Had I My Sketchbook

 

 

Had I My Sketchbook

Had I my sketchbook on that day
facing the tomb
where recent horrors laid Him
and  a rock sealed the room…

Had I thoughts other than
to sit and weep and clasp my book,
I’d open the pages
of sketches and look…

Him laughing at table
Him weeping for a friend
His amazing miracles
the events near the end…

That last day he lived
if living it be called
I could not’ve drawn it
eyes swollen as I bawled.

But I was there
His agony my own.
And I am here now
gazing at a stone.

The finality of it all
I s’pose that’s what I should draw.
A last sketch of my Friend
to end this book of all I saw.

I’d begin the arc of that boulder
the crevices of the rock
Lines upon lines
sealing up my broken heart.

Hours must’ve passed
as I filled up the page
with line after line
of my Friend’s stony cage.

The sun was coming up
as a Voice gently asked-
What have you there, Little One?
At these words, I gasped.

Sitting down by me
He pointed to what I’d drawn-
An angel, an opening,
grave cloths, a song.

I checked to be sure
what I drew had not been dream.
There it was in front of me
the whole of my scene.

And He sitting beside
glowing in smile.
We spoke of nothing and so much
for a very short while.

Then he rose to visit others
to show them Death was done.
I asked what shall I do now
for this joy…it must run!

He said keep drawing where you see Me
in all your live-long days…
And paint the song you’ve heard this morn
throughout the years and always.

-jpe

April 7, 2012

Reposted today, April 1, 2018. Because it is still true. <3

 

 

Morning Chatter

I step out the door into a lively conversation already underway.

The woodpecker is holding forth, rapping his message,

the morning dove coos, the cardinal trills

and a congregation adds their own embellished agreements

or rebellious agitation.

Even the geese, returning from a winter’s sojourn, join in the boisterous banter.

I stand in awe for a moment just to take in this morning cacophony.

I walk up the hill, down the lane, past the cows and on by the alpacas and horses. Leaning into Emmaus Road my pace quickens and so does the chatter. Are they cheering me on? Providing company for the path? Or indifferent to my presence, absorbed in their own worlds?

I spot a lone bird atop a bale of hay lifting her throat to the throng.

On the return, crossing Hastily, down Silver Dapple once again and back towards home,

it is quieter now.

Only a few remain in the concert hall of my thoughts,

chirping their ideas, tweeting their rebuttal.

They are settling in for the day ahead yet nothing has been settled upon,

except that we all must begin.

Closing the door, I take up my pen to record the findings,

drawcument the sights,

chronicle the listenings,

make sense of the chaos,

find a tune in the midst of it all.

-jpe

 

Whoa and Wow

2018. Wow.

Am I just now realizing the magnitude of this? Nearly two and a half months into it, this number, a big one, it tells where I am, how far along I’ve come since 1965. This year, this 2018, I will be 53 and will celebrate 30 years married and will see my children turn 24, 21, and 16. Lord willing. Wow.

That’s all I can say…wow.

Couldn’t I just spend my days marveling at where I am? Could I not just take a moment, a year, a rest-of-a-life to say whoa.  Stop right here. Let’s pause and gather it all in and look deeply into one another’s faces?

For it shall not stay like this. I feel it already, the pull of years to come. Like Marty in the Future photograph, beginning to fade. Or like the moment’s before Scotty beams us up, pixels waving farewell. Can we not stop the world and get off for a moment to hold one another’s faces cupped in our hands and look, really look and say I love you and always shall?

Please do not forget.

Today, let me do just that with my pen and brush. Let me caress these faces I love, the landscape of Backyard, the hay bales of Silver Dapple. Let me hold them even if for a fleeting line to say I love you and always shall.

To say, if only to myself, please…please do not forget.

This act of loving is feeble and flimsy at best. Pieces of paper in a bound book. But it is how I know to say whoa and wow to 2018. It is my way of cupping my hands around the faces I love, the place that I live, the life that I have. There are miles to go before I sleep, as Frost would say, and there are miles of lines to log in my book through 2018 and beyond.

In this way, drawing and painting my life, I will not forget. And perhaps, when I fade from the photograph and my pixels wave their final farewell, these books will remain,

saying I love you…

and always shall.

-jpe

Dawdle

“Oh I can waste a minute or two or hundreds…

that’s not a problem for me,” she says with ease.

Not a confession.

Just a statement of truth.

I envy her this. For I cannot dawdle.

Nope.

Not for long anyway.

I sit to stare out this window

to dream and gaze and wonder…

and immediately lines are dancing in my head,

words are forming into lines

pearls on a string

making hay with all

the wonder, the dream, the gaze.

***

It is all a poem, a painting.

Every leaf trembles with meaning.

Every tree and bush offers revel and rhyme.

