Thought Collections on Art, Life, Philosophy, and Faith from my Studio…#8

Wondering while Wandering…

an artist’s limp toward finding ‘Radiance Through the Rain’


‘May the Rain of Suffering Soften Our Hearts,

Seeping Radiance to Our Thirsty Places.’

  1. Douglas Thompson© 2023


On Sagan and Snow

A close friend of mine recently posted the words of the thoughtful, profound writer and scientist Carl Sagan, along with recent NASA images looking back from space showing our little blue dot in context to the ever-expanding cosmos.


When beginning this ‘blog’ or ‘Thoughts on Art, Life, Philosophy, and Faith from my Studio…’, I said that I might ask more questions than attempt to provide answers. These questions crossed my mind today regarding a recent snowfall last night and the post I read this morning.


In another essay, Sagan makes a statement worth consideration.

‘Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.’ Carl Sagan

 Hmmm….? I wonder what or who that might be? Has it, or have they arrived already?


He writes in the post I mentioned…

“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there-on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

 The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot.

 Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

 The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand.

 It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”

― Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space



Among those thousands of confident religions, he refers to, a founder of one, (which may or may not actually be in this category) claimed something far greater than just being a person in history who provided great teachings for humanity to follow. In fact, as esteemed author C.S. Lewis stated, and I paraphrase, he must have been a lunatic to claim what he did unless, of course, he was the real deal…hmmm. Was he?

Just maybe we do hold a privileged position in the universe. Let’s take, for instance, his statement ‘mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.’ Why does this ‘mote of dust’ blue look like a rich blueberry floating? Yes, the undergirding of our planet is made of dusty minerals, as are the others, but what covers it here that gives it cosmological uniqueness? Water and its reflective nature. And, of course, the ‘sunbeam.’ Not too close, not too far. Those of us who live in northern climates know that the winter access to that sun is tenuous, both in the amount of light we receive and the amount of warmth. We and all other living things are primarily made of water.

Certainly, we have air to breathe, beauty to behold, love to share, and all of our senses to absorb all the richness of good things. That, to me, to name just a couple, seems ‘like a privilege’ in comparison to the blinding heat or intense cold with bleak dusty death everywhere you look in cosmic deep, if, in fact, you had the miracle of sight to see with. Just maybe we were chosen to belong here, to love here, create here, and to recognize, yes indeed, our puniness in relation to most things, let alone the universe. We also have individual value. Who would have given us that idea? Are we cared for? Do we belong? Is there an ultimate home, or do we drift into the dark cosmic dust forever?

Is our planet just a lonely speck of dust, as is suggested, or something created for existential value and sustained from a source far beyond our puny selves? That whacko lunatic from Palestine that everyone seems to use his name disparagingly in their idle chatter seemed to think so. At least, he claimed to be. Yes, and history informs me well with far more hints than any other historical figure, that indeed, ‘someone was coming to save us from ourselves.’ Hmmm?

Yes, here, I fully agree with Sagan. ‘The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand…and yes, ‘it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.’

Again, interestingly if one studies that one, that lunatic, who claims to have begun it all, from let’s say, ‘The Big Bang’ outward and even now, ever-expanding from one possible multiverse to yet another, or, in the other direction, to the ‘micro-cosmos’ found within each living thing as science discovers the wonders of life itself. Both have the same intrinsic design elements showing us that there are existing galaxies both very near and yet to be explored far beyond.

We humans, however, often, when, through our minds, we have been given to rationally think and ask questions and make choices, have given ourselves too much credit for the discoveries and results we enjoy. We as humans unpeel the onionskins of what has been laid in mystery before us like the ultimate Russian doll.

For instance, last night on this ‘dusty lonely blue dot,’ in Ontario, Canada, along with other areas of North America, a Texas low blew through where we all received millions of tons of snow that blanketed our properties and provided incredible beauty when left untouched. Thankfully, I finally got shoveled out after two days.

