His Good Purpose

It's for His good purpose that eagles are raised up.

Only days after I took this photograph a strong wind flew across North Idaho, an uncommonly strong wind. A thunder cloud nearly as big as Rhode Island pushed its way across the Panhandle and left dead trees and destruction from south of Coeur d'Alene to the Canadian border. Average wind speed was over 50 mph with gusts up to 70 and possibly more in places.

And it was sudden.

It came across the landscape like a freight train. Below is a picture taken from my front porch only a minute or so after the first powerful breath hit us.

Sadly, this eagle's nest was destroyed. The adults survived, but as near as we could tell, the chicks did not.

It's like that in life, I think, in human life. Who chooses who dies and who lives at any given time? Death always seems unreasonable, unfair. But is it? Who are we to say? God is the creator.

Do you believe in Satan, the God of this World, according to the bible? I do. God, the Creator Most High, gave him certain leeway and lattitude here for whatever reasons divine or otherwise. He is the ruler of death. But Jesus Christ, the lamb of God, overcame the power of Satan. If you've been touched by Him (the Christ) then you know what I mean. If not, then you probably don't care and have clicked on.

The two eagle chicks in the right of the nest above weren't the only birds killed that day. Look at the wind in the second picture! But many survived as well. It's for His good purpose that eagles are raised up. Are you an eagle in spirit? Do you have the drive and the fortitude to face life as an eagle faces life? with eyes that see far and wings adept?

I am. I hope to God I am and I wish to soar with what He's given me.

### Dwayne K. Parsons

The Flower of Insight

Do you think of grasses as bearing flowers? They do. All grasses flower if not cut and a wide variety of grasses exist in the plant realm. Many people see grass as the short, mowed green stuff in their yard. They never see it full grown on the stem flowering out into full blossom dropping pollen, and if they do see it, they don't really notice it.

This orchard grass stem was imaged one afternoon while I fished along the shoreline of the lower Clark Fork River on the banks of Derr Island, where my wife and I had gone to enjoy an afternoon barbeque with Jerry & Gale Sherman and others. Satisfied with meal and friends I dropped down to the river to try my luck. I caught more photographs than fish. This one stood out as one of my favorites of the day.

It reminds me of the way insight comes. Insight, like this grass-top flower fully laden with fertile pollen, blossoms out on the stem of perceptive thought. You look at something, watch it, analyze it and think about it for a time, forgetting about the flow of life around you and then as the thought ripens, it suddenly blooms into insight. "Aha!" you say. You've caught hold of something you didn't realize before.

I love moments like that, just like I love this flower shot of river grass in bloom. Think about it. Flowers and thoughts bloom in the same way. Both grow out of a soil of sorts nurtured in one way or another until they bud into pregnancy. Then suddenly, with predestined magic, they blossom to release their fertility on yet more flowers or thought.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Between Others and Near

I played piano Saturday evening, Memorial Day weekend, in The Seasons at Sandpoint for a private party among good people. I love this kind of setting. My job is to provide atmosphere by maintaining soft melodic background music in support of the numerous conversations that happen when people get together. Having the gentle melodies of a single-voiced piano floating through the room and out onto the deck helps people relax and open up.

Hosts, Chris and Kathy Chambers, who have the heart to understand why people socialize, know exceedingly well how to provide the amenities of a great gathering. Wonderful gourmet food was prepared professionally by the team of Joy Tharp and Michelle Pecukonis, dba Skeyes The Limit Catering. The Seasons' full-time Concierge, Tom Parks, served an incredible line-up of fine wines with knowledge to support the tastes and preferences of everyone present. The stage was set overlooking Pend d'Oreille Bay and the Cabinet Mountain Range in the distance where the sun rises and full moons lift off mountain peaks on summer nights to dance romantically across the water of this pure natural lake.

To play piano in this precious setting is to fill my soul with song. I found it very easy to report my deepest feelings musically. Consequently, this was one of the more enjoyable piano gigs I've had in awhile. I played for 4 hours using my Kawaii's single-track recording capability to take short breaks when needed. Following a good set, I'd press the play-back and take time off the bench to talk briefly with The Seasons' guests. The electric piano filled the air for me.

I gained both strength and energy as I allowed the music to flow through my fingers. The last hour was the best. By then I had reached the zone, that place of fluidity, where one's musical knowledge and experience combine into a flawless combination of rhythm and melodies that come off without any thought about it, no effort at all. The music just is and perfectly so.

Performing musicians know this place, particularly jazz players. In the zone, I feel I'm actually talking through the keyboard. A note is not just a note in the zone; it's part of a dazzling chain of individual sounds strung dreamily together to carry the air. In the zone, I'm singing through the key board, supporting the friendships and intellects of fifty people, in this case, who are out there getting to know each other. The zone is somewhere between others and near, just beyond self.

That's the way it should be. I'm there to provide atmosphere. I know I'm successful when people linger and laugh and enjoy each other as they did last night.

### Dwayne K. Parsons

Heaven's Gate

Continued from The Hardest Thing From Here, April 30th archive.

The great army drew near rapidly. We were hopeless before it. We had neither weapons nor way to oppose it. Singing praises seemed such a futile and useless thing, but what else did we have?

I felt the blood rush out of my skin. My voice surely quivered and the sound of others singing with me drowned out in the din. Nonetheless, I held my stance. If my words did anything, they became a prayer...and then the enemy was upon us.

I felt them go through me. They were warriors great and strong and fierce in appearance. At the very moment I felt sure to die they passed through and around me as if I wasn't there. I felt their ugly presence and I saw them wound and slay many of the others with whom I had marched, but they went by and through me as if I were not there.

I looked at Daniel. He too was invisible to them. He stood braced for battle, greeting the enemy straight on, his dagger drawn; but they ran right through him. He was as surprised and as shocked as I, to say the least. I looked about and saw that a few others, women included, were untouched by this fiercesome force.

