Can’t resist including this one: Me, age 22, in Georgia, with broom, jug of wine, and future that could go either way.

I remember my 27th birthday. Not the events of the day, but a thought I had at the time. It was this: “27, what kind of a nondescript number is that?!”  Inauspicious, it seemed, and lacking any kind of real potential. That was my thought. But that was the year my life changed.

I had been reaching a sort of climax, or a sort of vortex. I had already hit the fulfillment of life goals and found myself empty. It wasn’t just that I wasn’t happy, but more, that setting new goals would result in the same thing. In other words, I was not happy-able. All that lead to a downward spiral of emotional stasis, loss of health and mental questioning about the state of the world and the purpose of life. I felt I was already in the body of an old man, a dying old man, and I was only in my mid-20s.

But two months into my 27th year, in Mexico, on a month-long reading trip, I surprised myself and everybody else with a return to the Father who had long been waiting for me. I’ll not tell the details here as it’s not my point . . . and I’ve often told it elsewhere (like in the book Our Lives Together).  The point here is that it happened in my 27th year, the one for which I had the least expectation.

It was the year when I came back to life. Who’d have thought? Age 27. Born again! (For that really is the best term for it).

Since then, over the years, from time to time I’ve seen evidence of another spirit at work, as if by some spiritual coincidence, with that same age number, 27. I don’t know when I first saw it but in time I thought to myself that I ought to be writing these down. Now I find that others have. From today’s California Sun, an online news service to which I subscribe, there’s a link to an article in Rolling Stone (to which I don’t subscribe) with a whole list of rock stars and notables from that industry who died at age 27! This, often at their own hand, or at least as a result of certain lifestyle. It’s uncanny.

Among the most famous are Jimmy Hendricks, Janice Joplin and the Doors’ Jim Morrison, all dying at age 27, and within ten months of each other. The article is titled, The 27 Club, a Brief History, which also references a book, The 27s.

Leading it off is Robert Johnson, Delta Blues legend, who died in 1938. What’s not mentioned is the “folklore” of his having traded his soul to the devil for his talent . . . which was non-existent before but afterward, prodigious. Then the devil claimed his trade. He was 27.

What is it with him and age 27? Who knows?

All I know is that there is indeed something to this 27 thing and that my own history somehow corresponds. But for me there was a cosmic escape; I went the other way.  To say I’m grateful is an eternal understatement.

Return of the Son, oil on canvas, 24×24.

By coincidence, I just painted and delivered a piece for a new friend in Texas that relates to all this. She’d been looking for some time for just the right rendition of The Prodigal Son.  She wanted a traditional look but with bright colors, and loves the result. The story’s a parable, but I can’t help but wonder if that young man was in his 27th year.

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I’ve read a number of great books this year. Often they’re from Anne’s shelf. When it’s a Pulitzer winner you’re pretty sure the reward will be there. I just re-read a two-paragraph passage in a recent one, Gilead, a novel by Marilynne Robinson, one that reads like poetry but easier in its flowing prose. It’s a light touch on the wonder of life.

Here’s how it starts:

“I have been thinking about existence lately. In fact, I have been so full of admiration for existence that I have hardly been able to enjoy it properly.”

For context, the voice is that of an aged reverend who, knowing his days are numbered, is writing his reflections to his son (7) to be read in the son’s adulthood. He’s just been out walking, noticing the changing of the trees and wondering at the beauty of it all.  He continues:

“I feel sometimes as if I were a child who opens its eyes on the world once and sees amazing things it will never know any names for and then has to close its eyes again. I know this is all mere apparition compared to what awaits us, but it is only lovelier for that. There is a human beauty in it. And I can’t believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence, the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us. In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets. Because I don’t imagine any reality putting this one in the shade entirely, and I think piety forbids me to try.”

By the time I finished that book (and moved onto the next) I’d marked many passages. But this one stands out, especially about our being like a child who opens his eyes once, sees amazing things he’ll never know the names of, and closes them again. That, and though there’s a better world coming, this one is overwhelmingly sufficient.

Talk about the wonder of nature and a brief look, such was our trip to Maine and Vermont and Montreal.  (See the blog about Anne’s artwork on clothing if you missed it.) Now, after two weeks at home we’re off to another, work related, in Ojai, California, also a place to wonder, of trees, of humanity, and God.

Always grateful.

A morning in Vermont from our lodgings. We were there just before the storied changing of the colors, but still overflowing for the eyes.

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We started noticing graveyards. We’ve been driving through Maine. Beautiful, of course, both the coast, the hills, and the mountains. Lots of small farms, and a haven for lobster (unless you are one). Lots of old buildings, well kept up but showing their age, connected to history. I suppose with that, the frequency of cemeteries is understandable. Still, it’s caught our attention.