Like the planets, which I assume, is maybe named by someone somewhere, we here on planet earth, each of us has our own unique ‘named’ fingerprints. Each snowflake has a completely unique design—trillions of them, even across the acres out my window. All of our eight billion humans and, yes, counting also have special uniqueness in multiple ways. We are not delusional as is suggested; just lost accidental dust balls running to-and-fro until we add to the ‘dusty blue dot.’ Rather we are individually cherished, somewhere by someone, but with greater value than the snowflakes.


I have my own beliefs, obviously, having studied theology for decades. They are not based on mindless random brain chatter, but rather on solid historicity that blows away with a great quantity of other historical documented reality that we accept without question as having complete veracity.

To me, it’s much more a thing of joy to at least have a source for which to say ‘thank you’ when I see the snow through my camera lens or mix paint on my palette as I attempt to mimic on one-dimensional canvas the three-dimensional (at least) objects that pound with the beat of watery life and yes, a little dust. I am constantly grateful.










Thought Collections on Art and Life through an Artist’s Eyes #7

Wondering while Wandering…

an artist’s limp toward finding ‘Radiance Through the Rain’


‘May the Rain of Suffering Soften Our Hearts,

Seeping Radiance to Our Thirsty Places.

J. Douglas Thompson© 2022


Mark Making…from mind to reality

An artist paints and displays their work. An engineer designs and oversees construction of a complex bridge. An architect thinks and produces amazing feats of anti-gravitational beauty and grandeur. A chef initially stirs together the delectable sauces in the kitchen of his mind, then, later, mixing and folding actual layers of texture and taste, he or she presents the art to delight the guests palettes with innumerable delicacies.

Art is everywhere!

Why do designer’s design and chefs create?

One grand difference between humans and all other species is the ability to consciously create, making marks, and with those marks, communicating to others. Even our spoken words have their foundation in marks having been previously made.

These marks invite others to swirl and savor their joys or sorrows around the tongues of their minds as they become infused into their lives. The use of line, color, texture, taste, reflection and design bring us up short, causing us to respond to human endeavor and what it does for our souls growth and wellbeing. Out of interest, the ‘human soul’ consists of the ‘mind, will and emotion.’ All of nature is calling us to think beyond just their deep biological structures, asking us to consider the other deeper ‘Why’ questions, including ‘why beauty?’

There are societal segments that demand that beauty is a misnomer and that all is just meaningless, mindless, coincidental, random purposeless particle populating.

There are those of us however given the mantle of producing something from the mind to touch other’s sensibility. This is not simply brain synapses firing randomly but personal soul savoring sharing. These are those responding to their inner gifts with deep creative action based on a hope or dream of an actuality.

As a painter, I spend months each year designing and producing works of fine art. Each piece is carefully completed with the introduction of a more or less abstract underpinning and then the building up layer after layer of paint passages and glazing thin layers over each. Most of those layers eventually lay virtually hidden from view but are held in the depths of the piece and provide the foundation it was built upon. People are often fascinated to see while looking at x-rays of old master’s pieces, where the mind of the artist wandered before settling on his final idea. In the last few days I added a small island with three small trees to a painting, thinking it would enhance the composition. Later, I felt it had done exactly the opposite and so they were covered over. The x-rays would show what I had had in mind and then ultimately decided a different direction.

There is one season of the year that I step aside from my production, carefully placing each piece on my gallery wall, ready for a viewer. My gallery is commercial in the sense that I sell my work from there as well as through other galleries. It is however a place of ‘free exploration’ for anyone who passes my way wishing to indulge their personal senses. These close encounters often bring thoughtful conversation and even sometimes an emotional connection to the art. Sometimes further is the event where someone wants to exchange hard-earned cash for a piece of paint-layered canvas. Why indeed would anyone want to exchange blood, sweat and tears for that?

One reason would be that the artist’s inner soul has leaked and spread out as marks, and is laid bare on that canvas. It invites a soul interaction with the other, who in fact is relating, not necessarily to the art directly but rather a previous life experience that the marks trigger. Somehow it brings back a memory or emotion from their personal life. The soul of the artist and viewer have collided and meshed. The purchaser wants to cherish the memory and thus a transaction happens to anchor the memory permanently on their wall. The ‘marks’ of one’s soul expression leaves the studio to become and to reflect another’s.

