FEBRUARY

NIGHT STEW

Last night I woke at 3:30, didn’t get back
to sleep.

The mind-switch had snapped on.

The invitation to kayak Kedges Strait

threw trauma into my pot,

a perceived slight simmered

with way too much seasoning,

and then other qualms came running,

jumped into the night stew. 

I tried to turn the heat down

with the breath of deep breathing,

gave thought to reading

but didn’t want to turn the light on,

thought too of going downstairs

for a glass of milk (but feared

that too would really wake me),

then offered up prayers

to any god that would listen.

But, by this time

another switch had snapped on

and I crawled out of bed,

walked across the cold, tile floor,

used the bathroom,

returned and saw the green face

of the clock

staring impassively

and knew

this night was cooked. 

BECOMING OTHER

Last night I came, sat in your presence,

listened,

wrote a few lines,

offered a few words,

but it wasn’t

until our voices joined together

in vibrant

harmony of song and chant

that I dissolved

and we

became one.

THE WORK OF QUIET

They say, idle hands are the work of the devil,

but I say, Not always so. 

Busy hands were the ones that wanted, craved,

took, amassed, polluted, bombed.

Go, I say, sit in silence, give those idle hands

to the work of quiet, the one you call God. 

MY ISLAND EXPEDITION BELIZE VACATION

THE ARTIST

Coming off the turquoise waters of an Island Expedition kayak trip and arriving back in the seaside town of Dangriga, I sought out a local artist in hopes of finding a colorful street scene painting, maybe making a purchase.  Walking this small town, enjoying the architecture, tropical scenery, and children riding their bicycles, I came upon a small, stucco’d house painted orange with a weathered sign nailed to a post – ARTIST. I knocked, and in time an older black man came, peered out the door of a darkened room. 

I told him my interest and after some hesitation, he said, Come in.  Inside the darkened room my eyes made their adjustment and took in the paintings on the walls, an iron face-down on an ironing board, a doll on a stuffed chair, laundry piled on the sofa, and a hammock that cattycornered the room.

The artist slid under the hammock and from there we continued to talk as the TV played loud music and black birthday faces rolled across the screen. I asked if we could sit and he moved to the stuffed chair with the doll and I crossed under the boundary of the hammock to the sofa and sat with the laundry. Then, he began: 

He talked about a young boy who learned to paint with house paints and make-do brushes, a young man who was given a scholarship to attend an art school in the United States, and about a man whose paintings traveled to England with the president of Belize and some mention of an award from the queen.  He talked about the older man who painted his parents that now stared down at us as if they had just entered the room.  Then, turning to a painting on the wall, he gave a longing smile at a young woman in the bright colors of a sunny day, laundry waving in a breeze on a clothesline, and children at play.

Then the artist invited me into his studio where a board on a bucket served as a pallet and unfinished paintings leaned against every wall.  He said he had trouble now, and at age 76 he didn’t know what was wrong.  He shuffled across the room, picked up a paint brush, held it out in front of him to show the tremor that took over his hand.  He said he just didn’t know when he’d ever finish all these paintings. 

Almost forgetting the purpose of my visit, I finally asked if he had anything for sale.  One was ready, he said, for 1500 Belizean dollars, but then he smiled and said he already knew that was too much for my pocketbook.  I smiled back to the truth of that and brought our conversation to a close.  Then, in his slow shuffle he led me out of the studio, back under the hammock of the darkened room, and out on the front porch where we said goodbye under the glare of an early morning Belizean sun.

Months later back home in Baltimore and out of curiosity, I decided to google the name of the artist I met in Dangriga.  The results brought a slow smile to my face. Benjamin Nicholas never mentioned his paintings, the ones housed in the Smithsonian and in museums all over the world.  

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