tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83209928979568895882024-03-13T22:10:45.315-07:00BenchedMusing on life and my calling one bench at a timeBruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-42452467063877010942016-05-21T05:36:00.002-07:002016-05-21T05:40:09.338-07:00Benched Week 100: the acorn awaits<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b> <span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBcPBj1CkjHOGr9GCcrVV5HMFYa-JL3LOu9cLf2B7SY-V-2KsjG0zH4-dHlyFudywb4KmA0nzuyu25vP29fZzAvG4v5wy5CfcT6PA3ZEAMsl2XEFX5QwQpPo-pGj6NuXpkkyJ3Dha00OT/s1600/acorn-hole-banner1-1000px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBcPBj1CkjHOGr9GCcrVV5HMFYa-JL3LOu9cLf2B7SY-V-2KsjG0zH4-dHlyFudywb4KmA0nzuyu25vP29fZzAvG4v5wy5CfcT6PA3ZEAMsl2XEFX5QwQpPo-pGj6NuXpkkyJ3Dha00OT/s1600/acorn-hole-banner1-1000px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span><br />
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OYDxWejFp7oWOwDu26TsPn1p-mQSuoMg_4sltnI88LU663v5K-kxQqr73W1Wf58b96ZHUzwKFEpJ3XUjRhisDkg4T5b0JryXRPItCTjCK1yJMKxKOXKXkHAc0HEfvlALHW6_5aWqU6ey/s1600/looking-at-Rembrandt-cropped-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></b></i></span></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b>Forgive me if I seem sentimental. </b></i> </span>Or if I nod toward nostalgia. This is, after all, the final official post in my three-year undertaking to find benches to blog about. And on the way, I’ve sought to uncover a personal expression of art.</div>
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One hundred benches. It seems like the perfect point to call it quits. So, with the morning sun throwing long shadows, I went back to my initial bench in the local park by the river to take a look back. Will you indulge me?</div>
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There are many ways to slice up a hundred posts. I decided to touch on a few themes.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="_5yi-">Photos</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="_5yi-"> </span></span></h3>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXq7DRX7S4xXmySElioPe3qa8draoAyGA29EzbDMBFZrEt5njZPXqpg2aStWRFq9orxx2b998xpubEldmXhH3uzmpHy4Udc6_ONz9-Q7KBM01ltw00Iper3PXSAmoE5xqywKrclceBu_H/s1600/mastbench-sepia-narrow-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLXq7DRX7S4xXmySElioPe3qa8draoAyGA29EzbDMBFZrEt5njZPXqpg2aStWRFq9orxx2b998xpubEldmXhH3uzmpHy4Udc6_ONz9-Q7KBM01ltw00Iper3PXSAmoE5xqywKrclceBu_H/s1600/mastbench-sepia-narrow-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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There are too many I like to be able fit into this, so I will do a visual retrospective as an add-on. Call it a post-post. My photographic exploration reminded me of how much I enjoy the art form. Dorothea Lange said, “The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.” That has certainly been true for me. Watch for my photo reminiscence soon.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="_5yi-">Moments</span></span></h3>
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One of the great joys on the journey has been when Serendipity showed up. And true to her nature, she arrived without advanced notice. Here were a few of her appearances:</div>