The fields clap their hands and flowers bloom with raucous vibrancy to at least attract a bee, but surely there is more. Each marked layer in creation and each mark made by his counterparts made in his image points back to the Creator. The Creator, by his own declaration (John 1:1) has filled the globe with a vast collaboration of his direct input by giving us myriad things to enjoy, touch and taste and also incorporating into our humanness the desire to create further using materials at our finger tips. Like it or not we are expressing our image bearing likeness through those creations and our reactions of them!

“The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it.” (Psalm 24:1 NIV)


Mark Making…


Thought Collections on Art and Life through an Artist’s Eyes # 6

Wondering while Wandering…

an artist’s limp toward finding ‘Radiance Through the Rain’


‘May the Rain of Suffering Soften Our Hearts,

Seeping Radiance to Our Thirsty Places.’

J. Douglas Thompson© 2022


Todays thought via this poem relates to the strong winds of disconcertion regarding world events that pervade our spaces daily and how the White Pine of the north gives us thoughts of response.


Granite Places*

Inhospitable – hard – windswept – bare

Granite horseshoe wildly flung

Vast and north, strong and free

Canadian Shield.


Emaciated quilt of threadbare soil thinly carpets vast expanse

Quilts – so easily displaced – lay bare this giant’s plate

Revealing slightest pink – textured lines striate – memories from icy wars.


There they rise – emerging

Seeming impossibility

Deriding dust so wafer thin

Titans tall of windswept green – reach to touch and kiss the sky

Swaying stately splendour strong.


Below at base – the fissure waits

Giant’s lonely seed is blown

Tumbling red faced, to the void


Naked and exposed it falls

Avian breakfast seeks above? Whew!


Shiver shakes it full awake

Decisions nose right in the face

To hope and dream for future’s sake?


Thoughts – these crazy thoughts

Visions – vast with arms to sweep

Expressions praise and shade to give.


Digging deep – to cut through stone



Imperceptible topsoil


Kill the dream!


Impossible – growth – that large?

Roll over – take a nap

Give rest a try

Go back, they say – and close your door

Dream your dreams – but far away

Expose your head?



I hear it speak – that lowly seed

Throbbing choices to endure

Reaching down and reaching up

Pushing back the darkness deep

Gestation’s travel now complete – new life’s about to come

Tiny head peeks skyline’s orb and – groans

Scorching heat of summer’s sun

Blasts of autumn’s freezing rain

Depth of frostbite’s bitter bite

Year to follow lonely year.


Faithful faces tests of time

Mock and ridicule deride

Sneering, laughing, shaking heads

Walking backs again depart


Why? Just shrivel up – and die

No one there to see or care



Monolith’s monicker, great white pine

Grandeur’s dance from stage afar

Bent with windswept backs they stand

Trademarks of the stalwart north.


Wild framed warriors – scars abound

Contorted mar of deepest scar

Groans of grief – misunderstood

Twisted broken limbs that speak – and so they lean

Quietly, humbly into view.


Artist paints His masterpiece

Single focal point he claims – astounding art – all that remains

Image of decided truth

Gracing palace walls where

Thousands come to stand and gaze

Stay to revel and to praise

Giving up?

Yes, YOU!

Crushed with pressure-crevice living?

Walk away?


To be sure – temptations strong

Softness winks her warm caress

Enticingly says, ‘disengage’

Constant storms too much you say?

Long and lonely vigils wait

Broken through obedience

Surrounded and embraced by few

Raising standards very high

Billowed, bent and sails all full

Driving roots through solid rock

Framed in grace a light to spot

Short-lived lives – to count or not?

So let me say, keep at it, despite the heavy legs and elbows worn thin having done what is right, for, when all is said and done, when the King arrives back, there will be fair reward, if we hang in there, not having slipped out the back door, but rather keeping on keeping on with tenacity    Galatians 6:9 JDT paraphrase

* Excerpt from ‘Radiance through the Rain’ Copyright 2020, J. Douglas Thompson

My previous book ‘Radiance through the Rain’ is a self-published, hard-cover limited edition coffee table book showing more than 100 images of my paintings. Alongside of the paintings are sixty-one essays on how the act of painting is a metaphor for doing life and relationships. Much of that thinking will bleed into this blog, but here, this is just you and I quietly pondering our devotional lives. For those of you who purchased ‘Radiance Through the Rain,’ maybe you think some of my wandering thoughts are worth sharing. This blog is the venue!


