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We all had access to the same materials, paper, paint, ink, watercolors, etc. For several hours we made art using all these same materials and, as you might imagine, not one of the finished pieces looked alike. Six of us, in a few hours, created dozens of pieces of art (some wonderfully pleasing and others abominable disasters). I don't know why it surprises me that there are infinite variations in creativity. Maybe because we live in a mass-produced-society we can't imagine the many ways expression seeps out. Of course, we really don't need to look further than our own spinning globe where we find infinite variations in life itself, not just between plant and animal life, but even in subsets like mammals which contains bats AND giraffes. Ours is a world of infinite creation.

We dined with another couple recently in their home. In just about every corner there was some large or small art object the woman had created, she also acted on the local stage, hosted a radio program and seemed at-home with any artistic endeavor she set her mind to. She rides a distinctive pink motor scooter around the small town where they live. It suits her in every way. Her husband, a lanky taciturn fellow, engaged sporadically in conversation with us as the evening mellowed. He too had a craft, about which he said little, but his un-shy wife told us her flashy pink scooter was his creation, he brings nearly dead scooters back to life, sometimes re-casting long forgotten parts and then paints them in magnificent shades.

Creativity flows through each of us in so many variations. Maybe it's numbers we wrangle, or accounts we manage, or scooters we bring back to life or watercolors and ink on paper, or children we raise, or gardens we tend. It's a way we change the world, in small and incremental steps or large and showy gestures, as meets our measure. These things are our REAL work in this life.

It's mating season. On a wide stretch of beach protected by the breakwater here in Long Beach, terns amass in the hundreds in the evening for, what Wikipedia calls "courtship." The cacophony of shrill squawking that takes place is nearly unnerving and ceaseless from sundown to sunrise and beyond. The first time I heard it I was awakened at 2 a.m. I pulled on some clothes and stumbled down the street to the beach to see what was going on. In the darkness I realized it was like a seen from a Hitchcock movie except that these birds were bent on love, not murder. And their exuberant vocalizations made me think that they were ALL IN. The courtship season is nearly over now, it seems to last a week or two. I still hear their cries but they are fewer and less fervent.

A week or so ago I was walking up a coastal canyon before dawn. I walked as far as I could until I came to a locked gate. Here I found a bench and sat down to let the silence of the hour wash over me. The canyon sides were thick with dark brush and scraggily scrub oaks and above, early morning fog was beginning to block out the fading stars. Even though I could detect no change in the ambient light, a single songbird began to fill the morning air. It was followed almost instantly by another, and then another. Soon the whole canyon seemed to be awash in sounds. I could definitely make out distinct songs, a loud staccato chirping over here, a sing-songy warble over there, dozens of different songs repeating intermittently from one part of the canyon over another. Because I was far removed from the city, the songs of birds were the only sound, a magnificent symphony of sweet sounds. The sounds of love.

The image here is that of a Eucalyptus tree in that same canyon much later in the day.

Alamitos Bay is protected from the wide Pacific Ocean by a lengthy peninsula and a long jettied outlet. It's perfect for sailing because the water is flat most of the time but the ocean breezes are plentiful and seem to rise in the late afternoon. Consequently, there are a number of rowing and sailing schools that line the bay. Over time one could learn to pilot any number of small craft, paddleboards, kayaks, sabots, keelboats, cruisers and whalers among them. On weekends it's not uncommon to see dragon boats crewed by chanting young people cruising past two dozen tiny sabots with bright white kite-sized sails tacking this way then that as a noisy instructor in a power boat shouts instructions.

Susan and I sometimes ride our bike to the end of the peninsula and there, in good weather, we watch the parade of boats make there way to the open sea. They are mostly whalers and fishing boats or the larger sailboats and power cruisers. Anglers filled with high expectations, seemingly wealthy bikini-clad sun worshipers draped over large decks of power cruisers, intrepid rowing teams, busy two-man sailing crews, adults-and-kids boating flotillas and even sea kayakers make their way between the rocky windswept jetties, each headed to their own destinations.

