Nuthatch, Perched

 Nuthatch, Perched / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 including shipping

Please email me at carrieBjacobson@gmail.com if you'd like to have this cutie! 

IN THIS LIFE ALONE, and with the covid, and with the terrible memory I've always had, I've had to find ways to remember to do things. 

A calendar, of course, is a great start, but doesn't work unless I first remember to write stuff down on it, and then remember to look at it. 

I've come to terms with my Alexa device, and use her more and more often to remind me about things - including feeding the dogs. Peter always fed the dogs, and many times after he died, I couldn't remember if I had or hadn't. You'd think they would let me know, but dogs are all about the food. A second dinner would not be a problem for them. Any time during the course of the day, if I rattle their food bowls, they are ready and barking. 

I've learned to count the dogs out loud, not only when they come in, but also when I give them their we-came-in-the-house cookies. Yes, several times, I left one or two of them outside for longer than I should have. Same with leaving the studio. Poor Woody was locked in there for hours on several occasions. Luckily, he is pretty much blind and pretty much deaf, and sleeps pretty much 23 hours a day, so he didn't know - but I was in a panic. 

I have learned that when paintings sell, I should move them from one side of the studio to the other. From the drying wall to the sold wall. More than once, I've sold a painting twice, and have had to make amends.

Lately, I've developed a few tricks to keep myself more or less civilized. I leave the bathroom light on in the morning to remind myself to brush my teeth. 

I load my pockets with gloves and fresh tissues when I come IN from walking the dogs, since I can't seem to remember to make sure I have those things when I go out to walk them. 

But still, I lose things and forget. Months ago, I put my favorite coffee cup somewhere, and have never found it. Last week, I took out a can of potatoes (did you know they made such a thing? I didn't, but got a few cans a while ago for a recipe that required them. They did the job, but are really not very good, so I've been feeding them to Woody, who needs fiber in his diet.) I put that can of potatoes down somewhere and have yet to find it. 

What tricks have you all learned during this covid year, to keep yourselves from slipping off the edge? 

***

Coda

I Go Down to the Shore

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what shall--

what should I do? And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do.

- Mary Oliver

Pelican

Pelican / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 including shipping

Sold!

IN THE MORNING, the sky is the exact blue that it was on 9/11, 19 years ago last week. It is an  arcing blue, between cerulean and turquoise, tender, not rich, not deep, not thin or fragile. A distinct blue that I will always think of as 9/11 blue. 

That day, on a television that a reporter brought into the small Oxford, Maine, office of the Lewiston Sun Journal, I watched as the planes and the buildings exploded and fell beneath that inescapably blue sky. After we had put out two papers, an afternoon edition for the day and the paper for the 12th, I drove home to Peter. 

On the way, I watched a bulky bearded man get out of his truck and cross the yard in front of his trailer, heading for the door. He held the hand of his small daughter and talked to her as they walked, and she looked at him with love that I could see, in the deep-blue shadows of the pines in their small yard. 

***

A Last Thought

Click here to hear a marvelous conversation with poet Mary Oliver, from the radio show "On Being."  (https://onbeing.org/programs/mary-oliver-listening-to-the-world/)

Blue Jay

 Blue Jay / oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 including shipping

SATURDAY WAS MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY, and I have thought about her even more than usual these past few days. 

And in this thinking, I've come to realize how the quality of her love defined her, and set her apart from nearly everyone else I've known in my life. My mother loved fiercely, courageously, and entirely. When she loved - and she did it easily though not indiscriminately - she loved with total abandon, and total lack of restrictions or conditions. 

She did this even though she knew that sooner or later, love would most likely end in pain. Friends would die. People would leave. Pets would pass away. 

Even in the small things, she loved with passion, though she knew that restaurants would disappoint, gardens would wilt and dry, books would end, cars would finally be unfixable. 

Love would turn to sadness or hurt or disappointment, nearly every time - but my mother loved in the face of all that, and never timidly. Never with a thought to protecting herself, or saving her heart from breaking.

I hope every day to love with at least some of the spirit and the generosity that marked my mother's heart, and to remember her with joy and, always, with gratitude. 

***

A Last Thought

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

- Wendell Berry

Egret

Egret / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 including shipping

This bird has flown! 

