The Double-MD ranch in summertime, just above the sunflower. Ironically, this view is overlooking the 80 acres that we almost bought.

A month or so ago, I mentioned that we were making an offer on 80 acres of land in Wyoming, ner my sister's ranch. We love her place so much, and spending time with her and her husband Clark, that we wanted a place nearby of our own where we could enjoy the amazing beauty of the area and their company now - and probably retire (seasonally at least) later.

When we decided to let the acreage go, we were both pretty disappointed. Mona and Clark always make us feel welcome, but their place is a little small to have people around more than a few days. We also wanted to feel like we had an investment of some sort in the future in Wyoming, where a land rush of sorts seems to be underway as folks flee deterioration everywhere else. We hear of people coming from the East coast to buy up the nicest places. Some have bought sight-unseen from local realtors, paying prices that the locals find outlandish. Soon, Clark says, ranch land will be too expensive to buy for agriculture.


Clark presides over barbequed turkey and elk steaks last weekend.

As our wonderful Memorial Day weekend drew to a close a few days ago, I had an inspriration while walking arounf the house in the early morning light. Many times Pat and I had discussed ways we might help with improvements around the ranch, and tried to figure out ways we might build on the property if Mona and Clark were on board. As I looked at the corner of the house where the kitchen is located, I could visualize turning a window into a door, and adding a den, bedroom, bath, and mudroom.


I sit right in front of the window that would become the door to the addition.

I brought Mona outside, and described the changes. She was excited about the idea, and we got Pat involved. We all sat around a table outside where the addition would rise, and drew a few sketches and a list of expenses to come up with a rough total. Clark arrived from his chores, and we told him we had been scheming and had some stuff to run by him. He gave us a look and said maybe he needed to get some coffee if we had some new notions, and when he returned he had a bottle of Jim Beam in the hand that didn't hold his coffee mug. Although it was about 11am, we all flavored our coffee, and started in with what we had in mind.

True to his unflapable character, Clark just nodded agreeably, and pointed out a few practical considerations while signing up for whatever we had in mind.


Everybody takes a break down by the stream that feeds the pond.

So for now the plan is to do some fixing up around the place, and add on enough extra living space so Pat and I can occasionally be a regular part of the household - and maybe someday be seasonal residents during the part of the year that is tame enough for woosey-boys like us.


During one of our early visits to the ranch.


Mona says goodbye before the painful separation when I returned to Califonia to regroup after the failed Denver relocation a year and a half ago. This image sustained me during the hard times that followed, and with our new commitment to the ranch I feel like I'm coming home.


Mona takes in the sunset at the pond's edge.

---

I finally tackled the pencil sketch of my first recent painting this morning, and did a monochromatic oil sketch and underpainting to get things rolling. It went reasonably well, but as I roughed in the image, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen when I start really laying on the paint...

---

Something happened tonight that became a meditation on the roots of happiness (or lack thereof), personal responsibility, mindfullness, and our interconnectedness with our fellow beings.



For several weeks, a pair of robins have been building a nest in the eaves of our back porch, and more recently sharing spells of sitting on three lovely blue eggs within its cozy confines. When the mother is on the nest, the father oftens sits calmy on the back of a chair, and listens to me speak to him from six feet away in the doorway. Both seemed to accept my presence with growing calm and trust.



Around twilight, as I finished mowing the grass with our old manual push mower, a neighbor stopped by to chat. We had discussed exchanging phone numbers for mutual aid as we are both away from home at times, and when he handed me his card I beckoned him into the back yard so I could write down my data for him.

On the back porch, I motioned him to a chair, and offered him a beer, which he welcomed. We chatted about real estate, local and national politics, and the economy for a while. I pointed out the nest to him, and we noted the nervousness of the birds as they attempted to light on the nest, but seemed intimidated by our presence and kept retreating to nearby roosts in the trees.

The nest is often left untended for periods, so I was not overly concerned, thinking we would soon end our conversation and my visitor would depart. But he stayed as I became concerned about the disruption to the nesting arrangement - I don't know why I didn't speak up or take action.

When I finally did stand up and suggest by doing so that it was time to part company, I noted that dusk had deepened to near darkness. I peered into the eaves and saw that the nest was untended. After escorting the neighbor to the gate I hurried back, a little alarmed. I turned on a bright light on the back of the house to illuminate the porch and went inside, returning nervously to observe the nest every five or ten minutes.

No birds. The back yard, normally alive with the calls of the robins and other birds was absolutely still and completely dark except for the harsh light from the seldom-used fixture on the back of the house.

A sense of dread, horror, and remorse overwhelmed me. What if they could not orient themselves in the unfamiliar darkness? Had they gone off to roost in a tree, imobilized by nightfall, unable to return for the care their instincts demanded? I imagined that the little pale blue eggs would lose their viability by morning - already the evening was cooling rapidly. I thought about my past ambivelence on the abortion of human embryos, and wondered at the sense of tragedy that I now associated with the tiny birds that might not emerge. I wondered how I could have been so insensitive to the pair of robins as they nervously attempted to alight on the nest while we droned on with self-importance, oblivious to their distress. Could one beer really cause such a void of mindfullness? So there is a reason avoidance of alcohol is one of the Buddhist precepts, even for lay people...

