ˈwintər

On this shortest day and longest night of the year,
In this season of gathering and recognizing rebirth,
Of rituals and celebration,
Into the gradual lengthening of nights and shortening of days,
Like the snowflake unhindered, without ill will or enmity upon us,
May all beings be happy and equanimous.

e. e. cummings on thanks giving

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

9/11

Walking down E 4th Street, through second-hand smoke outside the Hell's Angels quarters, I remembered the lingering and unbearable odor of burnt flesh and architecture in the aftermath of 9/11. As I came up on Philip Glass' home, I wondered if he was home composing a tribute or score in memory of the devastation and unrelenting flux of life we endured that day. I imagined Chuck Close's painting of Glass, with a straightforward expression illustrated in thousands of individual forms coming together and conveying a bigger whole. I pictured him with his eyes half-mast and diamond mind deep in practice, perhaps playing the Metta Sutta for piano;
"This is what should be done
By those who are skilled in goodness,
And who know the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied.
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: in gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong,
omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short
or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born—
May all beings be at ease!…"
—from the Buddha's words on Lovingkindness (Metta Sutta)

ratirontaks

I did this drawing of Jennifer and Magnus on a walk down Old School House Road in the Adirondacks.
In the backyard of the old school house, I listened to the rushing creek across the road, and a squeaking tree wavering in the wind.
Inside the old school house, I read 'The Adirondacks' (1985 Rizzoli)—a documented account of the photographer Nathan Farb's journey through the state park.
In my mind I pictured what the Adirondacks were like hundreds of years ago.
I learned that the name "Adirondacks" is an Anglicized version of the Mohawk ratirontaks, meaning "they eat trees", a derogatory name which the Mohawks historically applied to neighboring Algonquian-speaking tribes; when food was scarce, the Algonquians would eat the buds and bark of trees.

alchemy & inquiry on wave hill

On Mother's Day, Jennifer, Magnus and I saw a painting we liked a lot called "Aspidium, Aspenium, Pteris," (2011), at the Wave Hill Glyndor Gallery by the artist Philip Taaffe. The painting is part of a three-man show called 'Alchemy & Inquiry' Philip Taaffe, Fred Tomaselli, Terry Winters, (through June 19th). We liked the painting so much that we inquired about it at the desk and left our contact information for the curator. We never do that but we were really attracted to it, and thought it would go nicely over the sofa in our living room. Jennifer has an affinity for nature and plants, which is often my muse. The painting depicts an array of ferns in various sizes and colors ranging from shades of green to rust, yellow ochre, blue and burnt umber. The ferns sway elegantly layered atop one another, cohabiting in a simple familial nature. Incidentally, I looked up the meaning of the title and found aspidium to be a male fern, aspenium, a mother fern, and pteris to mean "with children."
Jennifer took me to Wave Hill on my birthday a few summers ago where we walked through scenic gardens, grounds and woodland, and where I did this drawing of a Dawn Redwood tree (a Metasequoia glyptostroboides).

i heart japan

In 1970, the year I was born, the Japanese artist On Kawara began sending out a series of telegrams to friends around the world stating the message, "I am still alive." The telegrams were a play on a medium that was most often associated with bad news. A sort of playful text message before it's time, it conveyed some of the casualness found in social networking today.
I meant to message friends in Japan since the earthquake and tsunami devastated the northern part of their country, but I have been so consumed with work and a newborn son that I haven't had the chance. I might have Tweeted something like: "Dear Friends in Japan; Are You OK? Thinking of you, TL.
I Am Still Alive: Politics and Everyday Life in Contemporary Drawing, is on exhibit at MoMA through September 19, 2011.
To donate to Japan Society's Earthquake Relief Fund, go to: www.japansociety.org/earthquake