AT HOME THESE MANY MONTHS, I think of what I am not seeing. I imagine that azaleas glorified the woods near Richmond in May, and that springtime dogwoods blossomed, bright angels in the dark groves of western Virginia.

I imagine that cornflowers sang their summer songs at the edges of the roads in Pennsylvania, and that in July, hydrangeas shone blue and pink in the shady gardens of Rhode Island. 

I imagine that all my friends and all the people who usually go to the shows are safe at home, maybe a little bored, maybe a little stressed, maybe digging in their gardens and planting their own landscapes. 

I imagine that the summer has gone on, with cats sleeping in the sun on front stoops, and children learning to ride bicycles on quiet, dead-end roads. With skiers dreaming of winter, and homeowners wondering how the lawn could look greener and more lush, and everyone enjoying the sweetest peaches in years.

I imagine that even now, the West is alight with the brilliance of aspens and cottonwoods, blazing in yellow and gold along the silvery rivers and the fields of soft green sage. And in Wisdom, Montana, I imagine the snow is already shining on the mountains, and maybe even on the streets at night. 

I imagine that soon, the leaves in Maine will start to turn yellow and red, and fall from the branches. The ground will harden, the birds will fly south, and soon enough, the snow will fall there, too. 

I imagine, from the quiet safety of my little house, that the world is going on, more or less unchanged, without me. 

***

A Last Thought

Resolution

There's the thing I shouldn't do
and yet, and now I have
the rest of the day to make up for, not
undo, that can't be done
but next time, 
think more calmly,
breathe, says here's a new
morning, morning,
morning,
(though why would that 
work, it isn't even
hidden, hear it in there,
more, more, 
more?)

- Lia Purpura

Little Bluebird

Little Bluebird / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 including shipping

sold! 

THE BIRDS ARE FLOCKING UP, getting ready to head south. In fact, I think they are already on the wing; I've seen different birds in the yard these past few hot days, birds I haven't seen since spring. 

It doesn't feel like autumn, but I know it's coming. The gardens have dried and faded. The summer's brilliance, in the sun and in the flowers, has subsided. The days are shorter, not as bright, the sunshine not as harsh, not quite as brutal as it was in July. In the studio, I barely need the north-facing room-darkening curtains that made it possible to be in there this summer.

This year, more than any, I welcome this coming of autumn, as slight and early as it might be. I long to live with open windows, to walk out into a fresh, crisp morning, to see a night sky free of summer haze. I won't get the beautiful fall colors of New England here, but there will be some red trees, and lots of gold, and the light will become more rounded, more orange, more pink. 

And maybe I will go somewhere, like the birds.

***

Dog of the Day

This is a photo Peter made, of Abby (in the lead) and Koko, racing around the backyard. Abby is living with our daughter Erika now, and is as happy as can be. 

***

For Today

"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it; the whole story doesn't show." 

- Andrew Wyeth

Goldfinch

Goldfinch / oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 includes shipping

sold!

THIS MORNING, WHILE LIESL and the dogs and I were walking, I heard Canada geese calling, and looked up to see a small flock heading south. It probably was just happenstance, but maybe not. Maybe the fall migration is starting. I have read that birds' schedules depend on the length of days more than anything else, and the days are certainly shorter now, on both ends. 

I myself am glad. I will be glad when this year is over and done with, and one of the signs of that happening is this brutally hot summer drawing to an end. Though I don't like the later and later dawns, I welcome the earlier sunsets, and the slight lessening of the strength of the sun's rays. I sure will miss the birds when they go, though. 

Liesl with Lulu and Koko, on Sunday, a beautiful morning in Wachapreague. 

***

A Final Thought

"The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense is his life, large-brained, large-lunged, hot, ecstatic, his frame charged with buoyancy and his heart with song." 

- John Burroughs

Bluebird Landing

Bluebird Landing / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 unframed / $68 includes shipping

sold! 

TONIGHT,  AS I WITE THIS, I am tired. My 64th birthday, my first without Peter, was Saturday, and while friends and family helped make it as happy as it possibly could be, I am glad it's over. It was the last of the first-year-without-him celebrations. And so they are done, and I am thankful.

When I went out to the studio in the morning, carrying a vase of roses to paint, and carrying my laptop, my coffee and my phone, and with the dogs running and romping around me, I heard voices singing Happy Birthday. I saw my friend Liz Ford, with two of her friends, walking across the yard. Liz is from Harborton, and was in Wachapreague playing pickle ball on our court, and the three were headed out for a walk when they saw me. Liz knew it was my birthday, and so they sang and waved and gave me long-distance hugs. 