"Keep singing," I called out in a loud voice. "We must keep singing!" Our voices grew again in strength and then we saw collectively a most unbelievable scene. Out of the sky in a burst of light came an army of chariots with fearless horses and warriors strong, charging forth into this ghastly mix with such speed and power that this whole army of the enemy panicked. Many of its warriors were killed right there, almost immediately. Others of them were dismembered or crippled by the swords and spears of this angelic host. They turned and ran back across the plain in hordes. And just as they had passed through us on the come, so they ran through us on the return. We who sang were left untouched. Not a single hair on our heads, nor a shred of our clothing was touched in the battle.

The enemy that had set so quickly upon us had been disippated and slain in a cloud of dust and light that receded to the east as fast as it had come.

I looked about at the fallen and lifeless forms. They were as beastly and horrible in death as they had been in the onslaught, but they were dead. They lay lifeless all about the fields. Sadly, among them were many people who had marched with us.

As the cloud of war moved off in the distance, Daniel asked, "Why is it that some of ours were slain? I saw some of these demons throw balls of light, electric light, and when they hit someone, the person fell."

How I knew the answer, I don't know. I simply said, "Fear. They threw fear and those who took it in accepted death."

"Weren't you afraid?"

"I was...and you?"

"Yes, but I sang anyway."

"And these women and those over there, I think they sang too. However it happened, we have just seen and been part of an angelic battle...and we have victims among us. Yet we have moved through it. Did you feel it, Daniel? Did you feel them pass through you?"

Daniel nodded and swallowed. His eyes were wide with excitement. "I did."

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Another Kind of Joy

My wife, Claudia, and I sat at a dinner table as guests with four others for a fine dinner. The discussion went through normal patterns of the social network until it weaved its way naturally into examples of people who have lots of money, and what happens to them because of it. Two examples stood out in contrast.

One was a very wealthy friend of one of the couples, a man unnamed in another state who had amassed such a great fortune that he no longer had a way to spend it all. He had become eccentric in the latter part of his life, lived on an estate with a view marvelous view but kept his curtains drawn all the time and had no partner, no one he trusted. He had grown fearful of people, sure that all wanted friendship or relationship with him for his money so he lived alone.

The other was a man who had also made considerable wealth in his lifetime. But unlike the first, he'd spent his life on building relationships including one with God. By the age of 75, he had become a genuine philanthropist, traveling much. He seemed happy everywhere he went and gave a lot of money to causes or people he deemed worthy or useful.

Both men had seemingly boundless wealth. One was lonely, distrusting and withdrawn; the other, outreaching, loving and happy. One had learned to horde; the other to give.

We concluded that joy was found in giving.

But I think another kind of joy is potential in the lack of money. Difficult financial straights can lead to the same contrast as those of our two wealthy men.

People have a choice when they are poor as much as they do when they are rich. They can either be happy or they can turn bitter. The latter develops a complaining heart while the former builds a loving heart. It's not the money that ruins a person, rich or poor; it's the choice they make in the habits of their heart.

The joy of dependency is the joy found in trusting God for everything.

With little or no resource spawned from self, one still has a choice. You can complain and grow bitter or you can praise God and find joy in your situation. Choosing the praise leads to the joy.

There is a great joy found in giving, yes. But another kind of joy is found in dependence on God because there you see His hand working. Whether you are rich or poor, makes no difference.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

The Hardest Thing From Here

(Continued from In This Earshot, April 20th Archive)

Before long the whole plain was alive with harmony. We were all headed in the same direction, toward the rising sun, and everyone seemed unified and full of joy. We continued in this manner for some length of time marching and singing together. But we were spread thin. The band of people with me was among the larger. Most were either alone or in small groups.

The horizon looked like trees in the distance. Everyone was excited. We hurried in our steps until we got close enough as a group. Then it was as if we all saw the same thing at the same time. That which appeared to be a forest was instead an army and they were a hundred-fold more than we.

We stopped in our tracks, our mouths came open agasped. Daniel said, "There are so many."

"And they oppose us, have no doubt," I said. It was obvious to everyone. "Keep singing," I shouted. Many in our ranks were breaking and running toward the rear. It was too late, the plain was much too large for retreat. "Please, keep, singing. We must sing praise, for the Lord's army is greater than this."

"I've only got this dagger."

"And I have no sword, Daniel. Trust the Lord. We have no choice." But I admit even now my knees were weak and my heart fluttered in fear. The great army before us was advancing and they were obviously the enemy. "Bless you, O Lord, Saviour of my soul. Rescue us now. Come rescue us now."

I did my best to sing. Daniel and several others joined in meekly. We could see others of ours on the plain doing the same, at least trying. Many were praying, some weeping. Only a few ran, but even some of those, realizing apparently that they had no hope, stopped and turned to face the enemy.

"The hardest thing from here," I said to Daniel "is to see heaven before it comes."

"If the Lord does not intervene, we will surely die," Daniel muttered.

"Keep your eyes on Heaven, Daniel. Sing. Sing. Sing with all the joy you can muster." I stood up. My breath grew strong and I sang with all my heart before the advance of the enemy.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

In This Earshot

(Continued from The Root of Joy, 4/2 Archive)

At first I was surprised by the fact that morning light broke on the horizon at the same time in which I experienced this glad awakening in my heart. But as we enjoyed it and marveled in the early hour beauty, I grew in awareness that this light of day in our dark world had much to do with the choice toward happiness.

Knowing how difficult it is to choose such when things are dark and the direction is not clear, I bid the others by reminding them that we were on this walk because God had decided we should be. "Make no mistake about it," I said, "you are with me because God put something in you, stirred you up when you were asleep. We're walking this path because the Lord of Hosts is coming--be glad in it."

