Artist in Residence

We have a friend with whom we share our hearts.  He is our brother, teacher, fellow-devotee.  None of these words adequately characterize who he is to us.  He is a musician and composer.  He is also an artist.  His name is Grady.  Each time he stays with us, he leaves us with one or more oil paintings.  His favorite canvas is any wall that looks to be in need of a mural.  If we ever sell this house, it’s going to be painful to leave behind the art that has transformed our home into a beach house, an ashram, a temple, and a hippie pad.  And he’s not finished yet.  He’ll be back to change things up again, and it won’t be just the walls baby.

On his first visit in 2008, we jokingly suggested that he should paint an Aum symbol on the wall of our meditation room.  He asked us if we had any interior enamel, which of course we did - enough colors that he could mix them to get the hues he wanted.

He started out simple.  All the time I was wondering where he was going with this.  I’d seen many paintings in progress at his studio, but had never watched him work before.

The next time Grady visited in 2009, we had a living room wall with nothing on it but an antique Japanese  fan.  He kept saying the wall needed something more.  We advised him that we still had plenty of paint, and he set to work.

Grady paints really fast.

I had an outside job in those days, so I looked forward to coming home every day to see what our friend had created.  After he’d done this much, I thought he’d finished.  The next day, I walked through the door to find that he’d added a few finishing touches, like freakin’ everything you could want in a tropical scene.

Grady then got into a portrait mood and offered to paint one based on a photo of Wingman and myself.  As I was going through photos, I came across my favorite one of Baba Neem Karoli.  I declared that I’d much rather gaze at Baba than at my goofy mug, and Grady agreed.

This one was a little more complex because Grady needed the photo reproduced at the exact same size as his canvas.  He had to give me some Photoshop instruction in order to produce what he wanted.

Again, I thought he was done with it.  As far as I was concerned, it was perfect.  However, Grady wanted to place Baba on a beach in Hawaii.

Ok, I can go for that.  It’s so beautiful.  My most treasured possession.  Grady’s given me yet another attachment to challenge the letting-go exercise I’ll eventually experience.

The painting on the left is a gift he brought us in his backpack on his first visit.  It’s painted in the French En-plein-air style, an impressionist method that is usually done outdoors on an orange canvas or board.  No drawing is used.  The artist paints quickly, throwing it together with broad brush strokes, leaving little flickers of the orange background to add light to it.  It looks pretty much like a location in which I’d be willing to reside.

This last visit - oh man.  Grady began an almost obsessive desire to paint our North wall.  There wasn’t much on the wall I didn’t mind removing, so we gave him permission to proceed.  This became a mural, changing every day.  Before long, there were paint cans all over the floor.

The detail was so cool, right down to sandy footprints on the deck.  I strongly advise clicking on these to enlarge - especially this one.

As Grady worked, I could imagine him stepping down onto the beach and disappearing around a corner.

But thankfully, he stayed where he was and settled in.  For awhile.

We needed sea type creatures next, so I dug out a photo of a pelican in Santa Cruz.  The two lotuses represent Wingman and myself.  I can’t wait to see what he does next.  I’ve already suggested a Loggerhead Sea turtle lumbering toward the water.  See the lighthouse way in the background?

Thing is, I’ll have to be patient.  Grady’s in the Caribbean, and won’t be in a big hurry to leave Paradise.  This one isn’t signed yet, which means it’s not finished.  It still needs that turtle.  Therefore, he must return.  Inasmuch as the script is in divine hands, there’s no predicting when that will be.

Ram

 
 

Grace

Last summer, less than a month before I received my liver transplant, an event took place that overshadowed my illusion that it’s all about me.

Dad called us around 7:30 pm on August 15, and said, “I don’t think Edie’s breathing.”  Wingman’s mom, Edie, had been slipping into dementia over the previous four or five years.  By the time she passed, she was unable to do anything for herself and no longer recognized family members.  She was in a nightmare world that was frightening and painful.  Though unexpected, we knew her passing was a blessed release.

When Wingman and I got married (eloped), Edie welcomed me with open arms.  She was strong, she was devoted, and she was selfless.  She and I were fully comfortable with each other from the time we met.  Knowing looks, winks, we had it all going.

Edie had amazing eyes - like blue ice.

I spent many hours with the grieving family.  None of them in so much grief as Dad. Through grace, my stamina went into high gear, and I was able to pitch in effectively.  I researched funeral homes and helped with arrangements.

Prior to the funeral, I spent several days putting together a slide show with Polish Catholic hymns and photos of Edie.  Despite the encephalopathy (foggy brain), I intuited my way through a process I’d never done before and produced a sweet little tribute.  Bless you Steve Jobs, wherever you are.  I put the laptop on a table, hooked up speakers, and let the slideshow run at a low volume throughout the viewing.  The family was touched by it, and I knew the guidance I followed was the right thing when I saw those healing tears.

“I” did not do these things.  This temple in which my soul was dwelling ought to have been parked in the shop, awaiting a new part.  It was God’s lila (the enchanted dance of existence, the divine play), that enabled me to be there for my family. I was gifted with everything I needed in order to be of service, acting pretty much on auto-pilot.

I was self-conscious about my appearance.  I’d gotten down to 91 pounds, and had nothing especially appropriate or stylish to wear that didn’t look like a tent on a stick.  So I donned my nicest shirt and the only pants that weren’t likely to drop past my hips and I sallied forth.  I was the most yellow person there.  Like that cheap tanning lotion that turns the skin orange, yet so evenly applied you'd swear it was the real thing.

Wingman’s sister and her husband live in another city and, because of various (and quite valid) issues stemming from her upbringing at the feet of Dad's parenting style, she hadn’t spent as much time with Mom as she would have liked.

In the meantime, trouble had been brewing over Wingman's exasperation at his sister for not being as helpful as he thought she should be.  Wingman always has too much on his plate, and it’s difficult to be of help to him, and that’s all I’ll say.  The last three to four years, every visit has been a growing clusterfuck of blame and misunderstandings, with Wingman ultimately chasing his sister away.  She in tears, vowing never to come back.  Later, there would be phone conversations and vague apologies and a temporary truce would be forged.  After an especially unsettling clash a few months prior to Edie’s death, it didn't appear possible that anything could ever be salvaged.  I love Wingman's sister.  I had been denied her company, and I was pissed.

Providence.  I like that word.  It’s such a befitting term for what happened next.

Edie's deep desire for peace among her kids came about through her passing.  At the funeral, this proud, Polish family who seemed to prefer altercations to expressions of affection, suddenly had no Mama to remind them how important those things are.  And they clung to one another in grief. They shed all awkwardness, embracing and weeping together, opening their hearts with words of contrition, appreciation, and love.

It was the most tangible evidence of God at work that this little farm girl ever beheld. I gained new freedoms as well.  My long-held attitude of hostility toward Dad had prevented any impulse to look past the image I kept  of him.  At the viewing, Dad was pacing and speaking to Edie as she lay in the casket.  He kept saying, "I've never been here before.  I don't know how to do this."

I've never been here before.  Such a direct and perfect assessment of his grief.  This was the first time I’d seen the humanity in him that I’d been overlooking.  And I went, “shit yeah, may as well look for other things about this dude that I can love.”  Once the veil was lifted, I was shown a whole other guy.  What can I say?  He’s my pal.

After the funeral service, as we were all getting into our vehicles to leave the cemetery, an enormous hawk began circling above us.  We were in three vehicles driving back, and this bird stayed with us for several miles.  Each of us shared similar thoughts - Edie's spirit flying free, but always with us.

We are changed for the better.

The One and Only

RAM