Later in the day, my friend Liesl had a small party for me at her house, with a few friends from the neighborhood. She made two delicious cakes, and people brought presents, even though I asked them not to. 

My family called, and left video and voice-mail Happy Birthday songs. Erika called and we had a good, long talk. Ashton, my youngest grandson, gave me beautiful earrings that he bought with his own money from his Home Depot job. My sister sent me granola. Hundreds of Facebook friends wished me a happy day. Today, another friend brought cake, and there were more Happy Birthday voice mails, and people sending love and good wishes from all over. 

Truly, I am lucky to have such people in my life, who care so much about me. Thank you, all of you. You made it as happy a day as it could be. But it was exhausting - and I am glad it's over. 

Let this day, Sunday, the day after all the celebrating, be the first day of a new year. The first day of a better year - for all of us. 

***

For Today

"There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium, and will be lost." 

- Martha Graham

Mama Cardinal at Her Bath

Mama Cardinal at Her Bath / oil on black canvas / 5x7 unframed / $68 includes shipping

sold! 

A FRIEND FROM HIGH SCHOOL sent me a photo recently, and I based this painting on it. We had seen each other from time to time over the years, and reconnected recently, which has made me very happy. 

And it led me to think about some other longtime friends, and, really, how lucky I am that they are still in my life. There are a couple from my childhood and teen years, and a couple from college. And all of these times are way, way in the past now. 

Pretty much all of these longtime friends showed up for Peter's memorial service, and that touched my heart deeply. It's wonderful when the friends of the present reach out. It lets me know I am loved. When the friends of the past do, it is a call that echoes deep in my heart, and lets me know I have been loved. 

I am lucky to have friends of the moment and of the past who care for me, and have paid attention over the years, and reached out, and kept the friendship alive. It prompts me in these quiet days, to make calls, to reach out, to remember. 

***

For Today

"All art is an attempt to manifest the face of God in life." 

- Cecil Collins

Barn Swallow

Barn Swallow / oil on black canvas / 4x12 unframed / $88 includes shipping

sold! 

IN THIS TIME OF ISOLATION, I have come to love the long stretches of days free of appointments and obligation. It is a joy to wake up in the morning and understand, in a way I've never understood before, that today actually IS what I make it.

I love that there is less traffic. Fewer airplanes. I love that the environment is recovering, even this quickly, even with just this brief respite. Can we not learn from this, and change? 

I love that this has forced an end - if only briefly - to the rampant acquisitiveness that has become such a hallmark of American life - the constant striving to get more, earn more, be more. Yes, some of this is good - but to my eyes, it is out of control in America. Greed is not good. Really. 

I hope that this recess will curb the stupid and pointless fascination with entities like the Kardashians, Desperate Housewives, E Entertainment and the entire celebrity worship business. 

Can we not look at ourselves, our families and our happiness during these months - even if that happiness is strained, and constrained, and stressed by everything difficult about all this - can we not look at it and realize that we just don't need that crap? That our own lives are so much more interesting and so much more valuable that Beyonce's, or whoever it is that is the current ons-named darling - people whose single monikers I am pleased to say I don't know. 

I hope that we find that we no longer live in a world where a $50-per-person dinner is called "cheap."

I hope we travel less, want less, sleep more, cook more. Value our family and friends more, realize that time is worth more than money. I hope that we learn and live and understand that what we want is here, like Dorothy said, not THERE, some elusive there. 

***

For Today

"If all the world were clear, art would not exist."

- Albert Camus

Henpecked

Henpecked /Oil on black canvas / 11x14 unframed /  $185 includes shipping

sold!

I'M SITTING IN THE KITCHEN this morning, and the back door is open. That means the dogs can run in and out at will - and they love it. They think they are big deals, since they don't have to get me to open the door for them. Masters of their destiny. 

There aren't many days in the year when I can do this - when the temperature is not too hot or too cold, and there aren't too many bugs. Right now, Doc is standing in the open doorway, looking out, and Lulu is sitting on the top step, and they are quiet and happy. 