Carpe Diem, 48″ X 60″ Acrylic on Canvas © J.Douglas Thompson

Thought Collections on Art and Life through an Artist’s Eyes #5


Wondering while Wandering…

an artist’s limp toward finding ‘Radiance Through the Rain’


‘May the Rain of Suffering Soften Our Hearts,

Seeping Radiance to Our Thirsty Places.’

J. Douglas Thompson© 2022



Thought’s on Mists


My easel today holds memories, recollections of what was and what I have left to consider to re-describe as I cast my mind over the past seventy-three years. I love taking photographs, but that is a separate love affair from that of painting. I seldom use any of my photos as a reference when painting. Each stands alone.

Today, I paint and while pushing my paint, I’m prone to ponder! The coming ‘letters from my studio,’ will be throwback thoughts across my life as an artist and a photographer with a bit of faith and philosophy thrown in.

What usually occurs when painting, is my hand dips paint with a rag or paper towel and then begins the slashing and whipping of rag against canvas. Sometimes while slapping the paint around an image appears that triggers a memory and if not, oh well, at least I’m left with texture.

Today what is coming to fruition from rag to canvas is an old memory of Alberta, Canada’s Lake Louise veiled in the heart of the Rockies. It shimmers turquoise. The sun slants left, mountainside clearly showing the rock face holding interesting patterns of ice-white water otherwise described as snow.

Up and over the first third of my composition stand a group of rugged pines showing their resolute passion for survival, with backs held ramrod straight. This is somewhat different from their cousins of the east, the Great White Pine. Found on the Canadian Shield, which is made of solid granite, it stretches far north beyond human habitation. There the pines lean way right, having a strong west wind blow them strident since birth.

However, here I am, by means of memory, sitting in my studio chair, my mind next to the lake. This, for the most part will be my way of sharing my journey and stories. A breeze sends a cold signal that maybe things are not as well as maybe they seem. A mist swirls down from the heights, adding a negligee of blue-white light over the rock verticals.

Mists come as the mysterious Spirit comes, first a breeze, a tender touch that kisses my cheek, leaving it slightly wet as the mist envelopes my view.

Sometimes the Spirit enlightens with warmth and sometimes adds a veil. The why and wherefore of the Spirit’s call to humanity is a mystery. I still see some of the hard formation that lays behind, but mostly it is misty grey. Life is seldom a clear-cut course.

More than often, we take slow steps, or well we should, as we navigate life’s journey. Sometimes the mists suddenly lift, and we see that all is well, and warmth surrounds our steps. And then, just as suddenly, a corner turned, and the wall of grey seems to pull us in, and our fears arise. Life is struggle! The flip side of pain is joy! Grey mists, darkness and sunlight. Despite the variables, keep putting your proverbial foot one step ahead of the last and choose to ‘Live!’

The eastern lakes mists steal lower shoals as across the bed of night they wrap all in the comforter of thoughts alone until the sun winks her soft hello. Maybe a fire in a hearth breaks its silent steal where humanity attempts to push away the darkness. It is here I want to dwell for a moment today.

The early sun rises east casting her curling smile on the grey and the mist begins her dance. Together they weave their sensuous sway from the lake and up the mountain as warm interacts with cool.

Later, after coffee is done and bacon crisp has brought us its pleasures, the sun begins to blow its warmth and the mist disappears. About 11 a.m. and she’s gone! The mystery of wonder that refracted light into the wondrous soft silk of mist is now a memory.

So, it is with these, my few short years of life, and yours!

I sat tonight during my walk west, in a field down the way, and reflected on the evening sky and the mists that wanted in. My life is like the mist, and yes will soon cover all as I pass into eternity.

