Thistle

Wild and prickly thistle grows. You could rush by and just see weeds in a field or stop if only for a few moments and find a much deeper meaning.

Life is what take out of it.

Thistle grows wild and can be a farmer’s nightmare. Yet their bold color adds so much to a landscape. I felt it a metaphor for life. It’s hard and sometimes hurts. If you step back and look at it though it can be such a beautiful thing. In life you need to learn to appreciate even the prickly parts.

Thistle is the national symbol of Scotland

For Scotland Thistle represents bravery, strength and determination.

As legend goes, an invading Viking clan was attempting to sneak up at night upon a Scottish army's encampment. During this operation one barefoot Norseman had the misfortune to step upon a thistle, causing him to cry out in pain, thus alerting Scots.

I didn’t really know that it was such a monument for so many before doing the painting. In fact, my mom who grew up on a farm, thought it was crazy that I’d paint thistle. I just found the irony in them fascinating. So unique and beautiful, but about the worse thing in the world to step on or touch. There are lessons to learn in nature, if you just stop and look…and if not, you could end up like that poor Viking that hurt his foot.

He that has a good harvest must be able to endure a few thistles. - Spanish proverb

Into Fall

True happiness come from attention, noticing the littlest of things, even the weeds on the side of the road.

This is my second painting in a series with the idea of seasons. I had recently moved into oil paints and was working in a large format I seem to work well in. The inspiration was a reflection of my past. Spending my days wondering through the woods. I also had a two-year-old child at the time. Watching him explore this new world freshened my look on life. I'm trying to get back to a time when things were simpler and I was curious of everything. Looking out over a vast field. A place where my mind was free to wonder and really notice my surroundings. I want to take people with me to this place.

In the fall when everything loses its green, then colors become shade of amber, it’s exciting, you can feel the change in the air. Wanting a more abstract look, a scene that’s familiar yet something to catch your eye, to notice more. Sometimes weeds can be just as beautiful as rose bushes.

"Attention is the beginning of Devotion "

-Mary Oliver

".. The hand touches the phone upon waking, even before it can rub the eye or reach across the bed to wake the spouse. " Franklin Foer explains it well in his article for the Atlantic, how we need the reflections of Mary Oliver now more than ever. Technology ever pulling at our attention. Dissociating us from the real world.

https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2019/05/mary-olivers-poetry-captures-our-relationship-technology/589039/

Like my two year old discovering everything, we need to find our curiosity again. Happiness comes from all the little things in life, noticed and appreciated. Look how those weeds shine in the sun.

Ever Fleeting

Life is filled with little joys if you just look. Even if they're fleeting.

The inspiration here came from my drive to work. There are these thickets of weeds I’d see, interesting and full of character. Driven by day in and day out, their shapes became familiar, no matter the weather or sky. I dazed in and out of mind. I’d see the side of the road and think, isn’t that beautiful. Life is full of intriguing curiosities. If you allow nature the chance it will pull you out of your emotions and give you a sense of something greater. Sure, you’re not always allotted the time for empowering walks in the woods. Yet you can appreciate and notice little things, even if it’s just weeds on the side of the road.

Fall last such a short time

Observe the world, reflect

I found this poem so fitting for this painting. Sometimes I am jealous of poetry in how plainly it conveys what I want a painting to feel. Yet painting is my gift and I hope with it I convey messages with out words.

Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'

by Barbara Crooker

Today, the sky's the soft blue of a work shirt washed a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. On the interstate listening to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist say, "The universe is not only stranger than we think, it's stranger than we can think." I think I've driven into spring, as the woods revive with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound, and aren't we just? Just yesterday, I read Li Po: "There is no end of things in the heart," but it seems like things are always ending—vacation or childhood, relationships, stores going out of business, like the one that sold jeans that really fit— And where do we fit in? How can we get up in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do, put one foot after the other, open the window, make coffee, watch the steam curl up and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls in the open window, while the sky turns red violet, lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons. The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop for the thousandth time.

https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2009%252F03%252F21.html