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.

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