The Winter Church

By Carrie Jacobson

Last week, I met with Joe Skelly, who is, as far as I know, the world’s only prosperity coach.

Daphne

By Carrie Jacobson

It was warm enough today, and bug-free enough, that we left the back door open so the dogs could go in and out at will, for the first time in their lives.

Clearly, it was liberation for them, and they spent hours running in and out – just because they could. Then Smokey sat in the sun in the open doorway, while Jojo lay in the sun in the yard, and we all soaked it up like the miracle it was.

Earlier in the day, when the door had still been closed, I’d heard the dogs doing something, again and again, making some metal on metal noise. I looked out of the open door of the boat-garage studio where I was painting, and though I couldn’t see what they were doing, I thought it might have something to do with the gates, and a potential escape, so I took them inside.

When I came back out, I heard the noise again, and realized where it was coming from – the rusty 40-foot-tall antenna that the previous owner installed, and which towers frighteningly over our house. It’s footed in a block of cement, and probably is stable, but still, it looks terrible, and if it ever toppled, would cause all sorts of trouble.

The noise, I realized, was caused by a bird, probably a crow, tossing pecans down inside the antenna, probably in an effort to break them.

Or maybe, just maybe, he did it just because he could.

Afternoon Storm in the Keys

By Carrie Jacobson
What is it that drives us to continue, through storms, through rough seas, through struggles with fear and failure and doubts about the future?

For me, some days, it is as simple as the color of the sky at dawn. It is the first yellow leaves of autumn, the quiet of snow falling at night, the smell of dust in the early moments of a summer rainstorm.

It is the feeling of a dog snuggled close by my side, the spicy tang of marigolds, the scent of coffee brewing in a sunny kitchen.

Some days, what gets me through is a song I play again and again, or a quote I stumble over quite by chance, or the words of a friend, spoken in love or in comfort.

It is the thought of home, the memory of my mother, the sense of wonder and glory that I feel every single morning. What gets me through is love and faith and the knowledge that this day, this single dawning day, this day is the day that we have.

Keys Afternoon

By Carrie Jacobson

This is my first real time in Florida, and I’ve noticed some things.

The Atlantic is a different color here than in New England. Here, it varies tremendously, according to the light, the time of day and the weather, at least for starters. Often, it’s an amazing azure blue, like you see in the ads. In the day and a half I’ve been here, I’ve seen it green, turquoise, celadon, and the amazing and indescribable color you see from glacial runoff.

The water is saltier, too – or so it seemed this afternoon, when I dunked myself in. Yes, it’s November 14. So I had to go in!

It’s hard to remember what time of year it is. Everything is green. Flowers are blooming. If I lived here, I would lose track of everything. But in the stores, Christmas items are out, and in Homestead, the downtown Christmas tree was already decorated.

Far as I can tell, there are no Wal-Marts in the Keys.

Key West is like Newport with palm trees and mopeds. I drove in, drove around and drove out, happy to be away. I didn’t see Hemingway’s house.

I have seen at least five people who clearly just live outdoors.

In Sarasota, cows graze in fields across the six-lane street from Lowe’s and Applebee’s – and there are palm trees in the cow fields.

In the bathrooms, women apparently don’t squat above the seats. I have not encountered one wet seat, hallelujah.

People drive really, really fast here. I was in Sarasota for three days and saw four huge accidents. I’ve been in the Keys for a day and a half, and have seen two crashes that resulted in cars turned over on their roofs.

Here's my painting in the landscape

Dawn, Tuesday

By Carrie Jacobson

Here in Wachapreague, the sun comes up in a sky as clear as any I’ve ever seen, and fills the land with colors that sing and light that shines true and clear through air with no haze, no smog, no pollution. Whatever it touches springs to life with a sort of bright glory that I’ve only ever seen in the land around Wisdom, Montana.

I can’t count the opportunities that have passed me by. The doors that have closed behind me, never to open. The roads I didn’t take, the chances I failed to see.

As life goes on, these line up behind me, a trail of failures and misses and could-have — even, maybe, should-have — beens.

And yet, it seems, the right things have happened. All that has happened has brought Peter and me here, to a place where we are happy, a place where opportunity seems as wide as the sky and as bright as Tuesday’s rising sun.