Eventually, the sailors of the tiny sabots graduate to larger ocean-going sailboats. One stormy day recently, I saw these brave souls out upon the open sea. I could not see the instructor's boat in the choppy waters though I am certain it was there. The weather looked menacing to me but I imagine the high winds made sailing challenging and thrilling for these new sailors. Here, these hearty sailors were testing everything they knew against an angry sea and they mastered it. What a sense of accomplishment they must feel. In our own ways, we each come to that time when we must leave the safety of what we know for the sometimes stormy challenges of the real world. Maybe we just keep from getting swamped until the storm passes. Or, if we are lucky (or smart) we are not engulfed by our circumstances and we find ways to harness the power of the challenge and allow it to propel us to our destination. Either way, I think we are brave for trying. I call this piece 'Upon the Sea.'

One day in July 1993, Los Angeles artist Young-Il Ahn set out in a small boat from the beach at Santa Monica headed for the horizon. He enjoyed ocean fishing but this day would be different. At some point, fog enshrouded him and his boat. It was so thick he said he could barely see his hand in front of his face. Unable to tell which way to go, he had no choice but just to cut the motor and wait. As time passed, the experience of having no visual cues became disconcerting, and then frightening. He said the fear gave way to thoughts that death could be close at hand.

Then, just as quickly as the fog came, it lifted. He said he was struck by the returning light and color with a tremendous sense of joy and wonder, the sea itself became a symphony of color that both moved and humbled him. From that singular experience came a series more than twenty years in the making called simply "Water." I caught the exhibit last week at the museum and found it stunning in it's beauty and depth. Each work is made of tiny even brush strokes in vibrant colors. Close up, the textured strokes are like the blocks of a mighty wall and the space between them a hint of something hidden, an endless labyrinth. From far away, beneath the bold seemingly solid color, the eyes continually move in search of patterns or horizons. In searching the works, we too are both lost and found, moved and humbled.

I am astounded by the information art can convey. To have an emotional reaction to art is, arguably, it's most important quality. But it also teaches us that we can communicate and learn/understand without words, that knowledge or ideas can be passed in ways that don't include schools, books or tests. That if we are open, we will receive. Trusting that notion is to accept that there is more to this world than what meets the eye. And if we can learn from a painting, what more can we learn from a golden sunrise, a Grand Canyon, a lover's smile, the rising and falling chest of a sleeping baby. It's all there. It's all there for us.

Trees. At the house of my childhood, there was the liquidambar tree we called a maple because of the shape of its leaves, it's seed pods we called monkey balls. That was in the front yard. In the back, the sweet and fabled peach tree, the avocado tree, the magnolia and the fig. There are stories for each of these trees. The fig used to bleed white milky sap when we trimmed it, the leaves were sticky and the figs delicious for one day only, it seemed, and then turned decidedly ugly. My grandmother rendered these into a delicious jam, however. The magnolia sported beautiful leathery flowers and spread shiny waxy flowers which I spent years, more years than I have actually lived, raking. Before the bus came one day, we tied my brother, Vince, to the maple and then boarded the bus and left him there to be discovered later by my mother. It was the peach tree we hoisted Teresa to the top of in a bushel basket with a rope, I have written about the sudden and unfortunate end of that experiment.

Trees. I got off the freeway to get gas in an unsavory part of the city once. As I filled my car I looked up and down the street and wondered how this neighborhood was so decidedly different than my own. Then it finally dawned on me. There were no trees. The horizon was nothing but graffitied stucco and telephone lines. Not a single natural landmark anywhere to be seen. Suddenly, I felt trapped.

Trees. I have often wondered if, by looking for the tallest thickest trees in a town, you could find the oldest buildings (or the sites of the oldest buildings). We seem to sidle up to the trees to build or camp. In the desert, the places where the earth had ruptured from earthquakes or surprise springs, that is where trees would grow, where the water table was close to the surface. And that is where the pioneers stopped, first to drink, then to hunt, then to settle. That is where they built the school house and the dry goods store and the post office. Perhaps there are people who are paleobotanists or paleoarborists who know the answer.