Where we live I hardly know of any. People die in California, too, but apparently we keep it hidden. “Why sadden the landscape?” Has it all been part of a plan?

But in these parts, there’s no concealing. After seeing at least 20 along the roadside we started counting them, some acres large, others smaller. Within a few hours we were up to 30!

I don’t know if the people that live here notice. I expect it’s something you get used to and don’t even see after awhile. But we wonder: By these ubiquitous reminders, are people more aware of their mortality? And if so, what good does it do?

I’ve sometimes thought there should be one of those flashing speed signs near every graveyard, the kind that tell you how fast you’re driving. Those silent gravestones might be calling us to “slow down,” to live life to the fullest. Or conversely, to “speed up,” also to live life to the fullest!

Which would you take?

Here’s a small one, notable for tilting stones. Withered histories.

We looked online and found there are over 7000 graveyards in Maine. So we’re not the first to notice; there’s a society dedicated to looking into these things.*

But we drive on. We have places to go and things to see before our bodies meet that little plot of ground with the memorial stone that afterward no one will notice much.

Wonder what they’ll think. Probably something like,  “Humm, there’s a lot of graveyards around here.”

Meantime, we’re loving Maine. A wonderful place for the living.

_______

PS Here’s one from my favorite book: Anyone among the living has hope; even a live dog is better than a dead lion. Ecclesiastes 8:4

* And that’s only the southern part of the state; nobody dies in the north. (Nor does anybody live there.)

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We’re in Chicago. Impressive in its glory, potholed at its fringes. Daughter Acacia and husband Mark came here from Seattle some years back to start a church, just west of downtown. They were offered a break–a trip to Napa with friends–and requested Anne’s services to watch the kids. I came along.

Not that I had to be coaxed. I marvel at the children. And not just at these four, but all 16, spread around the country . . . all prospering in their place. I credit their parents, and see it all connected to a spiritual decision I made many years ago, before any of their parents were born.

To keep myself occupied between activities, I looked over Mark’s expansive library. I took down Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup, first published, 1845. It’s a phenomenal work, autobiographical, well-written, and quite a juxtaposition, this life of ease and that one of horrors, not so long ago. I’m told there was a movie, but it would have been hard to watch. The book is sobering.

Speaking of juxtaposition, I took a picture of a graffiti on a wall nearby. I can’t quite make sense of the graphic but the verbiage is blatant enough. Seems he got it half right, but only half.

Don’t know what Solomon Northup would have thought of it. In the end he was saved from his slavery, but not by himself, and never could have been.

As I think about, it was rather the same with me. The situation was very different, of course, but there was a rescue. One that I couldn’t have affected myself. I’m very grateful, gathered now with some of the fruits of that decision, these days in Chicago.

From here we travel on.

P.S. We take pictures as we go. I’ve got a few on Facebook (here).

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We call it the Rocky Beach. It’s tradition to go there as a family Christmas day, whoever’s gathered here in Dana Point that year. It’s where I go to be alone any time. At least, mostly alone. The few that come are here for the same thing, or with one friend, or two, walking the rugged path beneath the bluffs, or stepping gingerly down the rocks to the tide pools, long since mostly picked clean, despite the sign, but still worth a look.

I do all this too, but I also stop and park, sitting on and leaning against some combination of rock, warm on the back if the day’s been sunny. Shirtless is good when the weather’s right, and shoeless.

I watch the ever-moving water, churning without stop over the shore’s bouldered border. And I wonder what makes the water white, the waves foaming as they break.

And I listen . . . rather, hear . . . as there’s no way you can’t hear the roar, the pound, the lapse. Sometimes it’s a passing boat that catches the eye, or just the distance, or the sky (major distance).

Sometimes I bring a book. Once, I decided to read a certain book here “religiously.” It was not a religious book. I came every afternoon at about the same time. I sat against the same rock, except when the tide determined otherwise, then I took another. (There has to be some flexibility in ritual.) I read that book, one chapter a day, in front of the waves, in the wind, in the sun, or in the gray on overcast days with fog horn blowing off shore. It was great. Now that rock and Van Gogh remind me of each other, at least sometimes.*

But mostly I just come here to be. Not far at my back to the east, the south, and especially to the north, 15 million souls, or is it 20, scurry to keep schedules, their long-term goals, their short-term pleasures. But here, it’s just me and the waves and the rocks and the sun and the sky, maybe a book to read, and a blank one for these notes. It’s a place just to be. And always here for me.

Here’s 20 seconds of it just to give you an idea.

PS  Thanks for all those commenting on my birthday blog. You added to the message.

* The book: Van Gogh’s Untold Journey, Revelations of Faith, Family, & Artist Inspiration, by my friend, William J. Havlicek, Ph.D.

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Okay, let’s try this again. Where we left off I’d just turned 75. I suppose that was such a shock I didn’t write for a year.* Maybe it was an effort to stop time; but here I am.