Yes, I hear the echoes of those doors slamming shut, and yes, from time to time, I feel regret. But today, I turn ahead, and walk forward, and try, forever, not to look back.

Sunrise, Tuesday

By Carrie Jacobson

The sun is just up, and I’m facing a big day. A day with chores and duties and a lot of challenges – probably more than I can handle, and I know it, even this early.

It’s exciting, yes, and it is daunting, and as I close the laptop, I’m already thinking ahead, planning Chore No. 1 – gathering all six dogs, letting them out, herding them and shushing them in this early morning quiet.

I open the door of my boat-garage studio and head down, start toward the house. I am concentrating. Focusing. Planning.

And then the light catches my eye, and I look up – and everything changes. The chores recede. The challenges shrink. What must be done, what should be done, what demands attention, all that can wait. In this moment, there is nothing more than the clouds and the sun and the joy of being alive in a place like this, and in a life like this.

This little painting is a celebration of the simple beauty of the world, and a reminder to enjoy it.

Chores can always wait.

Canton Sunflower Farm

This life offers some odd interactions.

I am painting on a recent morning, on the side of Route 44 in Canton (pronounced the Ohio way, not the China way), when a red truck pulls up.

The door opens, and out steps an old guy wearing a T-shirt and a sort of strange hat. He looks to be in his 80s.

He comes over to me, and peers around the easel.

He stares at the painting for a moment, then turns to me.

“Do you ever paint regular?” he asks.

***

This whole interchange got me thinking. What is regular for me is just not regular for everyone else – and vice versa.

It’s interesting to see painters at any show, side by each, selling their work. Interesting to see the approach, the technique, the framing – and the variety (or lack of variety) that each show’s jury selects.

At my most recent show, there was one abstract multimedia guy who made very long skinny pieces, like 36 inches by 4 inches. There was my friend Ronet Noe, who makes fabulous, colorful, whimsical paintings that often have areas of papier mache that are raised from the canvas. There was a guy who paints nautical scenes so gorgeous and so detailed that I wondered whether they were photographs (he was mean to me when I asked). And another guy who paints finely detailed but not completely realistic scenes. And then there was me.

There’s no measuring one against the other. No judging. It’s just interesting to see the variety. And I am always glad to be included, regular or not.

***

So what does the old guy mean?

He wants someone to paint a scene on a saw.

Guess it won’t be me.

Burton's Shore

By Carrie Jacobson

One of the reasons, I think, that Wachapreague and the surrounding areas on the eastern shore of Virginia are so beautiful and untouched is that there are really no beaches there.

Instead, there’s a gorgeous salt marsh that draws all sorts of birds, and deep inlets that are home to all sorts of sealife.

And there are barrier islands with beautiful, untrammeled beaches – but they’re out between the bay and the Atlantic.

I am thankful for this, much as I love beaches. It has kept the eastern shore from looking like Virginia Beach or the Outer Banks, or any of a thousand other seaside spots that have been built up and built up and overbuilt up.

Here and there, of course, there are strips of sand, small beaches – like this one, on Burton’s Bay. It is lovely, and filled with fiddler crabs. One of these days, I’ll go swimming there. This time, I just painted.

***

If  you’re looking for something to do this weekend, you might consider taking a drive to check out the Mt. Gretna Outdoor Art Festival, in Mt. Gretna, PA.  It is supposed to be an excellent show – I will report about it on my blog, The Accidental Artist, if you want to know how it came out…

Wednesday Morning Salt Marsh

By Carrie Jacobson

While the house is still a chaotic disaster, we are pretty much all moved, so breathe a big sigh of relief, and raise a cheer, and let me know if you need anything.

Table lamps? We seems to have six extra ones.

Nice drapey clothes that look good at work and are still comfortable? Finally, I am ready to let them go.

And if there’s anyone out there who needs plastic containers, kosher salt or throw rugs, drop me a line.

This morning, instead of unpacking, I went down the street and painted.  It’s so beautiful here in Wachapreague, it makes my heart ache. Even on a gray old Wednesday morning, with nothing spectacular happening, no special sky, no amazing sunrise, this is still one of the loveliest places on earth.