Those spring and fall stretches when I can leave the door open are also the stretches whenthe time and the temperature are most likely to show up as the same numbers on my little digital thermometer/clock on the kitchen windowsill. So at 5:40, if it is 54.0 degrees, the numbers are the same. At 6:10, it might be 61.0 degrees.

There's only a small window for this silliness, and I always looked forward to it and laughed, and then found that Peter also always looked for it and laughed at it. It's still a special, silly thrill, and it still always makes me smile and think of him. 

***

For Today

Spring Reign

Thank you whoever tuned the radio

to rain, thank you who spilled

the strong-willed wine for not

being me so I'm not to blame. I'm glad

I'm not that broken tree although

it looks sublime. And glad I'm not

taking a test and running out of time.

What's a tetrahedron anyway? What's

the sublime, 3,483 divided by 9,

the tenth amendment, the ferryman's name

on the River Styx? We're all missing

more and more tricks, losing our grips, 

guilty of crimes we didn't commit.

The horse rears and races then moves no more,

the sports coupe grinds to a stop, beginning

a new life as rot, beaten to shit, Whitman

grass stain, consciousness swamp gas,

the bones and brain, protoplasm and liver,

ground down like stones in a river. Or does

the heart's cinder wash up as delta froth

out of which hops frog spawn, dog song,

the next rhyming grind, next kid literati?

Maybe the world's just a bubble, all

philosophy ants in a muddle,

an engine inside an elk's skull on a pole.

Maybe an angel's long overdue and we're

all in trouble. Meanwhile thanks whoever

for the dial turned to green downpour, thanks

for feathery conniptions at the seashore

and moth-minded, match-flash breath.

Thank you for whatever's left.

- Dean Young

Mrs. Bluebird

Mrs. Bluebird / Oil on black canvas / 5x5 unframed / $68 includes shipping

sold! 

IN THE YARD, the lilac bush is just about to bloom. Already, its aroma scents the air, catapulting me back to childhood, and springtime in New London, Connecticut, and the lilac bush in our front yard. 

I think it was three bushes, actually - a stand of lilacs - which my mother pruned annually, until they were graceful and willowy, the blooms fairly high, the bases of the bushes mostly branchless. 

That's how I remember them, anyways, though that does conflict with another memory - my brother and I being allowed to take our dinner of stuffed peppers out into the yard, so that we could sneak around behind the lilac bushes and hide the hideous, fleshy stuffed peppers there. I'd rather go hungry than eat them - then, and now. 

At any rate, here in Wachapreague, the lilacs will bloom tomorrow or the next day, and I will set up in the back yard and paint them. I will cut the blooms off and put them all over the house, and for days or a week, or however long the magic lasts, I will rejoice in this deepest, sweetest, most tender taste of spring. And I will watch for the bluebirds.

***

Gratitude

Today, I am grateful, so grateful for the sunshine. The day was cold, the wind was cold, but the sun was out, and lifted my heart and spirits. 

***

For Today

"The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense is his life, large-brained, large-lunged, hot, ecstatic, his frame charged with buoyancy and his heart with song."

- John Burroughs, naturalist

Nuthatch

 Nuthatch / oil on black canvas/ 5x7 unframed / $68 includes shipping

sold!

A FEW YEARS AGO, PETER looped a length of fishing line around one of the branches in the white dogwood tree, and hung a hummingbird feeder from it. 

In the fall, I took the hummingbird feeders in, but left the twine. For the past few days, a wren has been yanking at this loop of line. She must think she has found the treasure trove of nest-building materials - but then, she can't loosen it from the branch. She will try two or three times, then move on. And then she comes back. Or maybe it's a different wren. 

I've thought about draping some bits of fishing line from the tree for her, but I can't imagine that fishing line is good for birds. So I will look around the house and see if I can find some yarn, or string, or something. She is so intrepid, so intense. I'd be happy to help her. 

***

ON SATURDAY, AT 1 p.m. EASTERN, I'll be giving another painting workshop, Live on my Carrie Jacobson Artist Facebook page. (https://www.facebook.com/carriejacobsonartist/). We will be painting a chicken! 

It would be good to have one or two blues (ultramarine and cobalt or turquoise, if you want a second blue), a cadmium yellow, a cadmium red, alizarin crimson or alizarin permanent, a titanium white and any other colors that you like. Set up by your computer with something to paint with and something to paint on. 