What a sight I had before me. In the day light I could see that more had joined my company during the long night. I estimated at least two hundred of mixed ages, gender and size. For the most part, they were motley, ragged and broken in spirit. None had weapons except my younger friend and one other, a man in armor who carried a spear. The rest had sticks or carried nothing at all by which to defend themselves. But I saw faith in some of them, particularly in a couple of the women. One was older, near my age; the other, younger. Both were obviously strong. They had chosen happiness and encouraged those around them to give praise and thanksgiving. I also was greatly encouraged by them.

Why had all these people taken to me? I had had no intention to gather people about me. They stood in front of me nonetheless, dependent in their anticipation that I would somehow take them out of this dark wilderness. We were as a crowd on a great wide plain, sparsed by bush and a few trees. Rock outcroppings, some higher than others decorated the landscape seemingly without logic. We could see many other people about at distances near and far. Most were in bands following someone but a few walked alone or in small company. I could see as the dawn grew stronger that the faint lights of glowing swords I'd seen on the ground here and there were leaders of these bands.

"We're certainly not alone," I commented to my close friend.

"Praise God," he responded.

"Exactly," I realized at his words. "That's exactly right!" He had just handed me a revelation. I stopped walking. The crowd stopped with me.

I turned to them and spoke loudly so that all could hear, "Remember by The Hope Stone how we praised God and thanked Him? That's what we must do! Now raise your voices to Him who created you and praise Him."

I began singing a simple phrase. The two women I mentioned joined in easily as they were leaders themselves and, though softly at first, even the complainers began to sing. Soon the pack of us became a source of unified song. Our harmony carried across the plain. Other groups stopped walking as well. Hearing our song, they joined in the chorus. Some of those who walked alone fell to their knees. One man walking alone in the distance raised his arms up looking toward the breaking sky. Song spread across the land in a wave moving out in all directions.

"Daniel," I said, for his name was Daniel, "Do you see what I see?"

"Everyone is singing," he said with a half-controlled laugh of delight, "They're praising God--praise God! They're praising God!"

"Yes, everyone is praising Him! Keep singing." The song was the same everywhere: I need thee Lord. I need thee, yes I need thee, which then became collectively: We need thee, Lord, yes we need thee. We need thee. Over and over again people sang in harmony the same words and with great joy they sang it. One could not help but be happy in this earshot and as we sang, the day's light grew stronger still.

### Dwayne K. Parsons

The Root of Joy

(Continued from Once in the Long Days of Night--3/16 archive)
To say things went well over the following days would be false. They did not.

Getting down off The Hope Stone I was of course elated. My young friend did not see the vision nor hear the voice, but he said I was still glowing from the intense light he'd seen. He helped me down off the rock.

Seeing that my sword was gone, he asked about it. I told him it had been taken from me. "Oh," he replied simply but with a tone of dismay in his voice. "Don't worry," I assured him. "The joy is in my heart. We'll be fine."

I wanted to believe that but as the glow wore off, I found myself less and less able to show it. Many of the people following me had seen a great light and they talked about it for awhile. But as we trudged through the night they forgot about it. Some of them began to complain. Walking in the dark was not easy, they said, and they wanted to know where I was taking them.

This attitude festered in the group and soon began to wear on me. At one point I stubbed my toe on a rock I hadn't seen and I cursed it in pain as I danced about on one foot. Then I turned my anger on them. "Will you stop complaining?" It took my friend by surprise. His face said enough. I apologized, "I'm sorry." I turned to the hundred or so and said, "Can you not walk in the darkness without complaining?" Some answered only by asking where we were going. "That way," I said; but I had no clear idea. I turned away from them and continued walking, though with a slight limp.

Quite some time passed before I realized that the lack of joy in my being had little or nothing to do with the people following me. Before I realized that however, I went through a period of increasing frustration. Sudden anger seemed often only a breath away. I had found it too easy to blame one or another for my sorry state of being.

We were lost on the plain. Other than the star in the sky I had no bearing on where we were or where to take them. I couldn't answer their stupid question. Dawn seemed a long way off. We hadn't seen a shred of daylight for quite awhile. My friend pulled his dagger and swung it in the air several times and I knew why. I said nothing, but I was troubled. How could I swing a sword I did not have? We were being attacked and I knew it. I had the armor, but I had no weaponry.

Then I saw what was happening. I stopped walking and fell to my knees. I raised my hands toward the star. "Where is my joy?" I asked. I confessed that I was sorrowful, that I had lost the joy somewhere in my disbelief. "I saw you. I know you. I know it was you. Where is my joy? What have I done to lose it? I cannot find it in me."

The star remained where it was, a tiny yet brightly steady light in a blackened sky, unresponsive. All the people with me gathered about, some expressing their impatience. My friend, still of good intent, asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes." I weighed my answer. "Yes. Be happy." I looked at him and then turned my attention to the others as I rose to my feet. "We HAVE something we can do. We can be happy! It's not something we eat and it's not something we get. It's a choice. Be happy!" The complainers stepped back. "Are you intimidated by that?" I asked them pointedly. "You shouldn't be! Just a short time back you were singing praises in blessed harmony. You brought forth God's presence by it! Don't you remember? Look at you now? You complain about everything. You cry and whine like wild dogs. You bicker and moan and fight and argue. What is that? No wonder we are lost in the darkness. Be happy!"

I turned from them and started walking again. I knew I was as guilty as they. I had allowed circumstance to rule. "We've got to stop living this way" I muttered. I put my hand on my friend's shoulder and explained to him, "We're just walking through here. We are not bound by these circumstances." He agreed. Courageous he was and always so willing. I loved him for that.

I raised my arm to the sky as if I had a sword in my hand and cried out in a loud, happy voice, "I, for one, am happy. I...AM...HAPPY!"