Trees. I've culled trees in the forest, tagged for cutting because of beetle damage these were forest fire fuel for sure. I burned these in a wood stove on a cold winter's night, the glowing red coals radiating a warmth craved by me from thousands of years of genetic survival instinct. I sit at a desk made of wood. The skeleton of my home is made of wood. I have carved, sawed, sanded and finished all kinds of it. I love the smell and feel of it. We bury our dead beneath trees. In this way, we sustain each other through the millennia.We never think of this symbiosis consciously, but I think it lies just beneath the surface. Trees.

Sure, the cemetery cuts the grass and keeps the graves neat but it had been a while since anybody brought flowers. When my sister was here, we bought two bunches, one for Grandma and one to split for Grandpa and our dad. I had trouble even finding the cemetery at first, I'd forgotten that the roads had been reconfigured to accommodate the college and some new housing tracts. And once there, I had trouble finding the graves, having driven past them first, then back tracking.

The vessel that holds the flowers is inverted when not in use and the casing that holds it becomes filled with debris and roots. I fished a hunting knife out of the back of my car and with some other tools, we were able to work each one free. My sister filled each with water and we set about adding the flowers. She walked off to leave a flower with Uncle Louie. We spent a few minutes with our old folks and then moved on, looking at the graves of our parish priests. We talked about classmates buried here, and the relatives of friends.

It's not often that I get my hands dirty, dark moist earth under my fingernails. As a kid this seemed to be a constant case, but now, moving paper around and punching keyboard keys leaves my hands decidedly clean. Before turning on a spigot at the cemetery to wash, I thought of this earth that lies above these who were so much a part of my life and think this may be all that is left of their physical presence, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

But I am happy to report that this was not the first time my hands were dirty this week. One day, we had arranged for a workshop at an art studio to learn more about painting with acrylics. S, my sister and I were presented with three fresh canvases and with the help of our dynamic host, we applied layer upon layer of color in designs that originated in our imaginations. It was interesting to see these ideas morph into dimensional works, all so different, all imbued with a sense of beauty only we could have given them.

In three hours time we each had work that was our own. And even though I washed before we went to lunch, I noticed the colors of my work were still present on my hands as we ate. Over the course of the next day the colors disappeared without my noticing.

One thing's for certain in all of this. It wouldn't be bad to have dirty hands more often. It seems natural for us to work the earth, to keep us rooted and in touch with what is. But we must also engage the inherent messiness of creating to facilitate what might be and even what might be beautiful. Getting my hands dirty then becomes something more.

You choose it every day. It's not like you wake up and your bed is on some gleaming game show stage and you stand up in your pajamas and a slick announcer asks you if you will choose it and beautiful show girls point to yes or no while the studio audience holds its collective breath. It's not like that. You choose it when you take out the trash, when you get up for the crying baby, when you make sure the oil got changed and when you trudge to work every day. You choose it when you turn down the TV to hear what she has to say or bring her the cold drink after she has toted in the giant load of groceries. You choose it when you reach for her hand at the sad parts or make her laugh by being silly. You choose it when it hurts, when you're tired, when you really just want to be left alone.

The glitter of love isn't love. Oh, don't get me wrong, the glitter is sweet and it leads us to the place where we know that what makes love really shine. But the glitter isn't real, glitter is nothing without light. It is we who must shine, if there is to be love. We're not always good at it and it's easy to get it wrong. But we choose it anyway. Anything less isn't real.

We were visiting relatives in Davis, California when I shot the originals of the dilapidated barn on Covell Road. Tucked in among burgeoning suburbs, here the not-so-distant agrarian past still existed and on a quiet morning while the others slept I slipped out with my camera. I parked in the shopping center parking lot across the street and walked a good length of each of the cross roads where the barn is to see where m best shots would be (I'm not big on trespassing). It didn't take long for me to get my quarry and save for a few foxtails and stickers which I brought home, it was an otherwise uneventful outing.