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In post #17, I literally drew a family of kids over to me in Grand Central Terminal in NYC</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBWtYsyjxxPL5QX8vNd3rORTUu2NvC-iuScu6h06y_g0vCtxF1cwzlzYMYLV_2707XxC6gEFRHMswhfeWHsTTTUwwj2FkKy6b0jn8lRuBV_76-hzet-D1mSo9STYkSZG9glQSzgWgUR8V5/s1600/kids-and-me-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBWtYsyjxxPL5QX8vNd3rORTUu2NvC-iuScu6h06y_g0vCtxF1cwzlzYMYLV_2707XxC6gEFRHMswhfeWHsTTTUwwj2FkKy6b0jn8lRuBV_76-hzet-D1mSo9STYkSZG9glQSzgWgUR8V5/s1600/kids-and-me-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#12: Rembrandt, with his look of world-weary wisdom, challenged me over the heads of tourists in the National Gallery</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OYDxWejFp7oWOwDu26TsPn1p-mQSuoMg_4sltnI88LU663v5K-kxQqr73W1Wf58b96ZHUzwKFEpJ3XUjRhisDkg4T5b0JryXRPItCTjCK1yJMKxKOXKXkHAc0HEfvlALHW6_5aWqU6ey/s1600/looking-at-Rembrandt-cropped-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OYDxWejFp7oWOwDu26TsPn1p-mQSuoMg_4sltnI88LU663v5K-kxQqr73W1Wf58b96ZHUzwKFEpJ3XUjRhisDkg4T5b0JryXRPItCTjCK1yJMKxKOXKXkHAc0HEfvlALHW6_5aWqU6ey/s1600/looking-at-Rembrandt-cropped-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#63: Interacting with strangers over my art at the Cloud Gate in Chicago</div>
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<img alt="" class="_h2z _297z _use img" id="u_g1_3" src="https://scontent-lga3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13233046_10208481270924515_9123500956037472865_n.jpg?oh=2c128cc655a811fa4d3796bdc74b643c&oe=579DCE1B" /></div>
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#88: watching a guy lower himself to a cliff-face cave in St. Paul, right when I was wondering about it</div>
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<img alt="" class="_h2z _297z _usd img" id="u_g1_4" src="https://scontent-lga3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13220957_10208481322045793_6058511788193147962_n.jpg?oh=394a49081c7a60f239c2e62f003dac52&oe=57D04B4E" /></div>
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#92: the funny alignment in this shot from Sugarland, TX</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86ZeAVAuqe8bRPIHVDX_SKSRbE0m4JfF95ggZ6aZOo67UnwqFAQY-az2PNmOjsumdAHOjf-WaBL4ReEGmnu_gYgos1eckAzXDbD6Rt63kLV_UJcHcf2AdlgRK_N13OEEKb9qla-gt5dRr/s1600/santa-and-kid-closup-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg86ZeAVAuqe8bRPIHVDX_SKSRbE0m4JfF95ggZ6aZOo67UnwqFAQY-az2PNmOjsumdAHOjf-WaBL4ReEGmnu_gYgos1eckAzXDbD6Rt63kLV_UJcHcf2AdlgRK_N13OEEKb9qla-gt5dRr/s1600/santa-and-kid-closup-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#97: X marks the spot where Grace and I had our picnic</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69nLzMPq-J4IGRVUCri1_Sq1R39bT-wQIhaBsibe0K3_XA_pizO-fm3lj0MpfcNQrAq7ASj-02BdDKMP9aqIwVsakjMZPRPkWR3ir60bXYvWaEF6cvBp6aKq25v0qPdbpVZJ-_a1mfcbU/s1600/x-marks-spot-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69nLzMPq-J4IGRVUCri1_Sq1R39bT-wQIhaBsibe0K3_XA_pizO-fm3lj0MpfcNQrAq7ASj-02BdDKMP9aqIwVsakjMZPRPkWR3ir60bXYvWaEF6cvBp6aKq25v0qPdbpVZJ-_a1mfcbU/s1600/x-marks-spot-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#98: kids triumphantly posed on a wall in Ft. Lauderdale in the waning light</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDugiwcvBKgGqLy1vPIVuW9g0mg9KQEME2R6vFPi2deytLzrorog0qZ7nr6OjvdhAxAE2kkxcLFJfk-jyasQwcr9uZ72eITqCVBPJGyPb1kmUr5kcSy1t_lUPcwDW33c1x7sRymmO48Wg/s1600/noir-boys-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDugiwcvBKgGqLy1vPIVuW9g0mg9KQEME2R6vFPi2deytLzrorog0qZ7nr6OjvdhAxAE2kkxcLFJfk-jyasQwcr9uZ72eITqCVBPJGyPb1kmUr5kcSy1t_lUPcwDW33c1x7sRymmO48Wg/s1600/noir-boys-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="_5yi-">People</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="_5yi-"> </span></span></h3>