The workshop is free and will last about an hour. We will be painting from the chicken picture above.

***

Gratitude

Today, I am grateful that I have a house already made, and not of fishing line. 

***

For Today

Pathological Puzzle

There are so many diseases

From rabies to the wheezes

That people can contract

Till it's hard to understand

How any man

remains intact. 

- Langston Hughes

Pileated Woodpecker

Pileated Woodpecker / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 unframed / $68

sold!

AS I WATCHED A WOODPECKER do his business on the white dogwood in my front yard, I began to wonder why woodpeckers don't get concussions. Or maybe they do, and one never hears about it? After all, I have few chatty woodpecker friends. 

Apparently, according to Samantha Hauserman, a biologist with Arizona State University, woodpeckers' hyoid bones (all you detective-fiction fans know what they are) are arranged more or less like seatbelts inside their skulls. These bones protect the woodpecker's brain, and help its skull absorb the shock. 

Though it looks like your average woodpecker is hammering away at the same spot again and again, he is really varying his pecking pattern in a way that spreads the force of the blows around. 

And finally, Woody has a sort of overbite to his beak that helps distribute the force of the pecking blows. 

***

Gratitude

Today, I am grateful for the love and the warm snuggles that my dog friends share with me. I am grateful for their good cheer, their buoyant celebrations, their delight in pretty much everything. In their own ways, they are models of behavior for me. 

***

For Today

The Dog

The truth I do not stretch or shove

When I state that the dog is full of love.

I've also found by actual test

A wet dog is the lovingest.

- Ogden Nash

Rufous-Sided Towhee

Rufous-sided Towhee / oil on black canvas / 5x7 / unframed / $68 includes shipping

AROUND TOWN, which, of course, is about the only place I've been in what is starting to feel like forever, the trees are in bloom, bringing color and light to a landscape that, in this spring of rain and virus, is tending toward the drab. 

The dogs and I have been walking with our friend Liesl, and I am finding that when you walk every day, and it is spring, and there is no such thing as "not here," "here" becomes something to examine minutely. A little bit more of a bloom one day is exciting. The coming of the lilacs in my back yard vs. the already flowering lilac over by Dave's house raises questions. Does his lilac get more sun? Is it a different variety? 

It is a daily delight to watch color come - and a little sadness to watch it go. 

But I can paint the moment that the color is at its height - and in my paintings, it will stay that way forever. And there is some joy in that. 

***

Gratitude

AT 4 THIS MORNING, I let the dogs out. The world was completely, totally, utterly, eerily silent, in a way it never is here in Wachapreague, where, if nothing else, the wind blows nearly all the time. 

I let the dogs back in and we all went back to sleep, and when I got up again, the birds were singing, the wind was blowing a little, and the world, it turns out, had not died overnight. And I am grateful for that. 

You? 

***

For Today

Passing Love

Because you are to me a song

I must not sing you over-long.

Because you are to me a prayer

I cannot say you everywhere. 

Because you are to me a rose - 

You will not stay when summer goes. 

- Langston Hughes

Puffin

Puffin / Oil on black canvas / 5x5 unframed / $68 includes shipping

I REALIZED RECENTLY that I write about my life, events, feelings, thoughts, in this blog, but rarely make the connection between the stuff I am writing and the painting I've posted. 

They always are connected, even if it is ephemerally, as is often the case with the birds. 

I started the bird project after Peter died because I wanted a project with paintings that were small, bright, contained. Manageable.

Overnight, my life had become so unmanageable, so untenable, so completely uncertain, I couldn't handle anything larger, really, than 5x7. I couldn't contemplate starting something whose end I didn't know, right at the start. I couldn't tolerate any more unknown than I had in every 24 hours. 

So the little bird paintings became a lifeline. They gave me a place to start my day. I knew that they would sell, and so they gave me hope. I knew I could ship them easily - shipping is often a challenge for me - and that most of them would fit in free, fixed-rate boxes from the post office. The little bird paintings became a flutter of optimism - and they became a refuge. 

So when I write about my feelings, or whatever I'm going through, and it doesn't seem connected to the bird painting, please be assured that it is. Please know that whatever I was painting that day allowed me the space and time and emotional security to think whatever I needed to think, and write whatever I needed to write. 

