Photos of the Gone Art

 

Obliteration

 One of the surprise benefits of this new pandemic era for me has been participation in an online art class with a teacher based in the lovely Cotswolds.  Since last year I have attended his various courses, and am learning all about value, hue, and chroma.  I had no idea what these words really meant, in fact, I must admit, I still don't, although goodness knows I am trying to learn about this.

 I have invested in 8 x 10 ampersand panels, many many brushes, and oil paints.  This is not a cheap endeavour, but it is worthwhile, I think.  I have learned a lot, and have almost completed two years of studies. How is that possible? Just another aspect of my new and different relationship with time.  For me time has condensed and expanded and zigzagged back and forth and made circles around itself.

Today my other art class was cancelled as my teacher has hurt her back.  I didn't want to comfort her by letting her know that Queen Elizabeth has also sprained her back, so actually she is in illustrious company. This unexpected reprieve led me to my favorite activity - cleaning, tidying, condensing.

I went through a box of last year's paintings - autumn fruits, Austen roses, Spring daffodils, panels upon panels.  I laid them out on the concrete outside my back door - and wham, obliterated the lot.  I applied a layer of thick white oil ground.  They look like snow has fallen and covered them all, and there they will lie in hibernation, ready to be rebirthed on future courses.

For me it is a feeling of joy - like Navajo Sand paintings and intricate Tibetan Sand Mandalas that vanish, the impermanence of everything.

Obliteration and liberation!

New

 Well, two really exciting things have happened over the past two days - 

At last I have a date for my second cataract surgery - November 22nd.  Ever since the first surgery in April I have known that my second eye will be operated on - but there has been a backlog of people needing eye operations of all sorts.  Everything has been backlogged - from the availability of trekking poles to eye surgeries.  When my doctor told me she first had to operate on those people in danger of losing their sight, I graciously nodded.   So I am thankful the wait is over.  This must mean that sight has been restored to many and now my eye will be operated on.

The other thing that is really exciting is that the 8th season of Seaside Hotel is now available for streaming.  I am delightedly watching.

I also had a revelation of sorts - I believe I blogged last year about my reduced vocabulary. - In 2020 my wise comments and observations had been reduced to two words - unbelievable and horrendous.  Over the last month or so I noticed that my vast vocabulary has changed.  This year my trove of words and accumulated knowledge is now down to "whatever" and "I don't know."

Ah - such is the value of age and wisdom.

Refreshed

 I have been feeling somewhat blah - best description I can come up with it.  Not depressed, I go through  the motions of yoga, spanish, art, seeing friends, walking, reading - but just blah. 

Yesterday dawned no different, but sometime during the morning when pondering on which walk to take I decided to get in the car and drive to the Bay Trail - Pt. Isabel.   In recent months it has been unusually windy along the trail. A strong wind blows in from the bay whipping my hair all around and causing havoc to my eyes. To such an extent that it is downright unpleasant and I wear a 'covid' shield to protect my eyes, but the shield by now is cloudy so I don't really look anywhere but down on my feet.

Yesterday proved to be a Goldilocks day - a gentle breeze, fresh smelling clean (green light) air, not too hot, not too cold, conditions were just right.  I even found a parking space in the Rydin Street lot. I preceded down the trail along the shorefront.  The egrets stood sentinel in the marshes.  Just occasional hikers, hardly any bikers.  The tide was out, the mudflats displaying the reason for their name.  Shorebirds pecked around the edges and downtown Oakland and the Bay Bridge stood silhouetted against the sun - a lovely frame for the bay.  The sun glinted, sparkled, twinkled, reflected, mirrored, on the furrowed waves - lighting one, then another, as the water of the bay undulated. An occasional pelican flew and swooped, an egret raised its magnificent span and flew just over the lagoon.  The reeds and the grasses rustled drily.  Indeed all is dry - even the air. 

Further along as the path curves around the houses of the Marina Bay I saw the Golden Gate Bridge stretching from San Francisco to the gentle slopes of the Marin Headlands.  Mt. Tam lounging in the sun. A gentle lap of water breaking along the shore, a few sailboats, just one windsurfer, and the path turns again to the Richmond Marina.  

A picture perfect, gentle day.  The pause that refreshes.  

Thanks to the beauty which surrounds us.

 

A Memorial

 This morning I drove a formerly well traveled route.  I attended a memorial at Fuller Funeral Home on Cutting Boulevard in Richmond. This time the memorial was for the grandmother of one of the micro-premie girls I worked with. Her mother dropped her off at her mother's home in San Pablo before she went to work.  Those were the good days before the draconian cuts began, so I would see the girl at her grandmom three times a week.  The girl was a micro premie - born just on the edge of being viable. Her first two months were in the NICU and she was referred to me with a page full of all the complications of extreme prematurity. In addition to everything else, while in the NICU she had ripped out the tubes from her nose and mouth and so had two scars down either side of her tiny face.  She was born a fighter - which is why she survived. African American girls are the strongest survivors of premature birth.  I think this is genetic - they come from generations of survivors.  it was quite obvious her grandmother was such a woman. When I met her she was retired from her 40 years of work as a social worker.  She was a big woman - very big, both in stature and her bearing.  As big as she was, her heart was just as big; open and welcoming. Which is why I attended her memorial today - I have remained in touch with this family every since I began to work with them.  I was there to pay my respects, to her family, and of course to her.