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Traveling is undeniably lonely. So, connecting with someone over a bench was always a pleasant addition. Some were strangers. Some were old friends. All made the moment richer.</div>
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#45: Fabian, a young artist I met in a park in Atlanta</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZU9apgidW44g4mK_D0N_GfKgVML0dZjlAxw-KrRwkU7DU4V4OUKdwsr0YMHVgqXNgLe12DYWFfeaOoUFELGqN84BvTuY3KdTyRuFumtfXfS5o5wkm09kKuFGxPNrDLoyyiofz8zssdhR7/s1600/fabdrawing-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZU9apgidW44g4mK_D0N_GfKgVML0dZjlAxw-KrRwkU7DU4V4OUKdwsr0YMHVgqXNgLe12DYWFfeaOoUFELGqN84BvTuY3KdTyRuFumtfXfS5o5wkm09kKuFGxPNrDLoyyiofz8zssdhR7/s1600/fabdrawing-400px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#57: Fred, the self-anointed expert on all things in the town of Chagrin Falls, OH (including its most famous resident, Bill Waterson)</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQy48jjN_HzRXfh0nbV4NJLu3rMk59J4HSpSwu9vL7z4LJ0Zfa9YeJRhsquerL26hwMvsD4O30GYsT2eLXSD94oqCiwGP_Ore_6nqG_67IJBrbt1eYulXQ0B1s2ea6F7s5JTPqvZE-z10/s1600/fred-talking1-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQy48jjN_HzRXfh0nbV4NJLu3rMk59J4HSpSwu9vL7z4LJ0Zfa9YeJRhsquerL26hwMvsD4O30GYsT2eLXSD94oqCiwGP_Ore_6nqG_67IJBrbt1eYulXQ0B1s2ea6F7s5JTPqvZE-z10/s1600/fred-talking1-500px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#64: Carol, a long-time internet friend with whom I shared wonder in the Art Institute of Chicago</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxEJpN_b-ILH6ytotYW_TnKYwHDHNdh6dHZApr6YrqBcX7M3MzRXZrrSN2H6gON5CgMQZt_UzvdAjli0m8gXxVhFALhFpMANkClmqDzOkMmR5-sZyfkGvse_H9usiE51hZg8E0TFcH0kOv/s1600/carol_400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxEJpN_b-ILH6ytotYW_TnKYwHDHNdh6dHZApr6YrqBcX7M3MzRXZrrSN2H6gON5CgMQZt_UzvdAjli0m8gXxVhFALhFpMANkClmqDzOkMmR5-sZyfkGvse_H9usiE51hZg8E0TFcH0kOv/s1600/carol_400px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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#73: drawing for the boys of a dear friend, Jenny, in northern California</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_l2mPHtilwAFPW92Z3DK4ImshDQ5EluI4j5tySNIOzWSrDBkD3NjsCpmDfaOI-pwUcWxHDV_SngyuoqXE26gOUkxqRjiFxlYRaRR8z8vg6Pw093wiIBfpQ50OTotJVxTOCpCJfv_Bapu/s1600/chalk-elephant-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr_l2mPHtilwAFPW92Z3DK4ImshDQ5EluI4j5tySNIOzWSrDBkD3NjsCpmDfaOI-pwUcWxHDV_SngyuoqXE26gOUkxqRjiFxlYRaRR8z8vg6Pw093wiIBfpQ50OTotJVxTOCpCJfv_Bapu/s1600/chalk-elephant-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span class="_5yi-">Benches</span></span></h3>