Every brook sings sweetly of a tune from another land.

I hear it everywhere.

Under my chair, in laughter, in tears.

It perches on the feeder and roams in the woods.

It calls my name always to come play,

to paint and draw and make much.

This is why I have such a hard time wasting any minutes.

For even while staring out a window

I’m seeing and hearing …

and trying to decipher what I’m to do with all this beauty.

-jpe

*********

I have been making a concerted effort to just sit and stare out a window. Or to sit outside, which is definitely my preference, regardless of the yo-yo weather we are having here in NC. My intention each day is to be aware of where I am, look up, take in the surroundings of what my daily life brings. I’m drawing and sketching more of this in an effort to sink deeply into these moments. Or at least for the time period it takes to draw what I see out the window, or whilst sitting in our living room, or my studio. I’m also coming home from daily walks and sketching something I’ve seen. This is often from memory, but sometimes from a photo. That first drawing was made from a photo I took while walking at Reynolda Gardens last week. Nearly every step was so full of drawable-ness I could scarcely breathe let alone snap a pic with my phone.

All the world alive with loveliness. It is sometimes too much for me. I have to reign it in somehow and just be content with only one drawing, or just a sketch or two. I wish, oh golly how I wish, I could take in all that I see and hear and transpose it into my sketchbook. The doing of these drawings is less about having something to show, and more about grafting into my being all that I see, all that I hear. To somehow tattoo onto my heart and mind these lovely things so that in bleaker times I can remember them. So that when beauty is scarce, my heart is trained to look for, find and record the flowers that are blooming next to the carnage of a dying bush.

Dawdling does not come as easy for me as it does for my dear oldest daughter whose words open the poem. I am drawing inspiration from her and making an effort to dawdle more, to “waste” a few minutes or more (if indeed it is a waste!) by just looking, resting my eyes on what is around me, and holding my hands at bay for a little while before they burst into lines and splattered paint. I know it is not a waste. Not at all. It is the crucial ingredient for an artful life.

I hope you can dawdle a bit today too!

******

For more on dawdling, drawing, seeing our lives, and living with artful eye…

check out…

A practice of drawing your life in a sketchbook.

And…

I Hear It

Wouldn’t you like for me to tell you

the thing your heart has

always wanted to hear?

Wouldn’t you like to hear those words

feel them on your face

rumbling in your belly?

Wouldn’t you want to wake up each morning

to those eternal words

you’re starving to feast upon?

***

Out there we can hear it.

In the raucous birdsong

the breeze of leafing

the earth alive.

***

In here we feel it

under our feet pining and pebbling

where streams gurgle

waterfalls roar.

***

Surrounded by wood and wild flower

breathing the loamy undergrowth

hearing the sound of living…

I hear it.

Don’t you?

***

“I love you”, sing the birds.

“You are loved”, breathe the trees.

“We are loved”, roar the waters.

“All is love”, clap the leaves.

“You are cherished”, whispers everything.

Here.

Now.

Tomorrow.

Forever.

-jpe

Pen & Watercolor sketches made at Reynolda Gardens yesterday.

Faber Castell fineliner pens: Brush Tip, 1.5 , XS .

American Journey watercolors & DaVinci Gouache.

Too Much

If you peeled your eyes away

to give them a break

to rest from so much seeing

to see what might be discovered in reality…

If you pulled your nose back from the glass and stone

from the screen and window

to inhale something new, or just stop breathing the fumes…

If you covered your ears

and stopped listening to tripe, to lies, to bait…

What would you hear?

What would you smell?

What would you see?

Sometimes I feel it – too much seeing.

Sometimes my breathing is labored from so much pressing my nose where it need not be.

Sometimes my ears are tired from so much hearing of what I do not need.

I step back. I close my eyes.

I shut the computer and the phone.

I listen to silence.

Perhaps to song.

And I breathe.

And I create.

And I relax.

********

More and more I’m finding I need periods of respite from online activity. Be it a few hours or even days, this unplugging allows me to rest, to really hear and see what’s going on in my life, to listen to what my pen wants to draw or write. It feels a bit like Spring. Something underneath the surface beginning to stir and waken, yet still waiting to come forth. I’m seeing it on my walks these days…tiny bright green spots coming up from the ground and peeking out the ends of limbs. It’s still very early days here in the South where winter could come roaring back just when the tender blooms think it’s ok to wave at us.

I need to step back, listen to the silence of so much growth. I need to keep watch over the tender shoots…breathing, creating, and relaxing into the change of seasons.

Evergreen

Were my life four seasons of twenties

I would be in late Fall.

Spring and Summer past, so too the brilliance of leaf and coolness.

Only a few bright jewels remain quivering on their branches

knowing full well they await their last flight

of wind before gravity takes hold.

