Roaming Away from paradise

I am a roamer.  By this, I mean I have never stayed long in one place, been a rolling stone since birth.  My dad was a roamer; my mom always said, “He has itchy feet.  Can’t seem to find a home anywhere.”  I lived in Jackson for 27 years, and in all those 9855 days I never spent one of them thinking of Jackson as home.  But I was born to roam.  By the time I graduated from High School, I had been in 11 different schools.  I married a woman who said she wouldn’t date me but would go hiking with me, and we have been tramping around the world ever since.  We are explorers, down roads with no names; trails marked only by our compass; wilderness and byways, lonely plains, windy cliffs, mountain passes and hidden meadows are all places we seem to end up. But now something has claimed our hearts, a home like no other, Fair Haven, the end of a gravel road, a cleared acre, a river, big blue sky, full moons, and warm fires has now claimed our hearts and wondering off has lost a bit of its call.  We are off again, but I confess, I leave sadly.  Will we find a garden and vista more sincere than we leave?  No!  For once in my life I have found a home, have been loaned it till we will be called home, an honest piece of earth worthy of prepping us for Paradise with God.   

         

Sitting With The Moon

I sit just to the right of the full moon, its company a light for my heart, a daily gift of romance.  Romance is a word we make up to describe something indescribable.  Much like the words love or art, romance falls short.  Full moons give us a better descriptor because the moon, full over the river, is worth ten thousand words of romance whispered to my heart.  

 

I Don't Know!

I am reading a book that asked me the question, “What do you want to be remembered for?”  I thought about that question and tried to think of an answer.  As I was thinking about that question, it kept leading me to another question that seemed to occupy more of my thoughts than the first question.  The new question that came to mind is, “Who do I want to remember me?”  I haven't answered either.  

 

The Sacred People of Ancestry

They are family, distant maybe in miles but not in blood, that connection which is redder, richer, old blood, the sincere blood of the ages running deep into the earth's past.  I think of this as the nourishing blood that grows great families.  Such was the case this last weekend as the remnant of my paternal family came to call.  They are few, a true remnant, three quilt squares that make up a dear blanket of family warmth.  They come from Detroit, where their fathers fled the difficult poverty of southern life, worn thinner by a world war, to the north's promise of work, building cars and commerce that fueled much of the abundance of the late 20th century.  They are the connection to the old black-and-white photos saved in our parents' scrapbooks, old boxes, and hallway picture frames.  People we never knew but whose good blood now runs through me and mine.  It is always good to see these few three.  To renew the ties that bind, to sit in the shade and piddle over the long past, to eat, drink and be merry, to hold hands and pray and know as we are known.  We worshiped together in the church of our ancestors, visited the haunting homes that housed our struggling elders in an America that is much longed for today.  Oh the blood of land people, those that lived on what his good earth provided, so kind in their rich abundance of children, able to pass on and on and on the family that now spreads out because of their calloused hands, bent backs, and determined spirit.  To say my heart was renewed this weekend would be an understatement…my soul, heart, and mind sing with the blood of ages…even that sacred Blood of the Cross;  

“Blest be the tie that binds

our hearts in Christian love;

the fellowship of kindred minds

is like to that above.

When we are called to part,

it gives us inward pain;

but we shall still be joined in heart,

and hope to meet again.” 

The blood gathers at Fair Haven.

 

The home my dad's mom, Mamaw
lived in as a child.

Passing the Torch

We finished installing Zac’s sculpture, and it was such a pleasure to work alongside our son, the sculptor.  Benson Sculpture is now safely and creatively in our children's hands.  God is faithful.  The unveiling is next week, and I will post an image of the piece then.   

 

Binding Celestial Life

The little things that make life, life.  None is more important than the warmth of another person being shared with you.  The warmth of their body soaking into yours.  Combine this with love, and you have a symbiotic relationship of the divine.  As the nights grow colder, I am reminded of this little thing of life, the two becoming one, the 98.6° of binding, celestial life.  

   

On The Road Again

For the past 35 years, my lover and I have spent a considerable amount of time with our family creating Benson Sculpture and traveling around the country and the world creating sculptures. Today we begin again.  Sissy and Oliver join us as we drive to Zac and Britt’s to install Benson Sculpture's newest work.  Zac won a large commission, and we are all working the install this weekend. “On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again, making sculpture with my family and my friends, and I can’t wait to get on the road again.”  Thanks, Zac, and you to Willie.  Images to follow. 

Our last major work, Seven Pillars.