And suddenly I was. Morning light broke across the sky.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Form and Tone

I believe behind every good painting is a foundation of form and basic tone that provide the background for the detail that will lay on the surface when the painting is finished. Like the outward rendition, the form must contain the average color tones inherent in the detail that follows.

If you think about it, as I do, form and tone exist behind every kind of detail in front of the human mind.

The reason we can categorize personality types for instance is because behind them are basic forms of characteristics and tone qualities that lay foundation to the surface manifestation.

I don't think you can argue against that. Likewise, behind good literature is form, and tone sets the quality of the work.

Behind the outward manifestation of a beautiful building is the form rendered by the architect, and his choice of design sets the tone that builders will later accomplish.

I could argue this and list many kinds of samples. but to keep this post short, I'll let you examine these digital renderings of a photograph I recently took. The sequence shows the initial photo, followed by the cropped version, then rendered as basic form and tone, and finally, detailed as a painter might lay it into brush work.

This is my homework, the way in which I take myself toward painting.

I'd love to have your feedback on this concept of form and tone as the foundation for anything complete and pleasant. Do you see what I mean by these examples?

Furthermore, can you see how study in this way brings one closer to applying paint to a canvas? For me, it means that when I get there, I will have some basic idea of where to put the paint and why.

What does it mean for you?

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Salute to Harry Orlyk

Pondering the country-side scenics of Harry Orlyk, whose works I discovered surfing websites of East Coast galleries like Gross McCleaf (Philadelphia) and the Carrie Haddad Gallery in Hudson, New York, I came away with a deeper, richer appreciation of the technique, Plein Air.

For more than 25 years, Harry Orlyk has been possessed with the focus to paint from his van, finishing entire country scenes in one sitting, despite sometimes nearly unbearable weather conditions.

In his own words he describes his devotion, "Sitting in the cold in a traditional way, I paint what is before me, sometimes as still as the Eskimo who earns his family's meal by waiting and watching and thinking. He kills an animal; I make an image. We are linked together by our years of long-studied views across a common land."

He does this year-round.You might think he'd have his van heater on during winter weather but he tells us that he does not as he is leary of the possibility of carbon monoxide poisoning. Still he sits, like the Eskimo, and paints the scene before him. Why does he not use a camera? Well, praise God that he doesn't! He's leaving us a legacy as the painters of European old did, his incredibly accurate renderings of upstate New York in the country at all times of the year--scenes that marvel us all but only the few have the eye to see.

I put you here, Harry Orlyk, because I wonder at your singular dedication to be nothing else than who you are...and that is a blessing to all of us who love the open air, the country and art. Check him out yourself. You'll find an artist with an exceptional sensitivity to the play of light on our natural world, all times of day in all seasons.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Paint Like a Child

I belong to an artist's group, a plein-air virtual group whose majority lives on the East Coast. I live in North Idaho, more or less isolated from the culture of museums and art galleries except those dedicated more or less to Western Art. I envy the fact that on the East Coast, one can drive up to Baltimore or Philadelphia and visit a true art museum.

One of my inspiring friends in this small group wrote recently, "[I] sometimes get heavy handed when I do skies, especially sunsets, and end up scraping off the paint to start again. I think I will do a few sunsets with my new technique to see if I can restrain myself so that my clouds are not actually too heavy to float." She presented, as an example, one of the better renditions of a spring sky I've seen in a small plein-air painting.

Meanwhile I have paints and a white empty canvas sitting on an easel next to my desk. It's ready, but I'm not.

Another thoughtful of our group replied that, "Something that might be helpful, if you worry about flatness, is contrast - variety. Although our work differs greatly, we both, and everyone, can benefit from this manipulation of opposites. It is an aspect I am trying to improve right now to give life to my paintings. From subtle to startling, side-by-side extremes, light/dark, warm/cold, bright, dull, are great depth enhancers."

I'm not sure, by the painted example, that the first member was having the difficulty expressed by the second. I realized that everyone comes at art from their own point of view. If only I could find my point of view. I want to paint, but as yet haven't. Like a writer with writer's block. How did I get past that, so long ago? I have no sense of fear attacking a blank piece of paper with words. Why should I fear the canvas?

I commented how much I like the March sky I saw in the example painting, how she had caught somehow the essence of a mid-March sunset. I could even tell it was a sunset, not a sunrise. It was full of life, see for yourself. This particular painter, because she freely shares her plodding insights and art critic's eye as she visits the museums of my envy, has taught me more about approach than anyone else thus far. I appreciate that; but still my canvas remains empty.

Painter's block, I guess. When will it happen? What will I paint? How do I start?

Three of us banter back and forth over the internet, discussing contrast, scraping, and muddled paint. I feel muddled. Then over the pixel sky comes a virtual message with a mighty hint embedded. Aware that I might be struggling, the first painter writes saying, "I know you're in touch with your inner child [, Dwayne]. You should see my 5 year old great-niece attack a canvas. I try to learn as much as I can when I'm around her. She's worth more than a 1,000 stuffy rule books or boring pedantic formulas."

Suddenly the winter sky of grey opens up to a ray of light. I write back enthusiastically to share the insight handed to me in this child's image, "[the image] of your 5-year old grand-niece is picture perfect for the way in which I should approach my canvas, which is like a map of the North Pole in the middle of a summer storm. I can see myself going about it like this little girl. You're right, a rose may be a rose, but a line is intimidating. Picasso must have been nuts.

"Will I have fun painting? Of course I will. I haven't gone there precisely because I couldn't imagine how to approach the line. I did paint on the canvas, but I primed it...with all white primer! Amazing, huh?

