got to work trucking, farming, and eventually opened up his own autobody shop.

Once, he was out hunting with a buddy. In camp one night his pal gave him a book to read. Something to do. Larry squinted at it and handed it back. He could never make nothing out of books. Never even thought about them. His friend said, "you need glasses, you idiot." Larry waved him off, but his friend persisted and eventually hauled Larry, he was in his late 30's, to the optometrist in Lloyd. A couple weeks later, Larry picked up his glasses and a cowboy book. The book he read was one of 35 in a series. That winter he read all 35 books. "I didn't know people could read," he said.

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Outside

A good start, April 2009

This little fellow smiles at me every morning from the top shelf of my medicine cabinet.

This is how to do it, he says.

I'm going outside, I say.


Outside, May 2009

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Round food

Round food, April 2009

I love round food. I love my dear wife. I love her baking. I love round food.

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Winter's boots

Winter's boots, May 2009

I changed from winter to summer tires yesterday. A welcome ritual.

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Thoughtless blue

Blue winter light, February 2009

I've come to see all forms of suffering as an opportunity to find peace and joy. Suffering is never permanent and the cause is always me and my thoughts. I've heard that some people with chronic pain are able to find peace despite their immense dis-ease. I've also heard that this can be true for all of us.

Last night I was laying under my double duvet (one is red and the other is yellow), waiting for sleep. I heard the train lumbering through town, clanging its bell like a fishing boat returning to port. The neighbors dog was shouting "let me in, let me in." The distant freeway: dissolving brown noise. And the scent of humid spring drifted in the newly opened window.

I did not think, "this is now--Ah ha!"

But it was.

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Simple wish

Infinite shortbread, December 2008

When you have a moment, find a shortbread cookie like the ones I baked this morning, a warm quiet spot to rest, and enjoy that cookie. Don't rush. Notice it. Butter that comforts and softens. Just sweet enough to make your tongue sigh. A fine powder to rub between your fingers. As it melts in your mouth, think about the people involved in making that cookie. The farmer who raised the wheat, the miller who ground the flour, the truckers who hauled, the clerks who stocked, the advertisers who heralded, the makers of the Frigidaires that allow us to store butter safely, and the hands that mixed the ingredients, cut out the shapes, and placed the cookie on a rack to cool. This is a short list. The real one is vast. So broad, it approaches infinite.

These thoughts bring in me a sense of peace. It's hard to explain, but it makes me feel like I am never really alone. And now I offer this feeling to you because it's not mine to hold.

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The Perfectionist's Fate

The perfectionist's fate, March 2008

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