Fears Given Flight Healing Vessel

This box was done during the last week. It began as a story box and turned into a box comprised of healing thoughts and feelings that welled deep inside. A cathartic box of emotions set to words and given flight.

decide • make shampoo horns • daily try to remember to laugh • fearlessly acknowledge fear • breathe in love • dig in the dirt • always trust in yourself and God • connect with nature and wind • shine

forgive others and yourself • trust • follow your star • pray • listen • adjust and know you will be okay • hope • envision the goal • create • sit quietly and dream • heal • believe

surrender guilt and loss • imagine joy • take the back roads • bloom as needed • make time for peaceful healing rest • renew • help others freely • love • invite joy into all of your home • listen • act

eat ice-cream daily • cry • know you are much stronger than you think • honestly forgive • paint in the sunshine • be extra kind • wave to animals • hug friends • believe strongly in hope

Kenneth R. Swearingen - My Dad

October 1, 1931 - April 04, 2010

The night before Easter I was in my studio working when my husband Jon told me my Father was in the hospital. I froze as he filled me in on the details from my brothers call. He took ill very suddenly. I somehow imagined the worst. Maybe it was my minds way of preparing myself.
The following day, on Easter morning, my Father died.

I've become very quiet. Kind of weird for me. The weather that day was amazing. A gentle wind all day that seemed to give me peace. A perfect spring day followed by a night sky filled with stars. The handle of the big dipper arched across the sky and pointed directly to Polaris- the North Star - a sign of guidance and direction. In the days to come, I knew I would need that compass. I tried to stay busy. The wind gave me peace, I'm not sure why, but it did. In the quiet hours that followed I let myself feel the pain I'd been pushing away all day. I realized I was alive and my Dad had been gifted a beautiful day on which to go to heaven. For a spiritual man, dying on the day of Resurrection was a gift granted him from above, of that I am certain.

The days that followed were a frenzy of planning, packing, phone calls, airports, schedules and tears. When that subsides there comes a time when the quiet sets in. The flowers faded, the ceremony over, the immediacy of things - done. In that space, one goes over in their head all that's transpired. Fragments of thoughts and feelings that may stay forever ingrained in my head rewind and play over and over.

When my Mom died when I was 15. My clearest memory was of my Dad, my brother and I walking away from her grave site in the cold wet grass. A very alone feeling as we left behind the 'glue' of our family never to be hugged again.
A very alone feeling I have never forgotten. I hate wet grass.
There was no wind that day. Just wet grass and an empty feeling inside.
These recent images are clear now, but they too will eventually fade.
Some will stay I'm certain.
The way the air felt.
The way sunlight came pouring into the church.
The fragrance of all the flowers and incense mixed together.
The faces of friends and co-workers sharing their feelings.
The pain of 'what ifs' that surface in my head late at night when it's dark.
The peace of knowing my Mom and Dad are re-united.
The alone feeling over the loss of both of them.

I think my Father knew he was dying, but kept it to himself. The last secret he could keep was to accept his mortality on his own terms. He wrote his own obituary in the weeks prior to his death. His memorial Mass was just as he would have wanted it to be. The smell of the Easter lilies and other flowers filled the air. It was personal, solemn and ended with a Marine Corp Honor Guard. Nine shots fired into the cloudless sky. A United States flag was ceremonially folded and handed to my brother outside the metal roofed country church he attended. Under the portico, the breeze blew as we stood mesmerized by the careful, calculated gestures these dedicated older Veterans displayed.
I felt relieved Dad had the type of send off he would have wanted.

My Dad was 78 years old. He lived a good life. His death came unexpectedly to all of us. His parents lived well into their 90's and I figured he would too. He outlived two wives and left behind an older brother. He was fortunate to have found love more than once in his lifetime. Not all are so blessed.
At his funeral were people he worked with, his family, his 9 year old neighbor girl and his friends. One of them a young Marine named Ian in full dress uniform. He had befriended my Dad at the courthouse and in doing so found a mentor. His being there struck a cord in me. After he received communion at the altar, he placed his white gloved hand on the box containing my Fathers ashes. He too had lost a friend. So many people knew my Dad on levels so different than how I knew him. He had made his life in the mountains of Georgia and he'd made a difference in other people's lives.