touching the earth

Amid the crying, lack of sleep and all else that comes with a colicky baby, becoming a father has been a grounding experience. I can't explain my appreciation for precious moments — watching the mother and child relationship, the sky changing from daylight to dusk to dark, and realizing the interconnectedness of all things more often then the illusions of individual gain.
This morning I read a meditation by Thich Naht Hanh called Visualizing The World-Honored Buddha from his book TOUCHING THE EARTH. With little knowledge of the historical references, I appreciated the way it speaks from an ultimate perspective, journey and practice.
"Lord Buddha, I practice to be in touch with you as I touch the earth. I visualize you as a young man in Kapilavastu. I see you as an ascetic meditating in the wild mountains. I see you as a monk practicing samadhi solidly at the foot of the bodhi tree. I visualize you as the noble teacher instructing disciples on the Vulture Peak and in the Jeta Grove. I see you as a wandering monk whose mindful steps left their mark in the small kingdoms that lay in the valley of the Ganges River. Lord Buddha, you were healthy and strong in body and mind, living a long life without the help of modern medicines. I see you, my teacher, at eighty years old lying in the lion pose between the two sala trees before passing into nirvana. I touch the earth before King Suddhodana and Queen Maya, the two people who gave birth to Shakyamuni, offering this wonderful teacher to the world."

the natural birth partner

My partner is 40 weeks pregnant. The baby inside of her is as big as a pumpkin. She is due any day now. I feel like I forgot everything I learned in birthing class and I'm still not through reading, The Birth Partner, A Complete Guide to Childbirth for Dads, Doulas and All Other Labor Companions.
Anxiety is what to expect when you're expecting. The trick, I think, is not to think too much over such an act of nature, because birthing is an animal instinct. I learned this from Dr. Michel Odent in the documentary film, "The Business of Being Born," where he refers to birth as, "an animal affair." It was the most meaningful piece of information I learned on my path as a birth partner. "The birthing process is a harmony of love, and flow of love hormones between mother and baby not to be disturbed or intervened with unless absolutely necessary..." I can respect that.
I used the drawing for Jennifer's baby shower invitation.

meditation on a sketch from my roof

Labor Day Morning
A thinly painted gray skyline over a light blue wash of sky. Distant car horns. Landmark skyscrapers. Burnt umber filled tenement buildings in single brushstrokes. Church bells. Silhouetted water towers. New Yorkers still asleep or out of town. Yellow ochre indicating trees + olive green for leaves. Canary yellow haze. Sun in viewers eyes. Sirens. A pigeon lands beside me. Air conditioners' wight noise. Garlic wafting from local restaurants. A plane overhead. Sky sound. Allow to dry. Noon.

a single man anew

I watched A SINGLE MAN in bed with my pregnant partner, in our studio apartment the other night. She's 18 weeks in the making, and feeling her feelings. Sometimes when I lay next to her, or spend the day with her, my senses are heightened too. As if I have a closer relationship to nature vis-a-vis her energy. Late in the film, when the protagonist, (Colin Firth's character), quotes Aldous Huxley on experience, ("experience is not what happens to a man, it's what he does with what happens to him)," I get the feeling I never understood the meaning of experience. Like I'm starting over, and learning things for the first time.
Feeling and seeing everything differently—relationships, beauty, existence, etc.
I was moved by Tom Ford's movie. Albeit superficial, glamorous and homo-erotic, but most of all, a powerful love story. I was intrigued by how it conveyed a love relation from a romantic man's perspective, one who is battling with his notion of what life should be vs. what is actually presenting itself. Among other messages, a theme of acceptance and appreciation for the little moments in life. Like gaining awareness while laying next to your lover watching a movie.
Recently a friend who's wife is 7 months into a pregnancy, said they were mourning their relationship together, because it will never be the same once the baby arrives.
Another friend, an older man and a father of three, sent me "a thought for today," in an email. It was a quote from Jon Kabat-Zinn, the founder of the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine.
"When we stop trying to force pleasant feelings,
They are freer to emerge on their own.
When we stop trying to resist unpleasant feelings,
We may find that they can drift away by themselves.
When we stop trying to make something happen,
A whole world of fresh and unanticipated
Experiences may become accessible to us."