My physical body is the present entity that enfolds the real me: my soul and spirit. This my cocoon will remain behind for the mourners and then disappear, too, but my spirit will remain, having travelled to a different dimension of interim wonder.

For today, I can have hope that as the mist envelops the here and now, there will be light again, and the field that I sat in tonight will re-appear, fully regenerated in its original wonder, perfection ready for a never-ending reality.

Finally, in all my paintings, my desire is to portray the light of hope peeking, even when most seems blue-grey mist. Often, the result is most beautiful when that soft light glazed, seen through the negligee, as she hides the veiled beauty of what can become if the invitation is accepted.

The Spirit of all mists comes suddenly, and then just as suddenly opportunity vanishes.

James 4:14 NIV …‘Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.’


I love it when mists surround the landscape in mystery



Thought Collections on Art and Life through an Artist’s Eyes #4

I hesitate to share the following story! However being that it has been the underpinning of my reality for more than 6 decades affecting my worldview personally and artistically, I believe it needs to be stated as ground zero for this and future blogs. I again apologize to those I’ve hurt out of that reality. I’m incredibly grateful for the handful of rescuers who listened well, leaned into my reality during the last half of that sixth decade through to today enabling me to find freedom from the strictures of early childhood abuse.


Shut Down to Darkness *


 It had begun…


The long rain…


The drowning of a child’s soul – my soul!


My parents made the choice to train for vocational ministry. We arrived at that place when I was three years of age and left just before my fourteenth birthday. From the time of our arrival and for the next eleven years, my parents relinquished their parental responsibilities to a proverbial institutional state. I became for all practical purposes a ward, which turned out to feel like a high-walled enclosure that was authoritarian and controlling. Under the dark cover of legalistic propriety there was a parallel universe of physical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual abuse.

Not everyone who lived there had the same experience, but this is my story.

A dyslexic child with an artistic bent, math was far from my strong suit. Grade 2 erupted volcanic as I attempted to please my teacher and do my best. This was not to be. Every simple arithmetic computation was a massive blur of hieroglyphic confusion. It was innocence that had arrived in Grade 2 bliss. My right brain lobe, however, swept imagination high, passing osmosis-like through lath and plaster walls upwards, where cumulous castles floated far off and wide. Dancing visual beauty consumed me instead of the proposed structured equations. My artistic bent held sway from earliest days!

My left brain, well, in full-out free fall, smashed hard against structured expectations and met the wrath of God himself – or so I was told!

All my mistakes were seen to be purposeful acts of defiance against this teacher personally, the institution, and of course, God, who apparently directed the place. She would insist that I stand up in front of the class and confess my ‘sin of disobedience and defiance’ for not doing the math correctly. She then would insist that every night after school that I be kept back to write on the blackboard 100 times my offences, then leave these until the next morning in an attempt to shame me into compliance.

This went on and on, day after day, month after month.

Finally in exasperation this Grade 2 teacher had enough of my ‘intransigence’ and let me know that the hour of judgement had finally come!

She called for full-fledged intervention!

I was marched out in front of my classmates to the second storey of the other school building next door and upstairs. The room was long and narrow, like a shoebox lying on its side, with twenty-foot ceilings and a small window high at one end. It was dark and menacing.

Nine teachers and a principal, like giant trolls, deep in scowls, snarling, circled tightly around me—this trembling six-year old. Their faces burned deep into my memory. Cult-like, they spewed hate and lies, accusing me of great sin. Cringing in recoil and trembling white, I wept while they mocked. There was no escape. They pressed tighter in tall concentric crush, one by one insisting I confess what I did not understand.

For my child’s ears, their words screamed horror: ‘No, you have pushed this teacher far too far. Extreme demands extreme! Repent to us, each in order, and repent to your creator God. Now! You must repent! You will be punished today by us, yes! But He waits and will punish you down the line to be sure. Just you wait! God doesn’t take kindly to prideful defiance!’