I'm struggling with all that is hitting me. Over the years, I had a challenging relationship with my Dad, but we'd made peace and I knew he loved me. In his post office box were a tin of cookies I'd just sent. He never got them. In his last weeks I shared with him some personal issues I'm facing and he didn't pass judgement on me. That may have been his last real gift to me - the fact he didn't pass judgement. Never would I have guessed that would have been his legacy or in doing so it would mean so much to me.

When we visited my Dads home after the funeral, we found a wind chime hanging in his tree. His gardens were beginning to bloom and life was returning. My brother and I looked at where he'd lived out his final days and we both agreed, he's not there anymore. Ken carefully untied the wire holding the chimes in the tree. The white angel with the broken wing that was in his backyard will come live with us too- wherever we live, and in the wind we'll find peace.

I love you Dad.

♥

Exits and Entries

I've been reminded by a few of my blog readers that I haven't posted in some time. I go through periods when I post a lot and then go silent. As I told a friend, I've been known to curl into my Cancerian shell and observe for a while. Lately, the shell feels safe and the view is about all I need. I've been wondering too what my first post of the new year would entail. Usually an idea will pop into my head and once it does, I realize that is the message to share. At 3 am I realized what I would write today.
For me, New Years has come to resonate with a certain degree of retrospection and quiet. I'm not the kind to need to over-indulge to mark the turning of a new year. I feel more like there are lessons I need to take from the stillness that require a level head to hear them.

A new year marks an end and a beginning. An exit and an entry. Last night that thought became underscored by learning of the death of one of our dear art fair friends, Denny Davis.
Denny was battling stage 4 Leukemia for the past two and half years. We last saw him at a show in Pensacola in November. His spirits were good and he told us he was about to undergo a stem cell treatment. He'd be hospitalized for several weeks. Later in November we learned that the treatment was such that it could kill him. I think we all felt he'd beat it. He seemed invincible. Complications arose and an infection ensued. He died yesterday afternoon.
Denny possessed a dark sense of humor that brought groans from some and laughs from others. It was his way of coping. I understood it since my Mom reacted the same way as she was dying. It was a twisted way to keep from going to the dark side, which he knew was at arms distance. Yesterday that arm reached out and took him from this world.

I've been crying on and off and realize this is my loss. The loss of someone I always looked forward to talking to is gone. I will miss him greatly, but this should not be about me. The art world has lost a great artist that painted with abandon and was prolific. He was the most well read individual I'd ever met. He was intelligent and articulate. He could recite and bring into focus concepts and history and politics that I can't begin to wrap my brain around. The last time I saw him he said he was ready to sell everything and move into someone's garage and paint and read. That was his life. That and his friends - and there was no shortage of them.

Denny could assemble and lay out a 100 square foot booth like no one I know! He would, in essence, create a maze of panels and fill them top to bottom with paintings. If you liked abstract work and left his booth without anything, it was amazing. He loved to work a deal and make a sale possible. "I'll tell ya what I'll do...." he'd begin. His paintings had a fire and life to them that always kept me looking into them. They were alive with his energy. He used red with great passion. I only wish I owned one of his canvases.
That I regret.

Denny loved to poke fun of people he felt were fake. TV evangelists and politicians in particular were his fodder! He had a way of justifying his disdain that always left me smiling. I used to call him a 'devout atheist' but reminded him I was praying for his good health. To which he'd reply 'hey, that's okay if you want to'.
His exit marks the entry to a new year.
Again, I sit quietly trying to take from his passing a lesson.
I mourn his loss, but I valiantly cheer his presence in my life. He will be missed greatly.
His doing what he loved, right to the end, is what I take from his passing. All he wanted to do was paint and spend
time with his friends.
I will not let his exit be an ending, but a beginning.
A passage to an entry.
He wouldn't want it any other way, and to honor him, that's how I will remember his life.

