Man is such a busy creature.

Not that it’s always productive, or even good. We do evil things, we do good things. We try very hard to make sense of it all. But sometimes, if we walk slow enough, with an open heart and open eyes, nature reveals herself to us in ways that can teach us and guide us  and maybe make us better for having walked on the earth.

I went for a day trip with my friend Sarah to Lost Maples Park, a Texas state natural area off of F.M. 187 in Vanderpool , Texas. The maple trees were at their peak, and it rivaled anything in New England for it’s color.

We hiked, we photographed, we watched in wonder, mother nature painting on her canvas.  All we had to do was show up.

As I walked past a sycamore tree, marveling at the beautiful texture of the bark, what caught my eye was mother nature reminding me what a part of it all we really are. There was a tiny ‘bark’ figure, walking right off the tree trunk. I snapped the photo and had a good chuckle as I was remind yet again –

                                             It’s not what you look at, it’s what you see.

Rather than just one day, November 25th, I think the entire month of November should be set aside for giving thanks. After all, to my mind, there are countless things to be thankful for.

My sight, for one. Being able to see the daily wonders and changes as nature moves through her cycles is breathtaking to me. Here in the Texas hill country, the many crossings provide peeks down dozens of the  most beautiful natural passages.

I think as an artist, seeing is how I come to best understand life. And I am eternally grateful for that gift.

                             Because it’s not what you look at, it’s what you see.

“I  have found, it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk, that keeps the darkness at bay.”

Gandalf the Grey

I was watching my favorite channel, The Western Channel, for my back to back late afternoon fix of first Gunsmoke, then Bonanza. My favorite Gunsmoke shows are the ones with Festus Hagan, an erasible, but lovable  hillbilly.

Festus was conversing with a friend who mentioned it was her birthday and asked Festus when his birthday was. Festus said he had no idea, as his family never celebrated such events. He said this.

                               ” You were just borned…and then you just lived.” Festus Hagan

Ah, the wisdom of Festus.

I considered the simplicity of this as well as what celebrated events birthdays are in our modern lives. October is such a big birthday month for so many people I know and love. Four dear friends, my son, brother, father and niece . My son was born on my brother’s birthday – a double birthday hit. I start making sure cards and gifts are organized by the end of September to make sure it all happens on time. If you grew up in a family that celebrated your special day, as I did, it seems important to mark that person’s entry into life and make note to both them and you that you are glad they are here.

Now long distances in miles and in some cases a loved one’s passing, keep me from celebrating in person with any of these special folks.

So I send them all this modern technology birthday cake and wish them again, another trip around the sun…till next year.

And oh yes, as Festus would say… JUST LIVE!

“Of all God’s gifts to the sight of man, color is the holiest, the most divine, the most solemn.” John Ruskin

To my memory, I grew up in a pretty colorful environment. In  the 1950’s, our  house was turquoise,  and our car was fushia. In our living room – bright lime green chairs and flamingo pink curtains. In the kitchen, colorful Fiestaware dishes. But the experience of color that lit the fire of an artist in me, was watching my mother paint a trio of circus themed paint-by-numbers for my soon-to-be baby brother’s nursery. I watched at her elbow daily as the paintings took shape, mesmerized by the tiny color- filled paint pots, the smell of turpentine, and the magic as she placed one color next to the other until forms took shape as a giraffe,  an elephant, a circus pony. It was nothing short of magic to eye of a six year old. I watched till the very last brush stroke was placed ever so perfectly on the end of the giraffe’s tongue  – a tiny dot of  shiny white. My mother was a genius! I wanted to do that someday too, and as time passed, I did that and much more.

Fast forward to me an artist in 1972,  a new mom, setting up my soon-to-be son’s nursery, hanging that sweet and colorful memory on his wall. I still own that treasured set of paint-by-numbers, and they have photographs taped to back of them.  One of my mother proudly propping up her new son in his blue polka dot diapers with the circus paintings on the wall behind them and another, me with my new baby boy, and  the same set hanging behind us.

Now, it’s 2013 and that set  of paint-by-numbers hang in my Texas studio as a constant reminder of  how color can in fact, be the greatest gift to the sight of man, and a nod to my mother, for raising me in such a colorful, joyful environment.

There is a Hindu festival called Holi, during which crowds of celebrants hurl colored powders at each other in commemoration of Krishna’s pranks. It’s a frenzied scene of crowds with whirls of color and the faces of people covered in hot pink, yellow,  and orange. So as solemn and holy as John Ruskin’s comment on God’s gift of color is, I prefer the Holi celebration where worship is a loud and joyful festival of color. But he is most certainly correct on the divine part.

May you live in a world of  joyful color.

Consider your heart a cocoon from which dreams emerge.

(detail of canvas collage, COCOON, by Catherine Massaro)

As an artist, it’s both frustrating and humbling to constantly be reminded how futile it is to try to beat nature at creating beautiful things. All efforts seem so futile when you look closely at the simplest of things … the patterns on a seashell, the colors of a bird’s feathers, the clouds overhead. I use nature as my teacher and every day is again a reminder there is simply no way to learn these wonders in such a short time. It’s like always being in kindergarten.

I remain always on my knees in appreciation of the wondrous beauty of it all.

If someone or something always gets the last word, let it be Mother Nature. What good and lovely hands to be in, from the beginning to the end.

(featured photo by Catherine Massaro)