And it is quiet. Except for the sound of the gulls, there was no noise. You hear no traffic, no trains, not even anything off in the distance. It is quieter in Wachapreague than it was in Bolster’s Mills, Maine.

Yes, moving was tough, but it was worth it to end up here.

***

If you’re in Connecticut this weekend, stop by the Mystic Outdoor Art Festival! It’s an excellent and big show, with high-quality work – and it’s fun. Mystic is great for a weekend outing, too, as the Mystic Seaport, Mystic Aquarium and Olde Mystic Village shopping center are all there. Mystic is also just a stone’s throw from the Rhode Island beaches, some of the best in New England.

If you go to the show, please stop by my booth and say hello. I’ll be at the corner of Willow and Main, across from the post office and near the bagel place.

Big Sky

By Carrie Jacobson

I have not thought of myself as a consumer.

I do have too many clothes, beautiful clothes that I love, and which are now nearly useless as, after more than two decades of going into a newsroom to work, I no longer have a 9-5 job.

I do have too many painting-related items, too many paintings and too much paint, if there really is such a thing.

I have cut my own personal library down to about 50 books. I have thrown away boxes and boxes and BOXES of mementos, newspaper clippings, stories and novels and essays I’ve written. I have donated clothes and shoes and linen tablecloths. I have given furniture and towels and sheets and rugs and blankets to my daughter. I have left good stuff at the end of the driveway, and passersby have happily taken it home with them.  I have sold my dead mother’s possessions at yard sales, and given them to groups holding yard sales, and wheedled and whined until my siblings and childhood friends took them – and still, when push came to shove, we barely managed to fit most of our stuff into a 26-foot-long moving van.

I sat on the deck and looked at the truck and burst into tears.

“I don’t want to be a person who has this much stuff,” I wailed to my daughter and my husband. They love me and generally don’t think I am crazy, though this episode might have dislodged their certainty a little. “We could burn the truck and still live fine in our new house!” I cried – and of course, I was right. We bought the house furnished, after all.

“What IS all of this stuff?” I cried. “What IS IT?”

At this point, I would like to come right out and say that a lot of it is my husband’s stuff. While I would like to live in a house with a bed and two chairs and a flower arrangement, he would like to have a library stuffed with books, walls rich with paintings and photographs and work rooms with the right materials and plenty of them.

So that is him, and that is his stuff.

I told myself that, this move, I would limit myself to one box of things. You know the things, the things it’s so hard to part with, and the things that are so hard to explain. I tried for one box, and think I ended with three – which is far better than the 10 or so I began with.

In the boxes are letters from my mother and poems my father wrote, and notes from friends and staffers. There’s a magic wand given to me by a friend whose birthday and mine fall on the same day. There’s Oscar the Seal, my favorite stuffed toy, which began life as a gift to my brother, but which, according to my mother, I took instantly, before brother Rand had a chance to see it.

There’s a photograph of me and my long-gone dog Gus, at the top of a mountain in Banff, Canada. There’s my Canadian Ski Instructors Alliance certification pin. There’s the oddly shaped box with my baby hospital bracelet, and another tiny box that holds a pin my grandfather won for working for decades at Dupont.

It was hard to get it down to three boxes. Hard to toss out plaques and awards I won in my years in newspapers. Hard to toss out papers I worked on that reported history. A couple of those papers even made history, and I threw them away, too. It was hard to toss out the paper reporting Mike Levine’s death, but I put it in the recycle bin, and instead, kept a rock from his gravesite.

I threw out notebooks and cracked cups I had treasured. I brought old paintings of mine to Goodwill. I recycled my journalism portfolios, gave a hundred  books to the library, donated my skis. I let go of a lot this time. I faced a lot this time.

This time, in spite of the 26-foot truck, I made a lot of choices and came to grips with a lot of truths. I won’t work in a newspaper again, at least not in any capacity that requires nice clothes. I won’t ski again, at least not to the extent of needing my own skis. I won’t reach out to friends I haven’t thought about in 20 years, though I certainly will never truly forget them.

This move is some sort of defining point in my life, and for once, I am facing up to it, and all the truth it holds.

**If you are interested in buying ‘Big Sky,’ please contact me at carrieBjacobson@gmail.com