In the case of the puffin, well, it brought me to a very happy time, a trip to Newfoundland several summers ago, with my friend Carol Baney. We set out to see whales, moose and puffins, and saw them all. And I painted the rich, rough landscape that Peter and I had both known we would love, from the books we'd read, movies we'd seen, history we'd learned. One of my deep regrets is that Peter never got to see Newfoundland for himself, and I never got to see it with him.

If you'd like to see photos and paintings from that trip, you may - click on this link - https://newfoundlandpaintingtrip.blogspot.com/ .

I know I took photos of the puffins, but it looks like I didn't post them and no longer have them - they were pretty far away from where we were, and though we could see them, we used binoculars to really get a view. They just looked like dots in the photos I took. But it was pretty amazing to see a big colony of them, building nests, diving, catching fish, making lots of noise.

***

Gratitude

I'm grateful to have had the chance to visit all the places I've visited, 

and grateful that I have the desire to keep discovering. 

You? 

***

For Today

Today

Today I'm flying low and I'm

not saying a word.

I'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep. 

The world goes on as it must,

the bees in the garden rumbling a little,

the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.

And so forth. 

But I'm taking the day off.

Quiet as a feather.

I hardly move though really I'm traveling

a terrific distance. 

Stillness. One of the doors 

into the temple.

- Mary Oliver

"A Thousand Mornings"

White-throated Sparrow

 

White-throated Sparrow / Oil on black canvas / 5x7 unframed / $68 includes shipping

sold!

ALL OVER TOWN - and town is all I've seen - spring is flowering. My favorite trees are the pinks, from the palest weeping cherry to the vivid fuschia of the redbuds to the azaleas, screaming with color, just starting to come now.

The dogwoods - vivid, green-tipped white - are beginning to bloom. My daffodils have come and gone, but they are the earliest in town, and on other streets, the dogs and Liesl and I see other daffodils blooming in their cheerful way. And behind everything, the grass is green and thick and lush. 

Before long, the blossoms will have turned to leaves. The summer's heat and sun will thin and brown the grass. The daffodils will bend and wither and make room for the summer's heat-loving plants. And life, I imagine, will be back to normal. 

I sit outside in these warm spring evenings and watch the dogs run around the yard. I inspect the lilacs, which are weeks from blooming, and the hydrangeas, which are even more weeks from blooming, and I linger in the sweet, soft air. Of course, I think of Peter, and it is always with a sense of loss - mine and his, both - but I can see progress. My thoughts are not always colored by sadness. 

***

Gratitude

I AM GRATEFUL for Liesl, my Austrian neighbor, a dedicated and long-time walker. She has encouraged me to walk with her, and has the patience and kindness to suggest we bring the dogs, too. 

What are you grateful for today? You may add in the comments below, or drop me an email. 

***

For Today

"When I get to heaven, I'm gonna shake God's hand

Thank him for more blessings than one man can stand

Then I'm gonna get a guitar and start a rock-n-roll band

Check into a swell hotel; ain't life grand?"

- John Prine, who died on Tuesday from the corona virus

Kingfisher on Branch

Kingfisher  on Branch / oil on black canvas / 5x7 unframed / $68

sold! 

IN PAST SUMMERS, we festooned our front dogwood tree with hummingbird feeders. There's one out there now, and there are circles of fishing line hanging from a few branches, ready for when I fill up the rest of the feeders. 

This morning, a little wren tried over and over to pluck what she thought was just a bit of fishing line. I'm sure she is in the process of building her nest, and apparently, the fishing line looked like ideal material. 

After three tries, she gave up. I'm sure she will find better stuff around in the yard - but I felt a little sorry for her, and a little guilty, to have unwittingly tricked her with the fishing line. 

***

Painting Workshop

ON SATURDAY, AT 1 P.M. EASTERN, I'll be giving another painting workshop, Live on my Carrie Jacobson Artist Facebook page  (https://www.facebook.com/carriejacobsonartist) . The workshops are free, you don't have to register, and they last about an hour. 

So, a little before 1 p.m. Eastern, put on your tie-dye and click on the page, then look for the Live thing to happen. I think it's easier to find if you follow or like the page first - it will probably show up in your notifications list. There's also an Event listing, and if you find that and click "Going," I'm pretty sure it will remind you. 

Get set up with whatever you like to paint with and whatever you like to paint on, and join in. It will be fun! 

