Meditation 

I forgot to meditate this morning. And yesterday. And, if I’m being completely honest, the day before that. 

But I did stand at the kitchen window this morning, watching the downy woodpecker efficiently select tiny bits of suet and seed from the feeder in the apple tree. 

He didn’t look up to see who was waiting in line on the branch above his head. He didn’t startle and flee like the chickadees and juncos when the wind suddenly whipped tall grasses against the fence post. 

It was only his breakfast, this little moment and of course me, watching this scrappy zygodactyl toed bird gripping the holder while his fuzzy tuft of Scarlett bobbed up and down with each peck. 

Delicate black and white feathers across his back ruffled in the wind, and last summer’s apple leaves blew by. Clouds moved swiftly above, ushered by an exuberant late March bluster. But he didn’t leave. This delicious bounty of sustenance was here, now. 

The downy woodpecker and I breathed in and out. Staying put. Not moving. Until finally, fully content, we did. 

Perhaps I’ll try again tomorrow. 

Here for now.

Goodbye 2022. You tried, but we desperately needed more than you could offer. Our loves and losses have piled up in our hearts and souls. The risk of being human.

Yet tonight we’re here. Temporarily, yes, but with a great desire to stay. We want to see what 2023 brings. We hope to make it to Valentine’s Day, Easter, late spring graduations, next year’s babies, Halloween and who knows what is to come.

How do we reconcile this life? This deep desire to continue living when we know we’re mortal? No exceptions.

Tonight, arriving home, the New England air was cold, frigid, a cloudless sky. The stars love it when that happens. They scatter themselves over our heads, assuming familiar constellations and occasionally adding a bright planet or passing plane. Celestial beauty from the driveway. So gorgeous we stop breathing, for a moment.

There is nothing to do but gaze upwards, wrap our coat around our body and thank the universe for being here. Life is fleeting but oh so beautiful.

We are here for now, tonight.

Lucky us.

The Sea Beside Us

Artist Statement

NH Art Association

June 2021

The beauty of the sea  breathes its briny and wild salt water into our beings, asking nothing in return.  I wonder, is it possible to live without the sea?

This body of work is about not only the beauty of the ocean, but also the feelings that arise in us when the sea is near.  The scents and sounds...the visual beauty almost too big to absorb.  The taste of the salt on our skin, the feel of the sand and rocks under our bare feet; the cliffs and fields of flowers that lead us to the water’s edge.  All humble and familiar yet at the same exact time thrilling, magical, stunning.

The sea, like the stars, live within every cell of our bodies. It lives in our hearts and minds, and reassures us with every breaking wave, that we’ve been here before and we’ll be OK...over and over again.

This collection of art is inspired by the good fortune I’ve had to live near the sea.

 I am hopeful  the images evoke a certain kind of memory or feeling you had as you came upon a hidden cove, a steep cliff, a field of wildflowers or a smooth and pebbled beach, beside the magnificent sea.

Maryclare J Heffernan

Candia NH

June, 2021

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Postscript ~ 
Having the privilege to live near the sea embeds an indelible imprint on my heart and in my soul. I imagine it's as precious as living near the clouds and stars, or perhaps the vast fields of swaying grains in the midwest or the startling vastness of the Grand Canyon, the majestic peaks of the Rocky Mountains.   

The seas command the remarkable natural beauty and wonder of this planet we inhabit. Yet this home of ours requires our vigilance, care, protection now and forever . It demands our full attention and love for specific, measurable  plans to return the oceans natural resources to health. For we humans will be nothing without this precious earth, sea, sky. It is the one and only planet we collectively share and love. 

While creating my new art show "The Sea Beside Us" I thought constantly of the pure power, beauty and life source of the ocean. And also of  the pollution, damage and waste we humans send to our living seas everyday. Our oceans are beautiful to behold but they are more than that...they are truly a lifeline strung from the stars, to the moon, the clouds, the fields of wild flowers, mountains and canyons to the brackish, dynamic living sea below. We are all a precious one.  

My mother loved Thanksgiving. She savored planning the menu that, with rare exception, was exactly the same year after year.  She'd be at the front door with flour on her red plaid apron, as we arrived home from college, or later with our babies wrapped up warm after a long car ride.

My four siblings and I, and in time our spouses, children and anyone else connected to our lives, gathered every year at our childhood home to eat, drink and get very merry.  Our annual celebration was a measure of how much we loved and were loved; recognition of belonging to this tribe; a crazy quilt of shared history, stories good and some not so good, and some that required fact checking. It was, for as many years as I can remember, how we celebrated this November holiday. 

But things change. Our mother passed away and our lives shifted in a number of different directions. We continued our family gatherings first at our family home with our father, and then after he died, at my sister's home. We're a musical family so there was always music and wonderful, albeit the same, food with exceptions made for new members adding their family recipes.  Our lasting tradition was that at the end of the meal each person said what they were grateful for that year. Sometimes funny, maybe some redundancy, some emotional and teary...but every Thanksgiving we said out loud our individual blessings. After each sharing, everyone clapped. 