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I had no idea how many forms a simple bench could take. I’ll follow with another collection of images: my favorite benches. (How long can I stretch out our goodbye?)</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpamEVCguXLuaX-2sDlZywZfmxBny7usunIDWiLTxpWP_kW7WoRWyaOagZfqFEu_xpkb5aJ2ZiSwzHirWYXfJrGytVkGtTlZMAfY3yb0gvBDiEmAdO9Sl71kZRPzWYNTzM5UufhRjvzJcD/s1600/white-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpamEVCguXLuaX-2sDlZywZfmxBny7usunIDWiLTxpWP_kW7WoRWyaOagZfqFEu_xpkb5aJ2ZiSwzHirWYXfJrGytVkGtTlZMAfY3yb0gvBDiEmAdO9Sl71kZRPzWYNTzM5UufhRjvzJcD/s1600/white-bench-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b>The question remains: have I found my personal art?</b></i> </span> Not really. But I’ve turned over a few of the jigsaw puzzle pieces. Whatever my future personal projects will turn out to be, they will include a strong connection with an audience. And blending words with images. And co-creating with people, whether they’re friends like you or strangers on the street.</div>
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Last week, which hiking alone in the Shenandoah mountains, I stopped for a breather and noticed something peculiar: an acorn sitting in a hole in a decaying tree, like an egg in a protected nest. It’s a perfect metaphor for my continued journey: <span class="_5yi_">the germ of a new adventure often lies in the learned wisdom of the previous one.</span></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JsVhRSsfmM-O1h9omxjQJeFv1DbIex2FJH_rYt-yfaL5IZAQVpBJdjKIXXA-VgU78IOa5so_UOUuBHEdvAzPuOgduGCKzXFE6MAC8BIyb1W0ORUqUMH09QqqZMIExaTfypVsu2Xujd7E/s1600/acorn-hole-close-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JsVhRSsfmM-O1h9omxjQJeFv1DbIex2FJH_rYt-yfaL5IZAQVpBJdjKIXXA-VgU78IOa5so_UOUuBHEdvAzPuOgduGCKzXFE6MAC8BIyb1W0ORUqUMH09QqqZMIExaTfypVsu2Xujd7E/s1600/acorn-hole-close-400px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></b></i></span></div>
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Thank you for taking this trip with me. I know I've had readers here on blogger.com but you tend to stay in the shadows. I think I've actually had only three or four comments over the hundred posts. So now's your chance. If you enjoyed reading this, will you leave a parting word? I'd love to hear from you.</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKaiodgPzLvBe0EktDog17v6GMDhcSF_rwswBOPkQ0H-H0yXZhAY9NSj39Rp5ZKqmnHMHCX5OkXKmp97xzZl4Q9tDo58j8WPWQ1eYYTUekN-1MmrohgIB-T6Uqh30FEQT9B73BKVh3Z9R/s1600/B%2526G-froyo-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBKaiodgPzLvBe0EktDog17v6GMDhcSF_rwswBOPkQ0H-H0yXZhAY9NSj39Rp5ZKqmnHMHCX5OkXKmp97xzZl4Q9tDo58j8WPWQ1eYYTUekN-1MmrohgIB-T6Uqh30FEQT9B73BKVh3Z9R/s1600/B%2526G-froyo-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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So with Grace and some celebratory fro-yo, I raise a toast: <i><span class="_5yi_">here’s to slowing down to notice life’s unexpected pleasures, and to fellow travelers along the way.</span></i></div>
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And if you have a yearning for either, there’s always room on the bench for two.</div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLIp-ZgqbUDEDDvKe6g6HT6hjROWraN55Ci-q4kPuc2xOLqhh4HJPEv0cAX40QCgo3irfKCvIpPeFOYt4FA9fkb8I8PWmYA2FlvdYFnAByR7Rl71mFeFOwwwn-qQKO180XlzNGTSBkgUw/s1600/last-bench-panorama-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLIp-ZgqbUDEDDvKe6g6HT6hjROWraN55Ci-q4kPuc2xOLqhh4HJPEv0cAX40QCgo3irfKCvIpPeFOYt4FA9fkb8I8PWmYA2FlvdYFnAByR7Rl71mFeFOwwwn-qQKO180XlzNGTSBkgUw/s1600/last-bench-panorama-600px.jpg" /></a></b></i></span></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-34902870545416393792016-04-24T18:38:00.000-07:002016-04-24T18:38:23.608-07:00Benched