"But you have just shown me how I must go about it. The risk isn't what shall I paint; it is what will become of the paint I put on the canvas? It could be anything. Anything I want it to be! And that's what your grand-niece does. She isn't bound by rules--we must break every rule--free up the spirit like [this woman's] grand-niece!

"That's when we catch the sky which is also free. Who can bind the sky? Who can put rules to the sky and say to this cloud or that cloud, 'you must be like this because all clouds are like this.'?"

Not one cloud is like another except by the fact that they float on currents of air. Ah, applaudir! (we play at French in this group) I am happy...[she has] given me a picture of what I couldn't find in all my desire!

I must approach it like a child.

###Dwayne K. Parsons

Once In the Long Days of Night

(Continued from In Search of Others, Feb. 24th Archive)

Many days of fighting had gone by. Not by will, but by happenstance, I picked up a number of stragglers and people without swords, nonfighters who were at best victims of the fight. They trailed along behind me and I did not know where to take them.

The first man I had helped was a fighter; but he had a dagger rather than a sword which puzzled me at first. I thought what can you do with that? But he was trustworthy. I could rely on him. He had a heart for the many others who joined us. Put together as we were, we must have been a motley group to anyone else, bedraggled, frayed and half-afraid.

We walked a great distance across this dark plain. I had no visible landmark by which to tell direction. We may have gone in circles for all I knew. I didn't swing the sword constantly, but at times and now and then, my one brother would take out his dagger and swing it into the air back and forth as if the fight were close to his heart.

Wherever we went, we picked up more stragglers. Finally, in the dark of the long days of night, I saw an outcropping, a large singular block of stone sitting higher on the plain than all the ground around. I led the troop there and by then, we must have numbered close to one hundred men, women and children.

At the base of it, even in the dark, I could make out an inscription on the rock, carved by some ancient knife or tool. In a phrase about one foot long and perhaps four inches in height were the words The Hope Stone. I put my hand to it. I felt the rough cut of the words. The rock was smooth yet peppered by the wind and sand. At it's peak it was no more than chest high to me.

"I think you should get up on it," my younger friend encouraged.

I felt the same. At the lower end, about knee high, he assisted me. I stood up and walked to the high point, thinking that perhaps I'd be able to see something in the distance. I scanned the horizon in all directions, but nothing revealed itself. We were without direction. I looked out over the small crowd of dependent people and said to them in a loud voice the one thing I knew.

"Regardless of our circumstance, we must be thankful. We must express this thanksgiving from inside and let it be heard in the air," I said. They began one by one, my young friend being first until a crescendo had built up. As a chorus, they were praising God and thanking Him for His Goodness, His Grace and Mercy in their lives. They were giving thanks in a most robust way.

I looked up at the dark, heavy sky. I layed the sword at my feet and raised my hands toward the heavens. "O Lord," I said, "I am weary, but can you hear their voices? How sweet is the sound of the feeble and the troubled calling out your Holy Name in praises and thanksgiving! Do you hear it? How long, now, must we be in this fight? How long must we walk about aimlessly, Lord?" But no answer came. I bowed my head, "Nevertheless," I raised my face again, "I join them, Lord. I too give thanks. Holy, Holy, Holy you are and without You we would not have come this far. I praise You and I thank You. Holy is Your Name. " We sang like that for minutes on end, each of us phrasing his or her own song, yet the harmony was incredible, as if we'd been trained to sing in an orchestrated choir.

At that point, a light shown high in the sky but off a little in one direction. I happened to be looking right at it when it appeared. Like a star at first, it grew quickly as if the sun itself were breaking through the cloud. It was very bright and fast-growing, then I saw it reflecting off the clouds around it where it had opened up a hole.

"Keep singing," I cried out to the others, exhuberant over what I saw. "Keep praising Him!" The light grew and great beams of light showered down from the dark sky onto the plain until a hole larger than our sun appeared in the center of which stood a being whose form I could see, but whose details were hidden behind the brightness of His Face and Garments. "Oh God," I cried, sinking to my knees. "We are not worthy to see you. Is this You?"

"I have never left you," his voice was clear and some how kind. "I have given you this trial to test you..."

Oh God, I thought at the sound of His Voice, but I have failed.

"...and your heart shows clearly to me. You must lead these people now. Trust me, I will guide your steps. I will provide for you. Though your walk may be difficult, the journey is not long. Lead these people I have given you and bring them home to me. You must trust me. Shed the rest of the doubt from your heart. I am the Lord Your God. I am Sovereign. Go in the direction I give you and stay the course. The joy I gave you in the sword is now in you. Let it shine. Trust me and it will shine."

After He spoke, the bright light all about Him began to recede. As I watched The One Who'd Spoken disappeared into the night sky in the same way in which He'd come. Only the star remained, and it looked just like a star. I reached to pick up my sword but it was gone.

###

The Play of Light

A friend of a shy painter entered her room and took a small amber-colored jar out of his pocket. He opened it in front of the painter who sat hesitantly by the window looking at the record of flowers she'd painted in Amaryllis, a nice piece.

Without words he poured some of the contents of the jar--less than a megabyte--onto the table near where she sat.

"Here, Carole," he said, "I know how you're feeling, abstract thoughts and all. It's rough, I know. Take two of these pixels every hour. Soon you'll feel more courageous. Each pixel is a measure of 100 kilobytes of web. When you've gone through all of them--I think you'll need most of these--then I expect you'll be able to show us the large abstract of which you wrote--you know, the one you referred to? Maybe even all of that abstract side of you. I've got to go now. Virtual travel doesn't take long, but it's dragging, you know, like a cursor? Glad you're enjoying your sabbatical. Be sure to take these. I know they will help."

He nodded authoritatively, to assure her like a true colleague of the arts then walked toward the screen doorway. But just as he was about to exit, he turned and added, "Oh and a, Carole?"

