Vincent van Gogh sans his red beard

1890: Vincent van Gogh died in Auvers-sur-Oise, France, two days after shooting himself.

From An Artist Empowered:

However, it appears that far from being the isolated lunatic on the fringe, van Gogh was a practical and methodical artist with a healthy sense of his times, coupled with an interest in science, astronomy, poetry, and literature. As Becky Hendrick, in her fine book, Getting It, puts it: “He was a great painter in spite of his mental illness, not as a result of it.” Van Gogh wasn’t mad when he painted or wrote letters, especially to his brother, Theo, which were clear, pragmatic, and mindful of his mission as an artist.

One could argue, as Albert Boime does, that Vincent was less mad and more a victim; he suffered seizures that were most likely brought on by a form of epilepsy; he didn’t recall cutting off his earlobe, and this frightened him.

On July 27, 1890, van Gogh left for a nearby field (earlier that month in the fields he had painted vast stretches of wheat, crows, and turbulent skies) where he shot himself—which might be explained away by a seizure, but not why he had a pistol with him. 

Today would have been my dear late mother’s eighty-fourth birthday.

I think of her daily and dream of her often. Adele had enough compassion for the whole world. She was brave and always willing to lend a helping hand. She spoke up when necessary; her compassion did not make her a fool.

She would say to me: “Giving up on your art is like tossing your baby away.”

So, dear Adele darling, who is now free from pain, be well in that place beyond.

It’s been about two weeks since Aldo, the parakeet, landed at my front door. No one has claimed him. He’s doing very well and is content.

Since he had flown onto my finger outside, I thought he was at least partially tame. However, when I tried getting him to step up onto my finger inside his cage, he refused. This means that he and I are in for clicker training—a form of positive reinforcement training that requires patience.

It turns out that despite being wild, Aldo perceived me as a port in the storm, flying over and landing on my finger. He overcame his fear of humans (who can blame him) for relief from the harsh desert and its predators. This gives new meaning to an outdated and erroneous concept: birdbrain. 

So, we can say that little Aldo worked me, and we are both the richer for it.

Aldo Safe & Sound

As we come to learn: nature takes no prisoners.

I’m walking back up the road from my mailbox check. It’s hot. This is the third week since my abscessed tooth exploded. The excruciating pain that had lasted nearly two weeks cannot be described. No narcotic painkiller. My brain is still mush.

As I approach my cabin under the fruit orchard trees, I see a small patch of bright aqua near the door. A young parakeet. We look at one another. He (blue nostril area indicates a male) flies up onto my finger. The high desert is a dangerous place for this little fellow. It looks as if he’s been through some hard days, but otherwise seems healthy.

I bring him into the cabin, which now fortunately has air conditioning. Sweetie Boy, my cockatiel, immediately perks up with a few sounds of—what’s this?

Fortunately, I have a small birdcage in the attic. I fill the water cup and then add smaller seeds from Sweetie Boy’s food in the other. My little visitor, with a bit encouragement, enters the cage where he falls asleep. I make a call to a neighbor to see if she knows of a bird rescue adoption outfit.

Meanwhile, I call my sister and tell her the story. She listens intently and then says: “Do you know what day this is?”

I’m puzzled.

“It’s two years today,” she says, “since Mommie died.”

I’m floored. How could I forget this date? And my compassionate mother Adele certainly loved birds.

I tell my sister that I trust I can find the bird a good home. I say, “He’s a boy. Can we still call him Adele?”

My sister says: “How about Aldo?”

“Perfect,” I say, knowing deeply that Aldo and Adele have made me feel much better. We are all God’s eyes and ears on earth.

Earth Memories

Whatever challenge you are facing, remember the words of the master: It is better to live in fulfillment than in hope.

You might recoil at this admonition. What could be wrong with hope? But, if you look at hope in the pool of awareness, you immediately see the gift of the master’s perspective.

After all, hope is not a strategy, nor is it a plan—and no amount of it ever produced a work of art.