Week 99: a crowd-sourced story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3mUTQy1TNwjgZNOMp8W-fbnpeAbUGA3GYgtL6qizALhJwrbvTQ0XrPOFaM2Sboy5MZh5UkJ6KuBPEhHJwuQ6qvY2lWh2xRmLtdw4xipdLw5Bm1b9Nx1qq_dQd-7Ebg9ssOqkoNF06EYg/s1600/drawing-narrow-800px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf3mUTQy1TNwjgZNOMp8W-fbnpeAbUGA3GYgtL6qizALhJwrbvTQ0XrPOFaM2Sboy5MZh5UkJ6KuBPEhHJwuQ6qvY2lWh2xRmLtdw4xipdLw5Bm1b9Nx1qq_dQd-7Ebg9ssOqkoNF06EYg/s1600/drawing-narrow-800px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><b>I was on a quest. To draw a quest. By asking questions of strangers.</b> </span> The words of Van Gogh describe well what I was after:<i> <span class="_5yi_">“For the great doesn’t happen through impulse alone, and is a succession of little things that are brought together.”</span> </i>I intended to draw the start of a graphic novel by using ideas from people walking by me as I sat on a bench at our town’s Arts Festival.</div>
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I had the impulse. Now I needed the “little things.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSd1SRe81SiWvWUBoeOb62J7ssOnLF4MU0Ilse8YoYMESJsdNLc9ZX44KIEH201MAarwcrkVw7jeLXFmd_yHrcw8ENa8pzPb0HVji6zKFQ73AGJ-hPUS29TKLcx56r7G2gKmM-JpAC2-Qn/s1600/festival-street-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSd1SRe81SiWvWUBoeOb62J7ssOnLF4MU0Ilse8YoYMESJsdNLc9ZX44KIEH201MAarwcrkVw7jeLXFmd_yHrcw8ENa8pzPb0HVji6zKFQ73AGJ-hPUS29TKLcx56r7G2gKmM-JpAC2-Qn/s1600/festival-street-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Packing up all I needed, I walked the mile between our house and Lewisburg’s downtown, barricaded off to traffic and filled with artisan tents.</div>
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I chose a bench in a perfect location. But I quickly realized what I had not planned on: <span class="_5yi_">the wind. </span> It caught my large sheets of foam core and blew over my flimsy tripod. Two brothers nearby came over to help me pack up and move to a more secluded spot.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3YKtyf1CoI7rYMK7Lpxqj_0gFIsJyUA61LBv_yV37ROzetOT78EeWIRllVzlN2gBh3ao9AX7tZnpFhsqjeN8vYMHofiI3YUS1veV6M0xu_FjJcBibUF9sJ6WuT6ni_da2Ijos2IV925B/s1600/first-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit3YKtyf1CoI7rYMK7Lpxqj_0gFIsJyUA61LBv_yV37ROzetOT78EeWIRllVzlN2gBh3ao9AX7tZnpFhsqjeN8vYMHofiI3YUS1veV6M0xu_FjJcBibUF9sJ6WuT6ni_da2Ijos2IV925B/s1600/first-bench-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa">
Tucked in between buildings (and with borrowed chairs to help stabilize the easel), I set up shop. I sloppily lettered out a sign to explain what I was doing.</div>
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _2vxa"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHH67gnGFizrjwYfpCV6YOakuxuTD63Di0K-SYRPc5tjL1mEhkC2aVDFgDNLcYpXsyUDmDAyxfNQdZ9IcOEbQXpBd0-ZwzyXbzMnvOeA6UQREyRh4HU73kNzhADHbxchTPFncAMYSx99iu/s1600/2nd-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHH67gnGFizrjwYfpCV6YOakuxuTD63Di0K-SYRPc5tjL1mEhkC2aVDFgDNLcYpXsyUDmDAyxfNQdZ9IcOEbQXpBd0-ZwzyXbzMnvOeA6UQREyRh4HU73kNzhADHbxchTPFncAMYSx99iu/s1600/2nd-bench-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi-">Here’s what I had inked out to start with. </span></div>
