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I’ve actually painted this old willow more than three times.  I’m continually drawn to it.  It’s tenacity to remain upright no matter how much the storms and age try to take it down, intrigues me.  With broken limbs, and burled trunk she sprouts new leaves every spring.  Each time I set up in front of her, I study her many bruises.  I think how much we also get bruised and battered in life.  Hopefully, we hang in there like this strong tenacious willow.

She is respectfully known as “The Grandmother” by the Ojibway natives.  She resides at the beginning of the northern trail at Ojibway Park.  She, maybe broken, but her spirit is strong.  No one who passes by, can ignore her.  This park is currently threatened on all sides by urban sprawl.  Stand tall Grandmother.  Stand your ground.  Speak of all that you’ve seen in your long lived years.  Speak to the world a wise word of warning.

Genesis 1: 29 Then God said, “I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food.

30 And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds in the sky and all the creatures that move along the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food.” And it was so.  ~NIV

God help us.  What have we done?  Forgive mankind for our disrespect of your precious gifts.  I pray it’s not too late.

 

Battle Scarred, Image size 7 x 10 1/2 Watercolour Framed $125.

Battle Scarred Two.  12 x 16 Acrylic on Canvas  $150.

Battle Scarred Two. 12 x 16 Acrylic on Canvas $150.

Rain on Me, Painted en Plein Air in the rain at Ojibway Park 8 x 10 Oil on Ampersand panel$275 framed. (On display at Arts Council July 2015)

Rain on Me, Painted en Plein Air in the rain at Ojibway Park 8 x 10 Oil on Ampersand panel$275 framed. (On display at Arts Council July 2015)

Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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