Delphiniums, oil on canvas, 18×24

By Carrie Jacobson

A prayer for all the mothers:

May love be the road you walk, with your children and with your own mother. It might not be an easy road, or a straight one. It might not be paved smooth and even. But it’s the best road, the surest road, the one that passes through the heart.

May you have the courage to hold fast to your convictions and your ethics, and to teach your children the hard lessons, the ones that will help them make their own best choices.

May you find the energy to seek your own inspiration, your own truths, your own beliefs and the strength to follow them.

May you have the joy of laughter shared, the pleasure of rich solitude, the comfort of family and friends when times are tough.

And may hope and faith be yours, today and every day.

Springtime on the Eastern Shore

By Carrie Jacobson

It’s a chilly spring here on the Eastern Shore, but it is spring nonetheless. Daffodils, dogwoods, azaleas, tulips, forsythia – for them, I guess it’s the sun more than the temperature that matters. Cardinals are here, and bluebirds, and the hummingbirds began arriving this week. And one day, soon, it will be warm.

On Tuesday, I learned that Charlie Harris, husband of Karen Harris, a friend from the Record, had died. He was young – well, what I think of now as young. Mid-50s, maybe.

He was young for death.

Charlie’s passing has shaken me deeply, not because we were especially close, but because, I think, he always seemed so very much alive. He always seemed full of energy, full of smiles, full of vigor and enthusiasm and life. It seemed that he had so much life in him that he would, he must, live for a long, long time.

But none of us does.

As this wintry spring comes and goes, all too quickly, all to briefly, I will plant a thought of Charlie Harris, and be glad that I knew a man who was so full of life.

Ganado, Arizona

By Carrie Jacobson

I loved the West. I loved the huge sky, the open plains, the amazing rock formations. I loved the mountains, the sagebrush, the cacti, the amazing dawns and dusks. I loved the tiny little towns, the big exotic cities, the adobe houses and mammoth ranches.

I loved how sunny and warm it was, how wild, how unpredictable. One moment I would be driving up a hilly little road, and the next moment, I’d be at 9,000 feet, looking out at mountaintops and seeing snow trapped in the shady hollows of the woods.

I was born out there, in Arizona, very close to the landscape I’ve painted here. I loved seeing the place where I was born, even if I don’t remember it much.

This was a great trip, and I loved nearly every minute of it. The best part was also the most surprising part, painting with my dad, outdoors, twice. How fantastic and rich to find something new that we share, him at 84 and me at 56.

And now, I am home, and happy to be home. Happy to have seen the world and come back to the quiet and the calm of the Eastern Shore.

As beautiful as were all the places I saw during this trip, there was no place… well, no place like home.

To see more paintings from my trip, click here to check out my blog, The Accidental Artist.

Around Christmas, my friend Ronet Noe, who is a fabulous painter and a delightful person, gave me a painting that I gave to our daughter as a Christmas present. Erika, said daughter, had fallen in love with the painting at the Mystic Outdoor Art Festival. Ronet wanted a portrait of her dog, Roy. So we traded, one for one.

Roy was one of the paintings I was determined to finish before leaving on my painting trip to Tubac – and so here he is! I really love this painting, and as so often happens to me while I am painting a dog, I lost my heart a little bit to Roy.

SPEAKING OF DOGS, I was accepted again this year into Paws for Charity, the fabulous pet-art-book project by Sara Harley. Sara says that there are 90 participants this year! You can check the project out at PawsforCharity.blogspot.com, and also on Facebook at www.facebook.com/PawsforCharity.

The books are not out yet, but I encourage you to buy one when they do come out. They’re not cheap, but they are beautiful, and all the money raised goes to help a shelter in Canada. The artists get no money, Sara gets no money – but the animals do, and that’s why I do it. (Also, it’s great to see my paintings in a book!)

Here’s a copy of my page:

Storm in the Black Dirt

By Carrie Jacobson

I’ve had a couple bad experiences in Florida, and so, for now, for the foreseeable future, I am staying away.