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<span class="_5yi-"> </span></div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjzApmDCNR_7qjMLbbR4e1VDjsTWzsPzHCAkpdmPZJqDgHsJY3c2_Jn-LkuW2moPTtjpYRny8kDTgmjws_E4GcIjKFiU6xHz48D_bDA01puBxEJZb5YZBGPbG0GuPBMNn9HOuqSqS7S_RR/s1600/opening-900px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjzApmDCNR_7qjMLbbR4e1VDjsTWzsPzHCAkpdmPZJqDgHsJY3c2_Jn-LkuW2moPTtjpYRny8kDTgmjws_E4GcIjKFiU6xHz48D_bDA01puBxEJZb5YZBGPbG0GuPBMNn9HOuqSqS7S_RR/s1600/opening-900px.jpg" /></a> </span></div>
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _2vxa"></figure><div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa">
I wanted enough visualized to give the story a running start. I was aware, though, that the first people to stop would set the course for the day: they’d decide what was in the box.</div>
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _2vxa"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIu2nb_oHyE3wY0NJ28HpFttnP4WFRbImsVsbV-yCjxv75gLuQrqwBEJjyxwrLOGEKeMrwWaZq1fcujKIwA3Q2hwV5SQWOo4Q5zHWxWbHEYZp5XJ4PN61N6GFAwlfXp5HHTmvPZO_vbIJ/s1600/locked-box-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIu2nb_oHyE3wY0NJ28HpFttnP4WFRbImsVsbV-yCjxv75gLuQrqwBEJjyxwrLOGEKeMrwWaZq1fcujKIwA3Q2hwV5SQWOo4Q5zHWxWbHEYZp5XJ4PN61N6GFAwlfXp5HHTmvPZO_vbIJ/s1600/locked-box-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi-">“They” turned out to be a group of teens.</span> And possibly remembering an age-old joke in present giving, they decided the box would hold another box. One that was locked. And his quest would be to find the key</div>
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After them, a woman suggested that he find a clue on the box. For lack of something better, I put my personal symbol on it. (For me, it means: Watch this!)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRCtBzEgDC6b6Stli6_QQWbnl2Hbje2R6PIWvQoIKXd3XOQTET3kjATh-uE7TpQB2VbsVhITaV8m9w6-FugHHwWFuwcCvbdDp-FX3Kku5yaDG8-lz9L2vKWEmCm9WFU3wElscLlgdr6HA/s1600/clue-on-box-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRCtBzEgDC6b6Stli6_QQWbnl2Hbje2R6PIWvQoIKXd3XOQTET3kjATh-uE7TpQB2VbsVhITaV8m9w6-FugHHwWFuwcCvbdDp-FX3Kku5yaDG8-lz9L2vKWEmCm9WFU3wElscLlgdr6HA/s1600/clue-on-box-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Soon someone else thought that Josh would remember that he had seen the symbol in a painting. Another passer-by suggested it be one of his father’s paintings.</div>
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _2vxa"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEktr0p0piEVE54M_zBPvsTqvVXOfrYRFkyqxjvfmwwuWjbn33MIlzyU64SjqtDShR_ky7bIDrGuVDRgao6FxPfx5mQfBXXGH2yyyP4crucpqZKw_5U_y6aFZRNUsx3TiAABHwgqA5uFao/s1600/remembers-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEktr0p0piEVE54M_zBPvsTqvVXOfrYRFkyqxjvfmwwuWjbn33MIlzyU64SjqtDShR_ky7bIDrGuVDRgao6FxPfx5mQfBXXGH2yyyP4crucpqZKw_5U_y6aFZRNUsx3TiAABHwgqA5uFao/s1600/remembers-500px.jpg" /></a></figure><div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa">
<span class="_5yi-">Then a large group of high schoolers stopped by. </span> When I asked if the hero’s mom should let him into the attic, they said, emphatically, “No.” “Then how,” I followed, “will he get her to let him up?”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMcs8JVKMdQ2VClI2w1tGrDSBUjnrSgW2wBUJN5L07tvBGzTCMMkI6ocH_rjox0R-IKssYDkMi5Z9aPozWZdSM6GOwFzkPohRb59Bczugz71wT9iQqe0U6tMqACKz7C011JE7PIZ5zcjo/s1600/father-house-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMcs8JVKMdQ2VClI2w1tGrDSBUjnrSgW2wBUJN5L07tvBGzTCMMkI6ocH_rjox0R-IKssYDkMi5Z9aPozWZdSM6GOwFzkPohRb59Bczugz71wT9iQqe0U6tMqACKz7C011JE7PIZ5zcjo/s1600/father-house-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><div class="_2cuy _3dgx _2vxa">