Birthdays, overrated. Something to look forward to when we’re very young, something not so welcome at the other end.

My funny uncle would talk about the maladies of old age as a result of candles. “Candles?” “Yes, too many of them . . . on the cake!”

For all that, here’s a saying from a sage: “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might (for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planting nor knowledge nor wisdom).” **

It’s a great statement, one I’ve often cited, and need to now again, particularly as the latter segment looms ever nearer.

I must confess the retirement mentality (the dreaded “R” word), has been creeping upon me. Thoughts of new goals and ideas that have ever been the rising waters under my boat are met with memories of their all having been attempted before. The mental energy can be undermined.

The truth is earlier outlets have shrunk, there are fewer publics to please, and doing things just for “self” is not enough.

Still, this scripture challenges. Later or sooner, the time will run out. It’s saying: Don’t rest on past laurels, get going.

What vows did you make? If nothing else, work on them.

Make the daily list and do it.

Write out your obit and live up to it.

(That’ll put things in perspective.)

If this is a melancholy moment, so be it; that too is good for the soul.

There’s life ahead. It’s still a gift. And to be lived with all the might.

Amen?

Oh, and that’s me, below, with just four candles. Ha! Even then not quite sure about this birthday thing.

_______

* To clarify, I have two blogs, Blank Canvas focuses on our art lives, is more or less monthly, and goes to a wider list. Blank Slate, which you’re now reading, is to a more inner circle.

**Ecclesiastes 9:10. Obviously the Old Testament writers didn’t have the more complete view of the life to come, but the point is still made.

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It’s my birthday and I just got a call from across multiple time zones to remind me. It was from daughter Cambria, situated for a time with her family in Shanghai, China. Among other things she reminded me that I usually post a blog on my birthday. So here I am.

Photo taken by Anne in Borono, Italy, a couple years back. But things haven’t changed much. Since then we’ve also been to France, Egypt and lately Holland and Spain . . . with much world yet to see.

Seventy-five years old today! I don’t know if it’s to brag about or to grieve. As somebody said, “Everybody wants to live long but nobody wants to get old. “Old? What’s that?” Old people are of another race.

At least that’s how we often see them. Daughter Allison once quipped, when she was a child, “You know what? When you grow up you’re the same person.” Very insightful.

The fact is, it’s true and it’s not true. As we grow we change, we mature, we add experiences to our history, learning to our perspective. So, we are the same person, and we’re not the same person, both.

I’m thinking at 75 I’m entering the last quarter of my life. At least that’s optimistic. If it’s like my first quarter, there may be a number of years I’ll have very little memory of.

I hope there’s health ahead. But there’s no fear: The destination is God.

For the occasion I gave a talk at our church last weekend. I knew that audience would be understanding of the real issues, like the born again reality that Jesus brought up and mandated as prerequisite for life ever on. That was a decision I made back when I was 27, my life falling apart as result of my successes, and me needed answers. It was during an extended trip, traveling in Mexico, and reading. I crossed the border as one person and came out another. Born again. The same person, and not the same person.

Here’s a chart I recently made during an early morning reflection.  With spokes radiating from the center decision it shows how everything’s been affected since. In a very real sense I’m not celebrating my 75 years, but 48 since my new life began . . . the life that is truly life.*

So that’s my birthday reflection. After this I don’t plan to bring up the subject again. Maybe I’ll celebrate every five years. Then when I’m 90, I’ll celebrate every six months.

Have a great Labor Day. (My mother did.)

___________

If you’re interested in the talk, it’s here.

*The life that is truly life comes from the Bible, 1 Timothy 6:19.

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We continue with our creative pursuits in the mountain retreat. Trust you’re doing the same in your situation and in your way. If so you’re probably finding that success is not always as immediately attainable as you might like. There’s no magic, no guarantee, no Midas touch that turns every work to gold.

I alluded to the process of their making in my presentation of the Beatitudes paintings a couple of weeks back. I unveiled them and reflected on the meaning of each one. I plan to bring out some of that in upcoming blogs. But first, I want to share a response that came from friend Scott Anderson who was in attendance. Following is an excerpt from his email (in blue) with some commentary by me.

How it looked at Heritage Christian Fellowship. It’s a presentation I could make again and again . . . if anyone has any ideas.

Hello Hyatt . . . I don’t know if you intended it or not, but I found the subtle points you brought up about working through a challenge were as valuable as the lessons you taught about the beatitudes.

First, accept the challenge
(At first I had no idea how I’d approach this proposed commission . . . and would never have done it if I’d not been asked. Being asked was a gift.)

It’s really just problem solving
(That’s how I see creative thinking. The more creative person just imagines a larger problem. After that it’s basically a series of steps, with more ideas and problem solving all along.)

You may have physical distractions
(In the midst of this whole project I was dealing with a torn retina, limiting my vision to only one eye, and no depth perception! Still, one can compensate.)

