Mobil Magi

Soon there will be 3 Wise Men creeping across our porch, searching for a Star and hearing Angels at the end (or beginning) of a dream.  These 3 guys will be securely stationed on huge sheets of plexiglass, deftly painted from my memories, readings, limitations and suppositions. Gosh, they've been fun to create.  Hopefully, the three kingly fellows will startle (?) pedestrians and or city travelers, and cause wonder about how those guys actually found the exact spot they were looking for, without so much as a GPS attached to a cell phone.  They wandered, on foot, through a desert looking at stars, following stinking, spitting camels, lugging  jars of stuff they thought was hugely important; carting it all that way to some tiny city out in the middle of nowhere, just because a few folks (and angels) mentioned there might be an event going on that they should attend.  What can a baby do with Frankincense anyhow?  (And how do you spell that anyway?)


On the opposite side of the porch we'll install more painted plexi with babe in manger, a couple of sheep herders, along with babe's mom and pop, kneeling in the hay next to the sheep dung.  I did try with my acrylics and brushes and various measures of water to create that sweet Mary face, and those rough woven robes and dresses (but I skipped the dung). Maybe some of our little neighbor kids will get the picture, and go oooh or awww at the sight of the little Savior as I did, as a child. These last two weeks as I painted, I realized we each were that babe of hope in our day. Most of us, at our birth, stood for all that was good, as we lay in our blankets and swaddles, and cute sinless innocence. Adults around us believed the world was good again, and right had come to live in their house, because the miracle of us had arrived. We were the perfect answer to the world, at that moment.  Let's believe again; not so much in us, because we've all probably failed at that innocence and goodness along our way. But this is the season to bring hope alive anew. Talk to God. Think about it. Think about a Savior. Read the story in Luke. It's good. It's time.


(I'll post some photos soon on Flickr.)

Evolution

I know. It's controversial. That is, if it's scientific. This is not.  I was raking leaves this fall morning. Hubby has drained the pond, and the fountain no longer runs clear and bubbly down the flat rocks, around and around their circular way. The sound and sight was so pleasant this summer.  We fooled the robins, wrens, chickadees, sparrows and crows all summer; we knew it wasn't a real pond. It was actually created more than two summers ago when our Newfoundland puppy needed a place to cool off. We first attempted to satisfy the idea that we lived by the lake and doggy wanted to swim in a pool; the pool being a kiddie plastic swimming pool, donated by our friendly remodel contractor.  Nope. Didn't work. Puppy drank pool water all summer. Next the pool became a huge stock watering tank - bigger, bluer, and much closer to the actual lake concept. Nope. Still didn't work. Doggy stood by the edge, up on the porch step above it, and drank as much as he wanted, but would not set foot into the 2 and a half foot depth of our blue wonder.

A year went by. The driveway pond algaed up and grossed us out, then gave way to the brilliant concept of a fountain and contemplation pool in the yard, in the midst of the spring tulips. Pond guy and pumps were employed. Rocks and plants surrounded the stock tank, disguising it as such, and throughout 2010, it made us believe we had a unique water feature in the yard. We pretend it's a lake. Doggy still just sat by the edge, and drank out of the cool blue. Not a fuzzy foot would he put into the effort.

So, as I raked the leaves today and moved part of the stack of winter wood waiting to do its warming duty in just a month, I heard birds. Looking up there were birds. Lots of them. Flitting in and out, all over the pond rocks, in the plantings, and up and down over the turqoise edge of the now drained pond. They chipped and chattered and flitted, giving not even a nod to my presence with the rake. I walked closer, still they didn't care. At the bottom of the 2 foot lake is a mess of rotting, soggy, brown, black and barely orange/yellow leaves and one inch of water. The birds drink and eat and party all day. The dog sits at the edge watching, guarding his lake, and they could care less.  It's their time, and their place.

With enough bird droppings added to the mixture, next year we might see a little blue man walk out of the lake, ready to be marvelled at and teach us something we didn't know or believe before.  Maybe the earthworms that have taken form in there this fall will evolve into a whole new species. Can't wait for the spring thaw.  In the meantime, I think I'll head south and visit my grandson.