And I had been so hopeful! This most recent show was a fine art show, put on by the Boca Raton Museum of Art. I was honored to get in, and as I walked the show Saturday morning (or in my case, limped the show), I was thrilled by the quality of the art – and how well my stuff measured up.

That moment of happiness feels like it warmed me a lifetime ago.

For me, and everyone near me, the rest of the show was awful. No one in my general vicinity had anything amounting to good sales. And the people who came to the show looked like they were so unhappy to be there! If there is one thing I know, it’s that unhappy people don’t buy art.

So I am writing Florida off – almost. On my way home, I stopped to see a friend from The Record. She has all sorts of ties and memories to the Black Dirt Region, and bought this painting, one of my all-time favorites, and saved Florida from being a total loss for me.

This weekend, I am pushing myself hard to try something new: a dog show! I’m going to unpack my van, gather all my dog paintings, repack the van and head to Connecticut. The show is at the XL Center in Hartford, and is on Saturday and Sunday, if you’re in the area. It should be fun!

On Deep Creek Road

By Carrie Jacobson

While I might be the founding member of the Big Field, Little House school of painting, I doubt that I am the only member – though, who knows?

I have wondered for a long time about this focus of mine. This scene, the archetypal big open space with a solitary house, has always attracted me. Even as a teenager, I remember loving the sight of the single house at the edge of Harkness Park, sitting alone at the edge of the pond.

A psychologist would probably have interesting things to say about this – but I think I love this view because I imagine what it would be like to be in that house, snug against the trees. You would feel sheltered and safe, but have a huge, open expanse in front of you.

And isn’t that what we all want?

I made a video of me making this painting… You can see it on YouTube by clicking here. I’d love to know what you think about the video!

Silver Beach

By Carrie Jacobson

This, then, is winter in Virginia.

It is gray. Dark. Rainy. Raw.

But it is not snowy.

It is not icy.

I am not shoveling.

I am not skidding.

I am not warming up the car for half an hour, and then leaving home an hour early, seeking routes that have no hills. I am not scraping windshields, losing gloves, finding frozen sodas on the floor, worrying about ice-melter and the back steps and the dogs’ paws.

For decades, I loved winter, and I loved the snow. I loved the way white outlined everything, cleaned it all, purified it. I loved the howling blast of a blizzard and the deep quiet of a gentle snow. I loved the sharp air of winter, how the coldest days would freeze the inside of your nose, and bring tears to your eyes. I loved the brilliance of the sun on the snow, and the way it caught the moonlight, making night look like some kind of shadowed day.

I loved skiing, and hiking in the snow and, later, painting it.

But for all that, I don’t miss it. Winter has been painless, here on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. It has been gentle, and soft, and gray.

And if I want real winter, I know where to find it.

Here's my painting in the landscape

Snow Geese Taking Flight

By Carrie Jacobson

Here is my prayer for the new year:

Let me wake every day in gratitude and with faith. Let me find courage to overwhelm my fear, and vision to overcome my blindness. Let me forgive myself and others. Let me choose generosity, take risks, and act with the power and the glory of love.

Happy New Year to you all!

Roy

By Carrie Jacobson

Darkness creeps in early on these short, thin days, wrapping its fingers around the thin afternoon light and trying to squeeze the joy from our souls.

How do we celebrate the birth of Christ when children are being shot and killed? How do we find the joy of the season and the blessings of family and friends when our leaders are focused on the argument instead of on the solution? How do we share our happiness when it seems to be in such short supply?

I think we just do. I think we just decide to share whatever we have, whatever we can muster. A smile is as welcome a gift as any. Laugh with me and we will feel the wonder of the season. Sing a song together and we are celebrating the birth of Christ. Touch my heart and you will multiply your own joy.

So let’s sing songs tonight. Let’s light candles in the dark, and smile at strangers and hug the people we love. The darkness can not win if we decide to triumph.