There is no existing template
(Painting the Beatitudes had not been done before, at least that I could find. There was nothing to emulate or take a departure from. It’s so often that way.)

You need a lifestyle of prayer
(I don’t remember praying at the outset though I likely did, as praying and thinking are about as natural as breathing . . . in and out.)

You must do research
(When the idea came to use faces–within a matter of minutes, really–then began the quest to find the right faces, with the right emotions. The seeker finds.)

It is an imperfect process
(There’s a lot of trial and error. There’s no “downloaded vision” that comes to you, not usually. Rather, you start, it takes on its own life, you follow it.)

You have to abandon it at some point and just declare it done
(Finally, after dealing with the last of pesky parts that you just can’t get “perfect,” you have to just stop and say, “That’s it; it’s the best I can do.”)

You have to put it out there
(In the end you let it be seen. Art is for the wall, not the closet. Your light is for the hill. You’re still aware of the problem areas, but nobody notices. They see the big picture, the original inspiration. You rejoice together.)

Thanks Scott, for your observations and insights.

Now to apply it all to new works.

For all of us.

_________________________

PS This Saturday evening the work of daughter Allison Moore Adams is being featured at an opening at OC Contemporary Gallery on PCH in north San Clemente.  It’s her series on “Ground Breaking Girls.” All invited.

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Do you ever want to get away and do the creative expression that is in you and just needs time and place to come out? We do. We’ve taken such excursions at least annually for almost a decade. Many of you have followed us along to the Oregon coast, Baja California, Arizona, Montana. Now we’re situated for our third time in California’s San Bernardino mountains. It’s how we do “vacation.”

The Bruce and Sandy Wegner cabin at Crestline, where we’ll be for two weeks.

We both look forward to these get-aways. For Anne it’s the only time she can really pour herself into her art. We do have a studio in the house, and I’m generally there every afternoon, but Anne only rarely. There’s always too much else to do. And, what with wanting and needing to produce new work for her offering at the Laguna Festival of Arts again this summer, there’s a useful urgency supplied.

First day, Anne’s press set up in the Wegner cabin being transformed into a studio.

Funny, more than one person, on learning that we were taking this trip would say things like, “Relax.”

Relax?

It’s not about that. Certainly there is the morning quiet time, the daily walks, the moments for reading, the conversations as we go, the movie in evening . . . but the real reason for it all is what we came for: the activities of our mind, the work of our hands.

My schedule for the two weeks, helps in ensuring the time’s well used. (Click twice for closer view.)

Understanding that, one friend prayed us a high measure of creativity. I thanked him but said that wasn’t the problem, ideas being generally abundant; rather it’s quality that we need . . . the ideal to come ever closer to the standards we’d like to reach.

So that’s what we’re doing. All prayers welcome.

We’ll keep you posted at intervals.

First morning, Anne completing an earlier piece.

I was also thinking of bringing you along a little more on the recent Beatitudes series, the process of their making and the meaning behind each. So, stay tuned for that.

With you, and for you, we remain grateful.

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Night Flight, 40×30, acrylic. Any mistakes?
Actually this one no longer exists. I used is as underpainting for one of new series on The Beatitudes. (Click for another of that.)

Remember your creator in the days of your youth . . . *

That’s a Biblical statement about getting old. By that time I’ll be glad if I can remember anything at all.

Sometimes I feel I’ve been gifted. I can paint. It’s a gift. But I don’t mean it like that.

What I mean is I’ve been given something that can keep me occupied, interested and growing for the rest of my life. That is a gift.

As I’ve long since learned, if you find what you love you won’t have to work another day in your life.

Find it now, in the days of your youth, before the memory goes, the hands shake, the ears get dull and the vision dims.

Speaking of vision, you’ll remember I reported on the operation for my detached retina. I was told it would take about two months to normalize. It’s been about a month and a half and I’m about three-quarters there. In spite of it, I’ve been painting right along . . . even with the nuisance. Same with reading.

Impressionists Edgar DeGas and Claude Monet both had bad eyes toward the end, and they kept on painting. Did some of their best work.

My dad, with his multitude of abilities, continued his side-line tax business long after he retired from his day job. He loved it, and people loved him. He had loyal clients. My mother served tea and everybody became friends. One time I asked him, “Dad, when are you going to retire from this?” His answer was that his clients wouldn’t let him, “Besides,” he added, “I think it’s good for me.”

Good answer. No denial of reality but still moving ahead.

But then he started making mistakes. It was a problem. He finally quit.

Me, I don’t do tax forms. I paint. The nice thing for me: If I start making mistakes no one will know.

Ha!

The art might even get better.

_____
(Currently in San Luis Obispo at sister’s, heading for Salinas to be with kids, then to Ojai to be with each other.)

* Ecclesiastes 12:1

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