I don't have children...I hope to in the somewhat near future, but for now, I have Herbert. Herbert is my 16-year-old Juniper Bonsai Tree. My wife gave me Herbert for my 23rd birthday and I was ecstatic. When I got Herbert he was overgrown and in desperate need of trimming. I got my little shears that are attached to my leatherman and went to work. I can't really describe the satisfying yet emotional process of clipping the little branches. Before long I had a small pile of branches and my fingers were raw. Herbert looked better than ever though. I have thought several times about my first experience with clipping the new buds. In ever work of art you need to take a step back and ask yourself if you are over working the piece. It is possible to just keep going and to never be satisfied with the work you have done, but knowing when to stop is a very important part of the artistic process.
I tend to think of our lives in a similar way. There is a point when we need to make changes, fix things, and be better. Those changes are welcomed and necessary. We cannot let ourselves get overgrown and out of control because all desires and passion should be kept within appropriate bounds. I also think there is something to say for the overworked life. There is a point when we have to step back and realize that we have done what we can and it is time to accept some things that cannot be changed before we are left with only a trunk. The Japanese have a very interesting theory of nature. Nature is perfection, but it needs mankind's help to be its optimum. We cannot reach perfection. Nature can, but it needs our help. I can't decide whether or not I agree, but an interesting idea nonetheless. I am grateful for Herbert...my 16 year-old bonsai tree.
I didn't attend the San Diego Temple today (pictured above) but this is one of my favorites.
As I have overtly stated before, I am a Mormon. This means that I have a set of beliefs that govern a large part of who I am and what I choose to do on a daily basis. I believe that these make me a better person. Mormons of a certain age are encouraged to attend what we call temples and perform service. This service is in the form of helping those who have already moved on from this life have the option of receiving Christ. We believe that there are some things that must be done while you have access to a physical body. Since God does not discriminate or give preference to one person above another, he has provided a way for those that did not have the chance to be baptized in this life to be baptized by proxy and receive those blessings as if they had. There are a number of other ordinances that are performed for those that have passed on in addition to baptisms. These temples are beautiful places where we can go to be close to our God. Even though I am doing service for others, I get so much out of it that helps me improve my day to day life. Today when I attended the temple I felt an overwhelming desire to be better, to stand taller, and to give up more of my life in service to my God.
I am grateful for these chances that I have to come closer to my God. I am grateful for temples and the things that I learn there every time. The message is always the same, but what I walk away with is almost always different. If you have noticed these temples they are beautiful works of art. Mormons aren't trying to make a statement or prove to the world that we can build impressive buildings. We build these as a demonstration of our loyalty to God. These buildings are built to perfection with no corners cut. They stand as a reminder to me that I should live my life in a similar way, no corners cut, devoting my finest resources to my Father in Heaven.
Quite possibly one of the most delicious things in the world is also one of the most unbecoming. Taiyaki: A fish-shaped pancake filled with red bean paste, custard, or any number of delicious fillings. Personally my favorite was custard. However, if we are talking about savory Taiyaki I once had a delicious potato and bacon. I don't know that I can even write anything here that will describe how delicious they are. My one recommendation: put these on your bucket list.
There is a place in San Francisco, a small little restaurant down by Little Italy, called the Stinking Rose. Legend says that the Romans first called the beautiful little bulb of Garlic the "Stinking Rose". The smell in this place is intoxicating. Like when you spray too much cologne and you aren't sure whether it is good or too much, this place suffocates you in fantastic aroma. Bags of garlic hang from every wall and alcove. Strings of wine corks act as walls to separate guest, and their bottles hang from the ceiling. Everything on the menu wreaks of garlic. Recommended to me in particular was the Garlic Roasting in a Hot Tub. Spread on Focaccia rolls, these sweet roasted bulbs of flavor pack quite the punch. I am beginning to experience what garlic can taste like.
Being unaccustomed to roasting garlic, sometimes I fry it, press it, or even steam it. The affect it had on my apartment could not have been anticipated. I expect I should bask in the perfume for weeks. After successfully roasting the four bulbs for over an hour, they slipped gracefully out of their skins and into my artisan bread...but that is gratitude for another day. I am grateful for Garlic.
You should notice the bad guy in the stomach of our vampire dog.
I was sitting in church when a the little boy of a family that I am familiar with in the community wandered into class. I knew that his Dad was away in Florida tending to his Father who would most likely pass away in the next couple of days. He looked sad as he surveyed the room and seemed to remember that his Dad would not be there. I caught his eye and motioned to the seat next to me. He came over and took a seat next to me and settled in. I asked Sam why he was here and not with his friends in class. This sweet little five-year-old proceeded to tell me that his friend had made fun of him in the bathroom and he didn't want to go back to class. I told him that it was okay if he wanted to stay here with me.
We spent the next 40 minutes or so drawing in my sketch book. He drew us both with bows and "Robin Hood hats" and a vampire dog that eats the bad guys whole. I turned to take my pack of gum from a 1-year-old that had wandered over and when I looked back, Sam was drawing on a new page of my sketchbook. There were two stick figures with about 10 hearts floating above them.
"This is you and me. We love each other." he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"That's kind of weird," I say, not sure how to respond.
"No It's not, because you and me are family!" I felt like I could cry. "I already miss my Dad. He is in Florida because Grandpa is dying. He will probably stay there until Grandpa is in the ground, all dead." I put my arm around him. Once again I was speechless. I continue to listen to the instructor as he talks about the trials of life.
"We deal with a lot of crap in this life," the instructor says. To which Sam pipes up in his loudest voice: "Crap is a bad word!" I knew then and there that I was so grateful for Kids.
I am grateful that they aren't afraid to stand up for what they know is right. I am grateful that they talk openly and freely about their feelings. I am grateful that I had the chance to commit to being a better person because of the example I saw from 5-year-old Sam.
He made sure to draw us in a house to show that we are a family. Also it seemed fitting that Baby Jesus would be there in the bottom left-hand corner.
Some may call it intimidating, nerve racking, or even daunting, but to me there is a lot more involved in a blank sheet of crisp, white paper. I'm not perfect, nor do I think I ever will be. As an artist I have soiled so many pieces of white paper I could scarcely begin to count them. I experience the same hesitation that many must face when they put their freshly sharpened pencil to a flawless piece of paper. Erasers exist and that helps, but everyone knows that an eraser cannot restore a paper to it's initial beauty...no matter how good the eraser.
When I first started studying watercolor I faced a dilemma: Though you did have white pigment, there was no way to get it back to the white of the paper. If you want a true white, you had to plan on it from the beginning. Pressure. As layer after layer of pigment built up on the sheet, using the water as its vehicle, you could see the whites get dimmer and dimmer, tainted by the layers.
Today a white page to me means a fresh start, something that has no definitions or boundaries. Like waking up in the morning, that page has nothing but what I decide to put on it. I am reminded of the freedom that I enjoy and the ability that I have to make something that wasn't there before. It reminds me of what it means to be human. We are creative by nature, something that nobody can take away. When I see a blank page I remember that there is the possibility for failure as well as success. Through the years I have learned to be proud of my failures and rejoice in the process of becoming. On any page there are bound to be mistakes, but there is always the promise of another page to follow.
For all of you Christians out there, a new page is repentance, a new start granted me by my Savior Jesus Christ. I have the chance to move on from what I have done and start again. Those pages that I wish never to see again remain as a lesson learned from but they do not cumber the page that I have for today. I will be forever grateful for the chance that I have to start anew, fresh and untainted. This is something that is only made possible through my Savior. A Blank Page.