I don't think it was more than a few weeks after I had posted my first renditions that my sister-in-law sent me the newspaper link saying the barn had been torn down to make way for a mixed-use development of residential and retail buildings, open space and an "urban farm." Having grown up in Southern California, I know that the landscape will change, that the old will be replaced with the new (with a few worthy exceptions). I can't really say I am okay with it, but I accept it the same way I accept my ever graying hair (with purposeless muttering mostly). A former boss used to say about land that it should be developed to its "highest and best use." And from a profit-and-loss perspective, I get it.

But I still wince for the loss of something that can never be again. A hundred years from now, long after I am gone, perhaps someone new will be standing at the corner of Covell and Pole Line Road and wince when the mixed-use residential and retail and urban farm are turned under to plant something new.

The Santa Ana winds are blowing today. At the bay the surface water is agitated and dark blue and the sand swept smooth. Despite the 80 degree temperature, the beach seems quiet save for the palm trees rustling in the gusty wind. The air is clear and dry. The contours, cliffs and canyons of the San Gabriel mountains thirty miles north are easily discernible. I drive to the top of Signal Hill and from here there is a full vista of the broad coastal plain on which the City of the Angels rests.

The skyscrapers of the city gleam in the late afternoon. They remind me of a bar graph where the X axis is Wilshire Boulevard and the Y axis is the level of prestige. Penthouse please. So far from the low flung adobes of Calle Olvera where Mexican families farmed and tended cattle and said prayers in the old plaza church, but easy walking distance to many of these glass and steel monuments today, if Californians actually walked. This warm winter weather is but one of many reasons the city rose, in height, in numbers, in time. It lies before me in its self-glorifying immensity, made small only by the white-capped granite peaks, wrapped in their finest firs and crowned with communications towers and fire lookouts.

The Santa Ana winds make the city look clean and, in this light, it's easy to see why eleven ancient families might find a place by a flowing river for their town and call it El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora Reina de los Ángeles, The Town of Our Lady Queen of the Angels.

My mom was afraid of it, that much was clear. Long after my father died, she kept his shotgun hidden, wrapped in a blanket on the back of the top shelf of the hall closet. Her fear passed down to me. As a kid, the discovery of this weapon during a typical foray into the normally unreachable areas of my life was a complete shock and made me look differently at my mysterious father who disappeared from my life so early that every thing about him seemed mythical. What had he needed a gun for? He didn't seem like a criminal or even a hunter, nothing about him suggested he had any interest in killing anything. But I couldn't ask my mom, to ask would have been to reveal I knew of the gun's existence. And so it was re-wrapped and tucked back into place. At times when I knew my mom was gone I would occasionally take it out and look at it and wonder about it and my dad.

As a young adult on a trip to our cabin in the desert, a friend brought along a .22 rifle. He showed me how to load it and fire it and we plinked at tin cans. I confess my fear of guns made me feel nervous but being able to hit a can from a distance was, well...fun. I was good at it. I felt like my fear served me well, my cautiousness was directly proportional to my sense of safety. A few years later, when Susan and I were wed, we lived twenty miles out of town at the old cabin. Here, response times for the sheriff would be 45 minutes or longer so my brother-in-law thought it prudent that we should have a firearm. And so, for the first time in my life, I owned a gun. Susan's family had always had guns but this was knew to me. I learned to use it and clean it and it became a possession that I was mindful of, like a pet Anaconda, not otherwise dangerous but it could kill you if you weren't careful.

Now, these many years later, my sons have learned to shoot and we have gone to the range together. They seem to enjoy shooting different kinds of weapons and they seem to have the same fear/respect for guns that I do (for which I am thankful). Still, I confess that my enjoyment is tinged with confusion about the general morality of guns and the recognition of gun violence which seems both so pervasive and destructive. I fully recognize the strong feelings people have both for and against gun ownership. But I do not subscribe to these, I like to think that I could hunt if I needed to and, in a different life, I might have been good at it. I find little harm in knowing that about myself.

I "shot" this image of 30.06 rounds from the last time we went shooting with our sons.