Here's the photo we're going to use as the basis for our painting: 

***
Gratitude

TODAY, I AM grateful for the blossoming trees, and how they decorate my small world with their fragile, gentle beauty, and their lovely, tender colors. 

What are you grateful for today? Please use the comments below, or send me an email. 

***

For Today

"Strive not to be a success, but rather, to be of value."

- Albert Einstein

Blue Jay

Blue Jay / oil on black canvas / 5x7 / unframed / $68 includes shipping

sold! 

IN THE EVENING YESTERDAY, Justin came and mowed the lawn. It was chilly and windy, and he was dressed like the Unabomber, in a dun-colored jacket with the hood pulled up, and a baseball hat underneath. 

My yard is tiny, but the grass was high, unmowed since October. Justin buzzed through in his huge lawnmower, finishing in moments, then whacked the weeds and blew the pine needles off the little back decking area, and then he was gone. 

As dusk lowered into night, the rich, deep smell of the spring soil, cooling after the day's warmth, underlined the fresh, bright-green smell of the grass. I stood in the nearly dark yard and watched the dogs race around, surprised and delighted by the short lawn, and I thought about Peter, and how he would have stood here with me, enjoying this simple, lovely moment. 

***

For Today

Refugee

Loneliness terrific beats on my heart,

Bending the bitter broken boughs of pain.

Stunned by the onslaught that tears the sky apart

I stand with unprotected head against the rain. 

Loneliness terrific turns to panic and to fear.

I hear my footsteps on the stairs of yesteryear,

Where are you?  Oh, where are you?

Once so dear.

- Langston Hughes

Laughing Gull

Laughing Gull / oil on black canvas / 5x7 / $68 including shipping

I GREW UP WITH GULLS, but as far as I can remember, I never heard a laughing gull until we moved to Wachapreague. Even here, they don't laugh all year - though I think they are here for most of the year. 

Their name describes them pretty completely. Imagine a Wicked Witch of the West laugh, but in a gull's high-pitched voice, and you'll have it. It's a sound I love - and a sound that makes me laugh - and one that also can be annoying, if you're trying to do something, and failing at it. There are the gulls, laughing their heads off at you. 

They were some of Peter's favorite seabirds, and we always listened for their return, much as we listened for the start of the peepers in the earliest spring days, and the hum of the cicadas as summer reached and waned. 

***

For Today

“My choice of color is dictated by tact and decorum stretched by an unholy desire to be outrageous. I’m trying to get color to the danger point where it’s too sweet or too noisy without actually making it too sweet or too noisy.”  

- Wolf Kahn

Bluebird on Redbud

Bluebird on Redbud / oil on black canvas / 8x10 / $98 including shipping

sold

HERE IN WACHAPREAGUE, the bluebirds are back. I've only seen two, and those were mere glimpses, but there's nothing else that is quite that particular blue.

My backyard feeders are full of seeds and full of hungry birds. No social distancing here! I am glad to see them back, eating their full, chattering, lighting the yard with color. No bluebirds have come to the feeder yet, but I remain hopeful and watchful.

***

For Today

The Dipper

Once I saw

in a quick-falling, white-veined stream,

among the leafed islands of the wet rocks,

a small bird, and knew it

from the pages of a book; it was

the dipper, and dipping he was,

as well as, sometimes, on a rock-peak, starting up

the clear, strong pipe of his voice; at this,

there being no words to transcribe, I had to

bend forward, as it were,

into his frame of mind, catching

everything I could in the tone,

cadence, sweetness, and briskneww

of his affirmative report.

Though not by words, it was

a more than satisfactory way to the

bridge of understanding. This happened

in Colorado

more than a half century ago - 

more certainly, than half my lifetime ago -

and, just as certainly, he has been sleeping for decades

in the leaves beside the stream,

his crumble of white bones, his curl of flesh

comfortable even so. 

And I still hear him - 

and whenever I open the ponderous book of riddles

he sits with his black feet hooked to the page,

his eyes cheerful, still burning with water-love - 

and thus the world is full of leaves and feathers

and comfor, and instruction. I do not even remember

your name, great river, 

but since that hour I have lived

simply,

in the joy of the body as full and clear

as falling water; the pleasures of the mind

like a dark bird dipping in and out, tasting and singing. 

- Mary Oliver