She looked up through apprehensive eyes somewhat surprised and replied, "Oui?"

"It's just that, well, I hope you get by this condition soon...you know....this hesitation thing? Because all of us, the group I mean, need you. I know I do. I think we need you to be every aspect of the artist you are already showing yourself to be, without any hesitation. So please...take two pixels every hour. They're not bitter. Drink them down with a cup of Chai, or better yet a Yerba Mate. I prefer the Yerba Mate. It's very high in antioxidants, you know, especially the wild variety that comes from a company called Aviva. No, seriously, Aviva. Just write to me and I'll tell you more about it. Both will lift you up, but the Yerba Mate will sustain you through long hours--guaranteed! Have a good day, bonne journee."

With a slight nod of his head, he left through the screen from whence he'd come.

###

The Placement of Color

I've wanted to paint for years, but due in part to the cost of paints, I have not yet done so. Because I have a photographic background however, I can study my way there digitally. This digital makeover is one of my studies for the coming enterprise of painting.

Photography is a study in itself. I've learned many things from it. I've learned to see. I've learned to anticipate the critical moment of an event. It's not just about seeing, but about recognizing the placement of color, the timing of a moment, and the layout of a pictorial thought for the best report on it.

I came off the street as a young photographer. At the age of 30, I had left myself no other hope but to be a photographer. I'd lost everything else, every other dream. Photography was both an escape and a lover, a place of comfort. For a period of years, nothing else mattered, not even food. I slept with it and ate it. I digested every aspect of it and those were the days (in the '80's) when digital was hardly a dream. Photography was EXPENSIVE! To live it every day was to sacrifice things others had. One long summer, I slept outside in the backyard of a friend's house from May until November, using his couch only when it rained. I did that in order to keep the rent paid on my downtown studio, a crack-walled delapidated old place as cheap as I could find. All my money went into film, chemicals, rent, gear, and whatever else it took to maintain the photographic bent.

But the need to eat coupled with that singular desire to succeed (because I left myself no other channel) brought about a growth in my being. I persevered through impossible circumstances until the photographer emerged. My pictures were nothing better than ordinary for a long time, but I studied the photographs of others in magazines and wherever I found them asking myself constantly why was that one bought? Why is that good? How did that photographer know that was going to happen? How did that photographer light the subject?

Then something marvelous happened.

It came on all of a sudden. Il est allumé soudain. J'ai commencé à prévoir le moment de la meilleure photographie. I learned to anticipate the moment. I was seeing so well that I could tell when the best moment for the best photo was going to occur. Suddenly I began to make a living at photography. I was competing with the best of them and without effort. My passion grew stronger. I could write a book on this. Je dois probablement. Along with anticipating the right moment, even in still life scenes such as this where there is no movement, came an understanding of the placement of color.

This is true in writing as well. In writing I can't just pepper a page with splashes of colorful adjectives. Such writing would not make sense! In writing, I learned to place color strategically so that my descriptions would come to life, like a yellow buttercup popping up in the fresh green grass of spring. Isn't this true for the painter as well? It certainly was for the observing photographer in me--the one who preceded the writer in emerging talent.

Again it's all about seeing and how we get there. It starts with the very first stroke of the brush, with the first thoughtful sentence of creative text and with the first tentative click of a camera.

Bonne journee

~Dwayne

On Renoir et al

I belong to an artists' group of painters who regularly discuss topics of interest in plein air painting and other forms. That's correctly spelled. Plein-air refers to open air painting in which the painter attempts to catch the essence of a landscape in one sitting. Our group's moderator, Carole Huber, posed a question around an upcoming showing of landscapes by Pierre-Auguste Renoir at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Her question had to do with a quote from Renoir, who wrote, "There isn't a single person or landscape or subject which doesn't possess some interest.... When a painter discovers this hidden treasure, other people are immediately struck by its beauty." Carole was discussing the difference between the sublime and the ordinary in a painter's expression on canvas. She asked if any of us had thoughts on this matter.

Oh, good subject! I think what Renoir meant was that a perceptive painter could find the sublime in the ordinary. Photographers have this same problem. A hundred people can take pictures of the same scene or a portrait of one person. Within the hundred photographs you will find that 80% or so are just photographs, nothing special. Of the remaining which appear somehow interesting, perhaps only two or three will stand out. In those, the photographers have seen and captured something unique about the scene or person being photographed. We might conclude these are professional photographers, but then upon investigation we're likely to find in our sample that only one of them makes a living directly from recording pictures; the other one or two are "talented" amateurs showing an unusually high degree of passion. They've gotten good because they've taken thousands of pictures and like the professional, they continue to do so.

In my experience, it is like that for any of the arts. The more you do your thing, the more you understand. The more you paint, the more you perceive. There comes a time when you cross an invisible threshold. Something inside you opens to something new. You suddenly see differently, more perceptively than when you first set out. Masters, like Renoir, have kept their passion and nurtured it, studying introspectively to reason and to understand what it is they see and what it is that defines the beauty in an ordinary scene or person.

In my home town, I can step out the door, walk a block and look down a long street toward Lake Pend d' Oreille (the original French spelling). It's the home of Bookcrossings.com, Coldwater Creek and Litehouse Dressings. I can look down more than a mile and a half to the edge of the lake. Proficiency in any form of art--I'll use painting as the example--requires that I paint my way all the way to the lake, one canvas at a time, end on end. Along the arduous path, so long as I don't quit, I will grow in technique, understanding and perception. I will experience plateaus, yes; valleys, certainly; bumps and disappointments, of course. But I will experience moments of elation and inspiration as well. First, I must, as Picasso said, paint a single line across the white canvas. I must start. If I never risk, I will never achieve. If I don't stumble I will stay on the level of stick drawings and believe forever that's all God gave me for talent. But if I trudge on, if I find some level of interest and passion, the One who created me will give me more. I will grow and if someday I have been sufficiently diligent, I will reach a level some might consider mastery.