From here I can feel the chill of coming winter.

And I now see, with other limbs bare,

the evergreens standing sure and unmoved by the seasons’ ravages.

They have been there all along playing

a lesser role to oak and maple.

Providing scaffolding for all of nature’s

hoopla to dance and frolic.

Now they have their day…their deep values

fencing the path, marking the way.

I walk on. For I cannot go back.

Stopping to rest beside an evergreen

I admire its solidity, if prickly and severe.

I touch the bark, the needles, and I inhale something rich, resinous, comforting.

Surely in my winter, evergreens will guide with pointy fingers

and lay out a carpet soft for travel-weary feet.

Here in late autumn I can still feel the sun of summer’s day,

the blush of spring’s blooming.

It is all encompassed by memories of brilliant colors against a bright blue sky.

The hint of woodsmoke brings me to now, as I walk forward

into winter’s snowy embrace.

-jpe

I’ll Tell You

What happens when so much making comes tumbling out of you that you shy to share it?

What do you do when so many ideas beg and need to be birthed, small, tiny, insignificant ideas yet they must be born?

What if you feel so alive with all the making, the knitting, the poeming, the crafting, the drawing, the writing of stories that, surely you are living in miniature and illustration?

What then?

I’ll tell you.

You let it tumble out.

You do not share it. Not yet.

You birth the ideas as far as they will go no matter how small and insignificant they seem.

You knit, you poem, you draw and craft, you illustrate and write.

You live in your stories for your stories help you understand your story and thereby help you to live…

Tumbling…

Making…

Loving…

Alive.

-jpe

Wind Walking

It’s been a while since I’ve posted any of my poetry. Oh I do have these little rhyming ditties trot through my head now and again. Most of the time I just roll my eyes and go on about my day. But this one “blew through” my head as I woke this morning complete with an illustration. 🙂

I woke to the wind howling in the trees.

“Come walk with me! Won’t you, pretty please?”

I answered the wind by stepping out the door.

Now my hat and scarf…they are no more.

-jpe 2.9.2017

I love wind. Do you? I always have. It seems to call to me, beckon me outdoors, even if just for a bit. Today I shall walk in it. It’s supposed to stick around for the entire day…fun! I s’pose I wouldn’t like wind so much if I lived where the Mistral blows for days and days on end. Although, if I were in Provence, I know I wouldn’t mind it AT ALL!! 🙂

Anyway, I’m headed out the door. I think I’ll leave my hat and scarf inside. 🙂

Who cares about the hair, right? 🙂

(Let’s see just how many smiley faces I can include in one post!)

Did you know that I have a book of my little rhyming poems?

It’s titled Words On A Line. 🙂

Have an Artful Day!!

Could It Be?

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Could it be, in these small un-arted hours, beauty is wrought?

Could it be, in dishes and diapers, laundry and lunches, heaven is laid out?

Could it be, in lack and leanness, provision is lavished?

Could it be, in faces – not fancies – that fullness is found?

Could it be, as I embrace the small, my life is enlarged?

Could it be, that ART is happening even when I’m not making it?

Could it be, in all I feel as futile, God is fashioning beauty?

Could it be, the big life I long for is found in the little life I live?

Could it be, the constraints of time and money, unleash creativity?

Could it be, the pain of not making is simply the longing to be near Thee?

Could it be, this passion that seems to leak out a sieve, is actually being sifted, refined, made pure?

Could it be, even if I had all the time, energy, and provision to do my art, to live the big life I long for, that it would not be enough to satisfy or reach said big life and big art?

Could it be, that in me – a common vessel – resides eternity?

Could it be, that this side of heaven, I’m to weave my little thread, even if it’s the same thread as yesterday, or a new one I find along the way?

Could it be, my daily work is to draw a line from everyday things to eternity and back again.

Could it be, that contained in my insignificant, small life, the realms of heaven abide and He lives in grace and truth abounding?

Could it be, that the King of all nations would be born in a barn and sleep in a trough?

Could it be, that the Master Artist comes to create in humble, insignificant lives?

Could it be, the grandest art is made on the littlest scale?

Could it be, that True Beauty is wrought in lack, insignificance, and tedium?

Could it be I have it all wrong – instead of this life being about ME being able to do my art and thereby live my BIG life…that it is rather about CHRIST, the high and holy one, coming to live BIG in my humble and insignificant life?

Could it be, that my insignificant life is transformed into a magnificent one through the humblest of events – a babe in a manger, Emmanuel, God with us.

*****

Retuning my heart this day after Christmas, weary from so much merry-making, wondering where the Beauty is, reclaiming what is true and good. May your days after Christmas be magnificently insignificant as the babe weaves His love into your life.

Artfully yours,

Jennifer