I spent about an hour coming to grips with the inevitability of this small but powerful tragedy playing out in my back yard and mind, and my culpability. Another of life's painful but valuable lessons, delivered to address some deficiency in character or balance some karmic debt.

Again I returned to the back porch to gaze mournfully at the empty nest. The call of a robin startled me from the darkness of the row of trees beyond the pool of light where I stood. I spoke to it, beckoning, and stepped back inside. A few minutes later, I returned once more to the doorway.

She was in her nest.

I turned off the bright light, and came downstairs to write this, my prayer answered.

---

---

---

I flew off to Reno for a few days to help my Dad get resettled in his home after a stay in a hosital and a bit of rehab. He is getting around well, but I think it helped to have someone familiar around the house to help get things back in a routine.

We interviewed a salty household help lady, as we wanted him to have a little assistance with housekeeping. When I inquired about her culinary talents, hoping she might be able to prepare an occasional hot meal during her visits, she proceeded to describe her "Puke in a Pan" special. We hired her, and her visit went well from what I heard.



One thing I noticed very clearly while looking after his needs - the Buddhist wisdom that if you want to be happy you should put others first is clearly true. I came home feeling calmer and more content than in a long time.

When I arrived back in Denver on the plane around dusk, I was greeted by a spectaular fiery red-orange-yellow sunset under towering thunderstorm clouds in the area. Later, as I drove from the airport toward the Northbound freeway, there was a big long-lasting fireworks display ahead of me for some time. The whole arrival felt very auspicious, and I had a clear sense of arriving home.

---

I finally rounded up all the materials I needed to begin working with oil colors again. It took several days, and visits to all the art stores in town, as I realized how expensive this was going to be and shopped aggressively for the best deal on each tool or material.

When I finally had everything collected at home I experienced a lot of anxiety faced with the big investment of time and money (about $250 - and me not working!), and uncertainty if I would even be able to accomplish anything that would satisfy my own standards of craftsmanship or creativity. My initial instinct was to stash everything in the garage and put off the whole effort until some time in the future. I did put everything out of sight, but two days later I was looking through some images from Mexico that I had collected with my digital camera specifically for painting suitability, and creative excitement began to overcome my fear of failure.

I selected a few prospective images, and narrowed it down to one - a street scene from Parque San Juan in Merida, around the corner from the place Pat and I always stayed there. I sketched it last night on a 16x20 canvas, almost trembling with excitement, but wondering all the time what would happen when I actually began laying on the paint.

Today, I picked up the last few tools and supplies I needed to actually commence painting. I seasoned my new wood palette with linseed oil, to prepare it to receive pigment for the first time. Every time I look at the sketch, I wonder what will unfold when I begin to actually handle brushes.

How much more should I read and study from the art texts I unpacked from the boxes that were not supposed to be opened until we were established in Mexico? Should I just start working?

---

I just got around to scanning a photo strip Pat and I got from a mobile photo booth at a Burning Man street fair in San Francisco last year. For a while I was afraid the original was lost, but it turned up a few days ago. You can see why I didn't want to loose this....

---

I was mumbling to Pat a couple of days ago about my desire to begin painting again. He took five twenties out of his wallet and held them out for me - "Go buy some supplies", he offered.

Later, I was in Old Town to rendevous with some women I met at a writers' workshop a few weeks ago. Before our bookstore/coffeehouse appointment, I wandered around a couple of art supply stores in the area. It's been quite a few years since I was producing art work during my photo studio days in Oakland, and being in the presence of all the materials brought back familiar feelings of creative opportunity - of unfulfilled potential. Feelings mirrored later when I met with my new literary companions...

Getting back into painting is a little scary. As with writing, I know I am capable of accomplishing something worthwhile, but fear producing nothing of value. With writing, I am only out some time (and wounded ego) if that happens, but with oil painting the tools and materials are surprisingly expensive. At Jerry's Artarama I put together about thirteen 37ml tubes of pigment from a sale bin, and the tab came to over $150! I chickened out and put them all back, planning to seek out a more modest brand and perhaps rethink a more limited palette. Many artists use a palette of only six to ten colors - the problem is they have only a few common choices, leaving me unsure of which colors to embrace.

The oil colors had familiar and alluring names - Alizarin Crimson, Raw Umber, Burnt Sienna, Yellow Ochre, Paynes Gray, and the blues! Ultramarine, Cobalt, Prussian... When I was very young, I used my mother's oil colors. The exotic labels, scents, and tactile experience were seductive as I struggled with the medium. I'm eager to smell the turpentine and linseed oil again, and feel the caress of brush on canvas...