~Dwayne K. Parsons

In Search of Others

(Continued from Like No Other Courage)

Who can say how long the fight lasted? I stood my place on the Dark Plain swinging the sword as best I could. Arrows flew out of nowhere, some flaming. They couldn't penetrate my armor, but broke or glanced off, deflected. Yet I had no one to slay. I saw no foe. I swung anyway, lancing the air with joy as best I could.

I saw another warrior who'd fallen not far from me. His light was dim and he lay on the ground as if mortally wounded. The distance was not great. I ran to him. He looked up at me as I approached.

"Brother," he said weakly, "how can we win?"

"Rise up," I commanded. "Rise up and shine. You must rise up."

"I don't see how--"

"It doesn't matter. Listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the song?"

"What song? I don't hear it."

"The joyous song...the song of praise, can you hear it? Rise up and shine. You must believe! Don't lie down. Don't quit. Our call is to fight. You must have faith. Wield your sword. Rise up, man."

I put my shield-bearing hand under his shoulder to help him up, but just as he gained his feet, he took a blow in his gut. He crumpled in front of me.

I sliced the air with my sword, yelling, "No! Get away!" I heard a scream. "Be gone from me! I am God's child! The victory belongs to Him!"

Whatever it was, it left; but the man at my heels lay lifeless. His light had gone out completely. His sword faded in the dust and the armor he'd worn fell away from his body. He was dead.

I looked out across the plain. In the distance I saw many warriors fighting the unseen foe. Some were falling; but some stood valiently. We were spread so thin, I thought, so far from each other. "Why must we fight alone? O God!" I cried out. "Why must we fight alone? We are so far apart! How can we sustain the fight in this way?"

Then I was hit by a hard blow from behind. It took me to the ground in a daze. I saw light in my mind's eye. I tried to shake it off. I struggled to gain my feet, but I was too dizzy and fell prostrate, my head turned to the side. Through half-open eyes, I saw feet standing by my face, feet with clawed toes. My eyesight faded into listless black.

I awoke lying on soft green grass. It felt cool to my face. I found my hands and pushed myself up. I was sitting in a garden, a beautiful garden like none I had ever seen. My sword lay beside me and I was still wearing the armor. I picked the blade up and rose to my feet. With the shield on my arm, I put my free hand to the back of my helmet and felt a dent in the metal plate.

I looked about the garden: unspeakably beautiful, serene and peaceful beyond description. I saw flowers of a hundred kind amidst rich, lush foliage intricately arranged. Trees of all sorts grew everywhere but not too thick. I drew a deep, rich breath of clean, refreshing air. I was not dead but incredibly alive. I remembered the fight, however.

I looked to the ground for the fallen warrior but could not see him. It didn't matter. I found nothing about which to be alarmed. Beams of sunlight sprayed through the canopy of leaves and bows of evergreen. I heard a song, too, in the air. It was the same song I'd heard before, but with many more voices singing words I did not understand. But they were surely the most joyous, precious expressions of worship I'd ever heard. There must have been a thousand voices singing praises in harmonious melodies of the sweetest kind. Yet I saw no one, just the beautiful garden.

Suddenly I felt dizzy again. I could not keep my eyes focused. I laid down on the grass unable to stay awake and fell asleep. When I awoke I lay again on the Dark Plain next to the man who had died. My sword was still in my hand and my head hurt, but I was awake. Yet I saw the vivid memory of the garden.

I sat up instantly, gathering my feet beneath me in a crouch. I brought my sword to bear and held the shield just below my eyes as I looked out across the flat ground of war. I turned in a full circle, but nothing came at me.

"I understand, Lord." I said to the air. "I understand this temporal place." I stood up with renewed strength. Courage came flooding back into me like hot blood. "I understand, Lord. Let joy shine in me. I know where I'm going and oh, what joy awaits me there! Don't ever let me forget what I saw."

I started walking, then soon broke into an easy run moving swiftly across the Plain of Darkness in search of others I might help.
###

Spring's Around the Corner

Dover Slough early spring 4x5

Something Amiss

(Continued from I Am Fed)

Yet there was something amiss in the air. An unsettled disappointment settled over me like a cloud. I swung my sword at the sky and, drawing cuts in the air about me, changed directions suddenly with the hope of dissuading any dark spirits hovering about. After a time, I stopped and let the sword rest point down. I leaned on it putting my weight on the handle and stood there. I was unhappy. All the song and dancing and praise and joy expressed had somehow gone away from me.

“What is this, God? Why am I losing what was given to me?” I looked at the sword and sure enough the iridescent colors of the jewels had diminished. They looked like some cheap imitation.

“I don’t understand," I bemoned. "Just awhile back you fed me. You gave me a song and now it's gone. You let me walk in the light of Your Glory and you even sent angels to encourage me. But now in the heat of this day, I stand fed and yet not at peace. I have someone close to me for whom I care greatly. I want the best for this one, but she seems lost. She walks about thinking that the center of everything is her mind and that knowledge is everything. I fear, she’s caught up in the war of vanity. Lord, what can I do from where I stand? My sword is ineffective in reaching her world. The battle for her life is not here, but over there.” I pointed to the west with my plea.

I was very sad and quite earnest in my appeal to God. “Why don’t you help me in this? It’s as if they attack her to get at me. Is my praise not enough? Is my lack of joy in this very moment considered...sin?” It was a shocking sudden thought.

Could I be in sin because of my love for someone so close to me? Was I indeed losing faith because I held my thoughts on someone still in the world? I staggered away from the moment of realization. I nearly threw the sword away thinking it must be useless, and that if it was useful, I wasn’t worthy to carry it.