I've been thinking about what it is that our hearts and minds yearn for in our traditions, especially when they aren't available.  Our COVID-19 experience this year brings us face to face with a stark, new reality. Life is temporary and so are we. The memories of our past and the dreams and fears of our future are not in our control.  Yet what we do have, and always will, is this exact moment...this exact second. How we choose to live each present moment is the luxury only for the living. And that my friends, is us...right now.

My mother, in addition to loving Thanksgiving and life, managed the cemetery for our church.  Her work required planning for death. At least for the death of others. She sold burial plots with single or double depth to those wishing to complete their life plan.  While she mourned the loss of her church neighbors she was vigilant in overseeing the work of the grave diggers to ensure a perfect plot preparation and burial. The grave diggers were her friends and our dining room was on occasion filled with wilting white gladiolus and pink carnations, complements of her friends' access to the latest burial bouquet. An oddly lovely gift. 

As we look forward to this 2020 Thanksgiving and a long winter of uncertainty I look back to my mother's life experience. We are here temporarily and while we're here we need to make the apple pies, the sweet potatoes, and turkey even if we are alone. We can celebrate without sitting next to our family and friends because we know they are where they need to be. We hope next year will be different. 

All we have is this moment and Zoom and for now that's what we need.  We each have abundant blessings that gift us with the knowledge that we have survived so far, and with care and kindness in these rarest of  times, we will live to love those glorious days to come. 

Wishing blessings and a happy Thanksgiving to all!

Maryclare 

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Such Simple Beauty   Michele, painting on the rocks of Lobster Cove, Monhegan.   Our September ferry ride from Port Clyde, Maine to Monhegan Island began in a gentle foggy mist but by the time we were full steam ahead a wild windblown downpour battered our little ferry. Once safely on the dock we loaded our bags on the truck to the Inn and walked into the rain the rest of the way. We arrived soaked to the skin, but on Monhegan what you're wearing and how you look makes absolutely no difference to anyone.   There are a few experiences in our lives that leave us changed. This, for me, was one of those times.   The elusive magic of this undisturbed island only 10 miles off the coast, is an unexplained wonder that leaves one thinking we may have imagined it all.   Our hearts and minds expanded exponentially during our time on this rocky outcropping in the Atlantic. The brace of constant winds along the cliffs and the sea, and squawk of the diving sea gulls, were our daily companions. At night we learned that the stars in this September Maine sky are a giant bowl of diamonds tossed from above with a gracious nod to splendor.   We learned that the appeal of this little island is in the undisturbed paths leading to who knows where, the expansive bluffs, windblown fields, and in the waves spraying saltwater almost as high as the seagulls.     Here are two of our paintings from this one memorable week in September.        "Afternoon Glow, Monhegan School House" 6x8 oil on linen panel ~ Michele Rofrano         Lobster Cove, Monhegan Island", 9x12 oil on panel ~ Maryclare Heffernan

Who knows what we are each capable of doing that we haven't done before? Who knows how many human beings have lived their entire life without realizing what vein of rich possibility wasn't tapped? Probably all of us in one way or another. But when we take a chance and dip into that vein of aspiration the revelations that surface are pure joy!

I've tried and have not succeeded at lots of activities. After many painful piano lessons I can play just one song on the piano (Heart and Soul); after skiing backwards down a Vermont ski slope I do not own a pair of downhill skis; after failing physics in high school I never pursued a degree in Quantum Mechanics. I have lots of shortcomings. We aren't all good at everything but we are all good at many things.  It is the exploration that leads to building new neural connections and pathways and staying as alive in the moment as is possible. 

I found and opened my art vein after a long satisfying career in education as a teacher, administrator and consultant. Yet, I yearned for something else creative and elusive that I couldn't quite put my finger on.  I come from a family of artists and musicians but I was happily the art appreciation critic and sing along partner.  Several years ago, following a string of surgeries, one of my artist sisters came to visit and brought with her canvases, paints and brushes. We sat on the porch and painted peonies, well actually I painted one peony.  In that moment, even without benefit of an EEG, I felt my brain light up with joy. 

I now find myself telling anyone who will listen that they should try painting.  Of course that worked for me, but they should try any new thing that attracts them, anything they've always dreamed of doing or admired others who were doing it.  Still, I can't let go of the art push. When I am gallery sitting or talking with people about art I ask if they are an artist. It astounds me how many people tell me they used to paint or take photos or etch...but they aren't now. "Why not?," I ask. They tell me they weren't very good at it, or they went to college and majored in Political Science, or they fell in love and there was no time left for art, then, you know three kids later... They invariably look longingly at a distant memory of themselves. And I say, "Just paint! Dig out those watercolors or pencils and start. It's never too late!" And they look at me and slowly nod.

If I could do it at my age, you can too.  It is never too late to find that vein, that artery, leading directly to the best parts of us... our hearts and souls. 

"First Peony" - Oil 6x6 ~ 2009