The Unseen Hand

An unseen hand is holding my fragile life. I can feel it. A little more than a year ago my beloved father passed away, and then my wife decided to leave too. Before she left, something was prompting me to pray each day, “Oh God, satisfy my needs, redeem my debts, protect me from deceit, and help me to see the truth.” Pretty soon, all my debts had cleared away, and it became apparent that my wife was not devoted to marriage. OK, that hurt and still does, but almost immediately after our separation, abundance began increasing for me in many ways. Despite my heartbreak that re-opened the wound I have of my daughter's death in 1999 at the age of nineteen, and perhaps my father's death too, I could see good happening and it was as if I was attracting it. As if a tender gardener were lovingly revivifying a crushed flower whose stem was broken. I have been aware and thankful of this and been praying at least an hour a day . . . as well as reflecting and writing.

"The Last Drama", oil on linen, 48 x 60 inches

An example of grace relates to something I wrote about last week (See: Rain On The Parade). I am an artist and have no certain income. It fluctuates depending on if my artwork sells. At this time, I do not have a gallery representing me, but sales have been occurring anyway. I had been accepted to participate in an outdoor art festival in Denver, Colorado, and decided to go all out and have two booths rather than one. There were numerous exhibition fees involved, and travel costs including a downtown hotel, etc. but I had a feeling I might do well.

From the start the weather was bad. I mean by the middle of the second day I knew I was finished. My booth was flooded and people were barely coming to the event. The first evening had been clear for a brief period and there had been promise because I had made good contacts but it was all downhill afterward and I considered the whole affair a loss by Saturday evening. I left early Sunday, despite the sky being clear, because the forecast was for more storms and I did not want to be trapped trying to take down my art in the rain. None of the artists were happy about the show, and a few were leaving early like me. I drove one day and arrived back home in Santa Fe, calculating my loss.

But grace had something in store for me, because from a contact the first night, my biggest painting sold through email conversations! I am shipping it back to Denver to a happy couple who will hang it over their fireplace. Grace and the unseen hand.

Light That Pours

The natural light that pours in my kitchen window each day is like vitamin to my soul. I can't imagine being without it in the morning. Just outside is an old wood slat fence, with a few tangled vines intertwined throughout. It obscures my neighbors house that sits twenty feet away. Tree limbs are scattered above with ample sky visible. 

A ledge over my sink always has plants. The coleus in a pot comes from a plant that was on my patio and knocked over by the wind. I discovered it late, when it was dying. I took a sprig and stuck it into some earth and now it is about to make little purple blooms. The orchid is not mine. I am watching over it while a friend is out of the country. 

Lately, I have been growing sunflower sprouts. They are delicious and nutritious to snack on, and available almost all the time because I start them in containers every four or five days. I use bird seed to start the seedlings.

All this life—thanks to the window, and light that pours in to bless existence.

Random Act Of Kindness

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11
Sometimes while I am outdoors painting, my activity arouses people’s curiosity. In the old quarter of Rutigliano, in a neighborhood of stone streets so small cars cannot enter, I set up my easel and painted. A dozen or so curious people at various times arrived at my side to look. Youngsters especially were unafraid to approach. An old, slow moving, toothless fellow came along and took a pleasurable interest. He spoke but I could not understand, so I said in Italian, “I am an American artist, and can speak a little Italian, but not very well.” Turning to go, he halted and speaking in Italian, asked if I wanted a cigarette. After he was gone, I returned to my painting, and a few moments later he re-appeared and asked if I would like it if he brought some coffee. I said, “yes,” then he disappeared around the corner and five minutes later brought me espresso. For his random act of kindness, I thanked him profusely. He vanished again and I painted in earnest because the sun was moving across the afternoon sky causing the light and shadows to rapidly change so that my subject looked different with each passing moment. Twenty minutes later the fellow came again and strolled up, holding a plastic bag in his wrinkled hand. He opened and held it out, and I saw a pair of used, but nice, Italian leather shoes. Momentarily confused, I wondered what he was doing. The shoes looked about my size, and he pointed to my feet and then put the bag in my hand. Looking up into my face with a smile, he said something. I leaned over and kissed his whiskered cheek, then he shuffled away.

An Old Vine

THURSDAY, APRIL 5
This morning I walked along the sea wall to the coffee bar by the tiny harbor. Cappucino is served in a little ceramic cup with a froth of white milk on top. Standing at the counter, I finished it in five minutes. Working men came to the bar, usually ordering espresso’s that are served in even smaller cups. A drink of water is offered first, to wet the mouth, then the espresso goes down in two satisfying sips.

Arriving back at the apartment, the produce man was sitting in his truck out front. I picked out a zuccini squash, but did not need anything more. As I began to pay, he put the squash in my hand, spread his feet, faced me squarely and touched both my shoulders. Then, with a look that said, “ this grand acquisition of your's is not going to make me rich,” he waved me off, touching his fingers to his lips and kissing off, as if to say, “ it is yours, and bon apetito.” It was a bit of a joke for both of us, and I laughed, saying grazie as he climbed back in his truck.
Yesterday I went to Messina in search of the Museo Regionale where a couple of Caravaggio paintings are on exhibit. The drive took 45 minutes to the city limit, then, I had to squirm in traffic snarl. Arriving at the museum, it was chiuso, closed for the day. I thought, this is part of the 15% chaos to be expected along the way. Nonetheless, I did not like having come so far to be denied. Furthermore, the sky was cloudy and occasionally spitting raindrops. Traffic was bad, the streets noisy and not particularly interesting, and I felt I was not accomplishing anything. Frustration grew, and then, serendipitously, I felt a spirit touch me. In the next moment, fresh air flowed into my lungs and with each drink of breath I felt more relaxed and rejuvenated. Grace had come. Standing near a busy market, with the wet, rubbish-strewn street at my feet, an old vine tied to a fence caught my eye. A wisteria was blooming, with pale purple flowers in delicate masses spreading along the railing. The moment I leaned forward to look more closely, I found an incredible fragrance permeated the air. Just the contrast of circumstances was wonderful in itself. In the midst of feeling denied, a reminder of renewal and beautiful life. Grace works without effort.