I realized my folly, “O God, forgive me. Can we not pray for those we love with the same faith and joy you’ve given me here? To think I've fallen away out of love for someone, how wrong of me. I want her to wake up. I want her to awaken to the truth, to find her way to the edge where she can see what you have waiting. I don't want her to be lost."

I walked westward dragging the sword in the dust. My head hung low on my shoulders as I watched the ground with aimless walk. Eventually I came to an outcropping some distance from the abyss. At the top of it, I was high enough to see back into the world from which I'd come.

I could see the turmoil and the chaos. I could see the fighting and the wars. I could see the hungry and the starving. I could see injustice and filth. I saw vice and sickness and all the bad things I had ever known. I took a breath of despair and let it out with the huff of disappointment. “Look at them, Lord. Look at the world from which I’ve come. It is full of lost people who have no idea who You are. What does my joy matter if they have no knowledge of You? When are you returning? Can’t you come now, Lord? Can’t you at least send someone to help her? Can’t you send your warring angels to fight on her behalf. She is caught in the grapple of a powerful spirit. I can’t help her from here! I’m asking You O God of Creation, to come down out of heaven with Your Command and rescue this girl.” I fell down on my knees. Tears welled up in my eyes.

The sword lay parallel to the ground, loose in my hand.

###

Like No Other Courage

(Continued from Something Amiss)

I looked out across the span of the world for some time feeling both remorse and pain over the chaotic display of humanity. Was I some part of this mess that man had gotten himself into? How could I help? What could I do? These were the questions that moved through my brain. Then suddenly I felt a heavy weight come down on the blade of my sword, so that it was almost thrust from my hand.

I turned to see what it was and behind me stood a terrifying being with cold eyes, spit oozing from its mouth. I shrieked and let go of the sword. I stumbled back, lost my footing and fell over the edge of the outcrop. I rolled a short distance then plummeted heavily to a shelf some several feet below. Still frightened by what I had seen, I looked up but it had not followed. I felt almost ill, nauseated by the memory of it. It was Pestilence I had seen and Pestilence that stepped on my joy.

I sat up and put my back against the rock wall rubbing my bruised leg. I looked again out over the valley of a world caught in turmoil. I saw a great darkness rising over the valley, coming from the direction I knew was west. The darkness was overwhelming, filling the sky and moving like a gigantic cloud toward me and over me. It was not rapid, but gradual and constant.

I stood on the shelf and turned into the wall, grappling for a way up. I was desperate to find my sword, desperate to get back to the rim. But the rock was crumbling at my grip and I could not climb it. Suddenly a quake shook the whole earth. I was thrown to my breast and struggled just to hold onto the shelf. Fortunate I was not to fall. I looked out across the world to see the effects of the quake and saw that a yellow-amber glow emanated from a crack through the earth below. The glow of molten lava lit the underside of the darkness like the roof of a cavern by torch.

I cried out to God. I wanted my joy back. I repented. I was sorry. Please, I begged. “Let me return!” I struggled to my feet, grappling for hand-holds. My right hand fell upon a sinuous cord that, when I pulled it toward me, glowed in soft white light. It felt warm to my touch, like the sword. I pulled it down and saw that it was a belt, for it had a buckle of jewels similar to that of my weapon now lost. I wrapped this belt around my waist to gird up the cloth of my robe so that I could climb more easily and immediately upon cinching it—I grew calm.

I knew my place. I knew I was a child of the living God. I knew I had nothing to fear. Though all the world around me had fallen in chaos and storm, I had nothing to fear for about my waist was the belt of truth: God had won this war since before time began. I knew it was so, and I knew that by Christ I had an eternal inheritance, that I was one of God’s children and no longer man’s.

I found a solid hold on the rock above me. I grasped with both hands and pulled my feet up to a secure place. I crawled in this manner up the wall without falling and pulled myself onto the upper bench. The beast Pestilence was still there. I rolled to my feet and stood before him, secure in my belt of Truth. “I command you, in the Name of Jesus, be gone. You have no hold on me. And it left at once, as a rat scurries away from the broom. I picked up the sword which still lay in the dust. In my hand, the jewels took light and the sword glowed again as before. I swung it in the air and ran away from the fallen rim of that outcropping toward the cliffs of the abyss.

But they were not there.

The sky had grown black above all the way to the horizons north and south. Perhaps I was lost. Perhaps I had gotten turned around. But the abyss and the sweet light of dawn were nowhere to be seen. Far off in the eastern sky was the faint light of a morning clouded by darkness. I ran across a plain hoping somehow to get ahead of the dark cloud, but it had already surpassed and now encompassed the whole of the earth I had known. I ran some great distance across the flat ground until I realized the darkness had settled over all existence and there was no further reason to run. As I looked out across the plain, I saw the glow of another blade. I could even see the faint reflection of the person who held it up swinging. Then I saw yet another more distant, and another. Where the chasm had gone, I did not know nor did I try to reason. I knew we were to stand and fight: with Joy and Praise and Song and Dance, with Glad Hearts we were to fight all darkness and evil that would come our way.

About my waist was Truth itself. And in my hand the sword of the Spirit of God bejeweled by the Joys of the Saints and Martyrs of Old. I would proclaim my stance and fight with the Heavenly Host on my side. I was filled with insight, filled with faith. I knew the darkness was all that which had ever been contrary to God. And I knew also that in my hand, and in the hands of others like me, was a fragment of His Light: the Second Coming of His Almighty Joy.

Then arrows flaming shot by and stuck in the dirt behind me. I raised the sword in one hand and shielded myself with my left arm. Immediately a shield of brilliant light formed on my arm and the next array of arrows bounced off it or broke as they hit. I stood firm. Courage, like no courage I had ever known, filled my breast and a plate of armor came over me, over my chest and shoulders with a pleat for my loins.

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