They waited, pushing me from one side to the other, forcing me to confess. Then, while the leering tight circle of female teachers watched, the male principal commanded, ‘Strip down your pants, boy.’ He took a fifteen-inch long black and red leather razor strap and lashed nakedness blue black. When it was over, they insisted I apologize again to each of them in turn, and that I pray again to let heaven and earth know that I understood my serious crime. They then reminded me that my ‘loving heavenly Father’ would be watching carefully to see if my transgressions were to continue.

Continue they did, as math eluded my right-slanted brain. For the next five years I daydreamed my cumulous castles floating far off and wide between ongoing variant abusive discipline—coming, ironically from people who purportedly believed as part of their foundational mandate, God’s love. They insisted the only way to resolve my unsuccessful turn at math—seen as defiance—was to break the will of this young wild heart.

At the end of the five years they succeeded. I cracked and broke! In uncontrolled hysteria, swinging between laughing and crying fits, back and forth, rolling on the floor, my muscles went into spasms of twitching and my head shook and jerked.

At this point, my parents, long preoccupied with their ‘ministry,’ recognized I needed help. They took me to a doctor eighty miles away, who recommended I be put to bed for rest. For the next two years, and unfortunately, alone in upstairs isolation of our home, I shut down completely! Drowning in dark escape, curled in fetal form, I often slept twenty-two of the twenty-four hours of each day.

Deep tendrils grasped my ankles, entwining and entombing me in blackness. I struggled to come to the surface but anchors cemented me into the blue-black waters of coma-edged reality. A distant pinprick light mocked its relief from high above. Disembodied voices came, but mostly went. Gasping for air, I thrashed to find surface’s breath that would give relief. I clawed my way out of the semiconscious depths to take short respites for food and water, and then slip back again into canyons’ deep recesses. I was alone, adrift in and below the high seas of an ongoing death grip and no one was searching for the person overboard.

And so my conundrum and anger began. I felt abandoned by indifferent parents, never sensing what it was to receive a parent’s tender reassurance. I was bewildered by and even embittered with a brand of institutional Christianity modeling a different message than my parents verbalized. Confusion reigned! Eventually a man body emerged, tied up tightly, stored high in the attic’s soul where it remained numbed and frozen, hidden in darkness for decades to come.

I began to identify many things in the broader scope of Christianity that have been done in Jesus’ name, both despicable and devastating. For a long time, I failed to see much that is representative of His character of love and grace and His vast creative nature.

My personal quest however, is to shift the paradigm in this ‘my little tide pool’ by presenting beauty, hope, and truth. I wish to point not to the past, rehearsing harsh rhetoric spoken in his name, but rather redirect my focus to the present where the master of all artists—and my good shepherd who came seeking a very lost sheep far out on a dangerous cliffside—continues to restore me.

*Excerpt from ‘Radiance Through the Rain’

J Douglas sitting contemplatively on Cadillac Mountain, Maine, USA







Thought Collections on Art and Life through an Artist’s Eyes #3

Just a Feather on the Lane

Earlier this Autumn in walk’s attempt to keep body and soul intact as shadows lengthen and days grow short, I glanced askance and there it lay…this blue black wonder of flight…a feather lost of neighbour jay…

Now, one may see or pass without a second thought but in its immediacy it demanded that I stoop to consider…

I’ve been a designer/artist for five plus decades…I’ve studied well my craft and worked the midnight oil years over…yet in all my attempts where my hand invades canvas, nothing comes close to what demanded my attention this evening upon the lane…

Sure, with great care it may have been possible to replicate a facsimile of sort on canvas stretched, but not one that carried and oozed life in full out dimension…an intricate part of floating, swooping, raucous exuberance itself…it sang out as myriad versions daily sing, that intricate design exudes each centimetre square if only we would stop to smell and see.

It sadly also reminded me of fallen brevity and the curse of death. Life itself was originally conceived to be a sweep of raucous joy and full-out delight, but the fall of a blue, black feather reminds me of my days, and each action to choose well.

Many of you may think my mind facile in giving credence to the possibility of design that transcends human knowledge. To me it is mystery worth pondering deep that a very intelligent designer’s hand and indeed spoken word here, and not just random unguided happen-chance that had passed this way…and with this, at least for me, the palette of life and hope seems much richer again tonight with this fallen work of art.