I called the funeral home beforehand to ask about Covid precautions. They told me everyone had to wear masks and we would be seated appropriately socially distanced. At this time the delta mutation is raging, and I know that not everyone there has been vaccinated. Nevertheless, I decided to attend, and I am very pleased I did.  I suppose I will know soon enough whether I have been infected. It is hard to keep on a mask while sobbing, which most people were doing - especially the men, it seemed.  

This woman had 4 children, 16 children, 18 great grandchildren and a host of relatives both on her side and her husband's side. I met many of them over the years - at funerals, weddings, graduations, and family get togethers. Today was a gathering of people on walkers, robust and healthy people, children - a bustle of braids and barrettes and eyelashes and red and black clothing.  The pastor, a family member, spoke of the love,  the need for family to help each other - he preached, he sang, he spoke, he berated the congregation, and they murmured and answered in assent, and raised their hands, and swayed to the music. 

Then came the viewing and the final farewells. Thank goodness I have seen this before, because the first time I attended a Baptist funeral I almost fainted. I was ushered up to the casket and I sort of looked sideways at this doll that didn't resemble the woman, and put my hands to my heart, and left. 

This was the second time this week of being together with congregations, mourning, and celebrating life.

Yom Kipur

 This must be the first Yom Kipur I have experienced that is NOT intolerably hot.  In fact it is downright chilly, and this morning at home for zoom services I turned up the heat.   As I have written before, wherever I am in the world, Yom Kipur is always a scorching day.  I almost wonder whether there is any special meaning behind today.

Yom Kipur for me is the day I made a strange uneven pact with God. I entered into the pact on October 6, 1973.  The war began in Israel at 2.00 p.m.  on Yom Kipur.That was for all of us alive at that time, the day that forever changed our lives.

 In South Africa I fasted on Yom Kipur,  somehow it was sort of exciting, it felt a bit like a challenge, who could fast the longest! Then one year, when I was about 17 years old.  I remember going to synagogue and seeing a vicious, nasty, teacher of mine go up to the bimah and bow before the Ark.   His utter hypocrisy made me think about the meaning of religion and rituals.  I seriously questioned the sincerity behind these rituals when the person who carries them out with such pomp and ceremony is an evil being.  That day I decided from then on I would try to be a good person without religious trappings. I discussed this with my father. I informed him that I would no longer fast. He understood what I was saying. However I continued attending synagogue on the high holidays because it gave me a sense of belonging in South Africa. And, despite my protests, I fasted anyway.

My first Yom Kipur on kibbutz was, to my astonishment, a non event.  No one fasted, everyone worked, as if it were like any other day.  No one even seemed to know that it was a holy day.  Outside of kibbutz Yom Kipur was the only completely quiet day in Israel.  No buses, no cars, nothing. My second Yom Kipur on Ein Dor began in the same non manner, except that this year it began on a Friday night. I attended the disco after dinner , excitedly planned a party for when my husband was to finishe his army service the next week. I had thought he might be back this weekend, but he didn't get leave, so for sure he would be back the following weekend.

Saturday a group of friends sat at the pool,  an entanglement of bodies, slick with water and suntan lotion (NOT SPF),. We made plans for the upcoming event,  spoke of ordinary things, and then came the war.  As I walked back to my room my mind a jumble, my thoughts  turned to God. I asked him (of course he was a him) that if he spared my husband I would begin to fast again   Well, he wasn't saved, but ever since, I have fasted. That is why I call it my uneven pact.  Uneven, but unbroken. And over the many years, I have come to deeply honour and cherish this day.  It is a special day set aside to go deep within, and to be present with something that is greater than us.  And now, the second year of the pandemic, it feels even more important to me. As a congregant leader said this morning, on Zoom, (attended by 390 people ) "we feel you, we see you, we know you are with us.

And so I fast, alone, together with millions of people, and I am comforted.

5782

 Another year has begun, another year has gone. The cycle continues.

Another year in the presence of covid, BUT different from last year. This time we are able to celebrate in the presence of friends and family.  For this I am grateful. 

My wonderful nephew came to visit for a few days.  He really is a special soul.  My hope for the world lies with the young people.  For them I am grateful. 

The ocean, the sunsets, the hibiscus tree, the humming birds, the days of clean air which appear from time to time, despite the fires.  For all of these I am grateful.

And for the new year, I hope for more of the same.  I know now that this is no utopia.  I also hope that many people are looking within in this time of profound change, and looking to find what is really of importance in our individual lives, and in the life of the collective.

My hope is that we can all continue to evolve and change, and to hope.