RIP dear friend, wherever you are!

Patricia

Arrangements:

An informal gathering of Dennys friends will be held at:
The Miller Bakery Cafe
555 S. Lake St.
Gary, IN

This Saturday, Jan. 9 at 1 PM.
The phone number for Miller's is 219-938-2229
http://www.millerbakerycafe.net/

Thirty four years ago today..........

Thirty four years ago today I was 15.
Thirty four years ago today my Mom died.
She was 45.
I thought forty five was 'ancient' in kid years.
I'm 49 and know fully well 45 is not old and
15 is way too young.
Some things hurt no matter how long ago they happen to you.
This is one of those hurts.

In the years after my Moms death, there were times I missed her more than other times.
When I was sick -I missed her more then.
When I was feeling lost and alone.
When I lost a cat. I cried for all my losses, old and new.
She was a wonderfully loving Mom who gave great hugs and let my brother and I know we were loved
and accepted no matter what. She encouraged us to be in life what we wanted to be, not what she hoped or
dreamed we'd be.
She let us be ourselves.
Not every parent allows this of their children.
There were no shadows or shoes to fill.
I think the longest walk my brother and I made was away from her grave site.
It felt like a million miles through the wet grass.

Her life was cut short of seeing who my brother and I turned out to be.
My brother became an attorney, is married to a wonderful woman and has a teenage son.
I became an artist. Married the love of my life and make art.
We became who we wanted to be thanks to her love and support.

So here I am today. Missing her.
I have a nasty cold and seem to miss her more today.
Some things never change.
Love you Mom. I think you'd be proud of us!
We became ourselves.

Pat
xo

Letting Go

We went to Maine.
For 4 days--we let go.
of time
internet connectedness
stress
bad karma.
I had a massage.
More letting go.
My therapist's strong hands clasped mine as she
noticed the array of colorful beaded bracelets on my wrist.
She asked me what kind of massage I wanted.
I told her.
She asked about my bracelets.
I told her....
small pieces of myself I like to share.
I gave one to a friend-someone I thought was a friend.
I had one similar on my wrist.

She worked the knots in my over-stressed body
and melted them away with
long
smooth
deep
healing
strokes.
These people are healers.

She gave me the best massage I'd ever had!....
The remnants of a recent hurtful experience, now gone.
The knots released in my body as I let go of the pain I'd been harboring inside.

I dressed.
I breathed in deeply.
I left behind on her small table
a colorful beaded bracelet that
I no longer needed to wear.

I let go.

Patricia

Go With God, Baxter

It's with sadness that I write this. Our sweet little Baxter kitty died this weekend. We don't know how or why, but we found him when we came in last night. He was well and energetic and a bouncy bundle of kitten. Perhaps he played with a wasp, as they sometimes get inside. He may have eaten one, who knows. We will never know. It was clear he didn't die alone. His arm fur was licked by his friends. They were probably trying to make him better and in doing so provided for him the last comfort he got in this world. He was with us for 7 short months, still getting to know things, constantly exploring and very slowly growing into his large ears. He ran sideways like a puppy and smiled when he slept. Loved to be a lap cat from the minute we met him.

He personified hope.

He came to us in the fall of last year when things were pretty bleak. He was the ray of light we so very much needed.
He ran towards us one night down the driveway as we walked in from the studio.
It was that same path we took last night to lay him to rest.
Under the same star-lit sky.
Hope feels different now. Kind of hard to find.
Too much uncertainty.

We're forever grateful we had this wonderful little tiger for the time we did, however brief. His passing a cruel reminder how hard it is to let go, especially with no notice.There are lessons to take from this, all relevant, but right now we are wrapping our thoughts around our Milo, Fripples and Oreo, and missing our little Baxter bear. We all lost a part of our little family and today we are sad.

Thanks for the love all our friends have sent.
Thanks for understanding how hard this is.

Thank you Saint Francis for taking our Baxter home to God.

Pat & Jon
Milo, Fripples and Oreo