Robin time

This seems to be the time of year that birds -- robins in this case -- like to perch on the top of the very tall trees in my neighbourhood and sing. As has been documented here with crows, this always catches my attention. Yesterday morning I "caught" this fellow:

Just to get a sense of where he is, here are photos as I retract the lense:

I was on the deck, looking over the house to the top of the tree in the photo below:

   

Postal Art

Today I put two 4" x 6" post cards in the mail for the Rosthern Station Arts Centre  fundraising exhibition. The rules say that the art work must go through the postal system, with or without an envelope. I sent one with an envelope, one without.

These are the two that I sent:

This one stayed home:

Resilience

22" x 20" (56cm x 37cm)

oil on canvas

I was a kindergarten teacher and some decades ago a child I will call T spent a few weeks in my class. She was in foster care. I didn’t really know her story, but could conclude that things in her life were problematic, given the need to remove her from her family’s care. Despite this, she appeared happy, effervescent even. She did a painting during that time which I held on to, partly because I tried to retain one painting per month from each child, all of which were taken home at the end of the year, but in her case, she was gone before I could return it. 

The painting was a sunflower with a big dark centre, surrounded by red petals; there is a sun in the top corner. I thought at the time that the big dark centre was telling us something about her experience. That there was something deeply unsettling she kept inside, while she wrapped it with colour and a receptiveness to the good she could find. 

In this painting, I have quoted T’s painting, adding some figural elements. Resilience counters the big dark parts with life asserting petals. Time, presented in the obscuring white lines, either eases the dark parts, or obscures the bright ones. 

Where Do Their Dreams Go?

17.5" x 33" (44.5cm x 84cm)
oil on canvas

“It is too simplistic to just blame it on adolescence because there are teens who remain focused and who do want to pursue a good education,” he wrote. “I wonder what kills the dreams of childhood of those who get lost on the journey?”

Stephen King, Principal La Loche Community School, 2009 in a blog post, quoted in the Edmonton Journal (Douglas Quan), January 29, 2016 in a story about a 17 year old in La Loche who shot several people, 4 of whom died.

This painting is a response to the events in La Loche, and in all the other places were similar shootings have been carried out by hopeless young people. The child on the swing is a bit ethereal and timeless. Around her there are layers of drawings, aspirations, and creations of the imagination. The top layers of white, obscure the dreams in a sort of mist.

Glowing Lichen Rocks

More lichens, you say? Ahhh, yes. Roundular ones.

These lichen "rocks" are made from translucent paper. They are approximately 11cm across and 8 cm high. A LED "candle" inside makes them flicker and glow. 

Number 1:

Number 2:

Woman With A Black Dog

I have been a woman-with-a-black-dog for nearly 9 years. The black dog was Milly, a labradoodle. Admittedly, she got silver over the years, but so did I.

She was a very keen observer; she recognized patterns of behaviour and liked consistency. We heard once that dogs are anthropologists: this fit. She was very sensitive to any activities that looked remotely like packing. She was relieved somewhat when she saw her things being packed too: glad she was going along; worried about what new thing her people were doing (she looked around a Motel 6 in Fargo, Minnesota and gave us a withering and questioning look, "Is THIS our new home?"). She knew Sundays by the baking of scones; it was her right to clean off the pan. She knew lunch meant a sliver of cheese. She could hear a ziplock bag of pfeffernüsse being opened from 100 feet away. She knew that if I received a phone call or a text later in the afternoon, it was a sign that Roger was on his way home. She was not the best judge of time though, and would get excited too early. 

She was bright. This did not make teaching her things easier. She questioned most skills we tried to encourage in a "Why would I need to do that?" kind of way. Despite her brilliance (so I am biased) she was not that good with vocabulary. She had her own vocalizations that ranged from barking, to singing, to sounds that were nearly speech-like.

She liked to embarrass us when we were out walking. She had opinions about leaving the house, a) if someone was still at home, or b) if she thought you didn't know where you were going (as caregivers found out) and she would abruptly dig in her heels and sit down. We had to convince her to proceed. We were never sure what she would do when we passed other dogs: ignore or lunge. Could go either way.

She was uneasy in new locations. When we moved and started to explore our new neighbourhood, she was tense and super alert. She continuously looked back over her shoulder as we walked, like we weren't to be trusted and someone had to have a game plan to find home again. Once she programmed her GPS all was well.

She was more city than country, if our 2 weeks camping in a pasture in SK are any indication; more inclined to inside than out. That said, the image of her bouncing through the tall grass in the pasture will be with me forever.

She loved her people without reserve. The more the merrier. She recognized anyone she had sniffed before. Everyone received a warm welcome at the door, even the not-into-dogs people. OK, that wasn't a good thing. She preferred addition -- people coming in the door -- to subtraction -- people leaving, especially people who stayed for night. She preferred people to dogs. Her heaven is not a dog park.

Milly came to us on May 14, 2007. Born on January  27, she was 4 1/2 months old. She was healthy until she wasn't. Two years ago some routine pre-dental blood work revealed a liver in uproar. There was nothing about her presentation that would have given anyone a clue. We were able to maintain a semblance of health with meds. Then a few months ago her pancreas went into crisis. This one showed because Milly lost weight, but it did not affect her demeanour. Again, we could get things turned around with meds. The final blow, again completely masked by a dog who was energetic and behaviourally normal in the Milly way, was more advanced auto-immune problems that could not be overcome. Milly passed away on March 18. She was 9 years old.

I am no longer a woman-with-a-black-dog. I can't believe it.

31 - For a Quilter