Apparently, the answer was, to lie to his elderly, widowed mother. I complained that Josh had sadly become a more shaded character. Maybe even shady.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixE6FbgiZM8Di4fwG-TXvuILfeI-vFknRZpHAVKfoaUOpcMyydKLEWWtBocGWpw39Fx5nXUB9tuhkMWxQ0i_1XEIp2J1UnCsOKOsXBpFm08dNDCgfMlWrab7iwXDRsK-CfcmDY2hZd0Rpy/s1600/lying-to-his-mom-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixE6FbgiZM8Di4fwG-TXvuILfeI-vFknRZpHAVKfoaUOpcMyydKLEWWtBocGWpw39Fx5nXUB9tuhkMWxQ0i_1XEIp2J1UnCsOKOsXBpFm08dNDCgfMlWrab7iwXDRsK-CfcmDY2hZd0Rpy/s1600/lying-to-his-mom-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi-">The suggestions kept coming.</span> Random visitors suggested that Josh look through the eye, lining it up with the painting and something would be revealed. A dear friend, back in town for the day, added that the quest could expand into Josh’s search for messages left for him in all his father’s paintings, discernible by the eye symbol.</div>
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But I was done. There was enough material for the whole board. I took the evening to finish the drawing, and mused on what I learned.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBUUdeQDf2226gBCy-M3AL62s3Ks3GnuU9vwhnUitYKywXDVDytibFSF5vmnQlNNriAHrZxwI23ybAxnH8onZM6w_iuw-TCdmKmSE2TJ6dATVWzOMBwixTuHuyQ5hcnkmSLWKb5rAtnbd/s1600/in-the-attic-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBUUdeQDf2226gBCy-M3AL62s3Ks3GnuU9vwhnUitYKywXDVDytibFSF5vmnQlNNriAHrZxwI23ybAxnH8onZM6w_iuw-TCdmKmSE2TJ6dATVWzOMBwixTuHuyQ5hcnkmSLWKb5rAtnbd/s1600/in-the-attic-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi-">Had I achieved, in Van Gogh’s words, </span><i><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">greatness?</span></i><span class="_5yi-"> </span></b> The drawing was passable. The story: convoluted and with gaping plot holes. <i> </i><span class="_5yi_"><i>(Why was the box in the river in the first place?)</i> </span> But my goal had not been to make great art. Or even a complete story. I had been after the experience of creating as a community -- blurring the line between artist and audience.</div>
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I had met and interacted with dozens of people. And better yet, heard from them stories of their own creativity: the young woman who had majored in art, the mother who had taught her kids to tell round-robin stories around the table, and the elementary school teacher fighting the good creative fight in the classroom every day.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQcztDFD6w2jnVAdD6vx3QAaUNLllGVSiTm_rOs1ggyga_UtZpL89P00F5-law17xjHzAb_0xAMWniPjBES68uoNtXtav11qTbAPg0mtTxFnCb5kdIwHVN-hA5AIr_lcB5pRjK7HhqL7b/s1600/two-helpers-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQcztDFD6w2jnVAdD6vx3QAaUNLllGVSiTm_rOs1ggyga_UtZpL89P00F5-law17xjHzAb_0xAMWniPjBES68uoNtXtav11qTbAPg0mtTxFnCb5kdIwHVN-hA5AIr_lcB5pRjK7HhqL7b/s1600/two-helpers-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">That’s what made today special</span>. All these strangers getting connected, frame by frame, through a common love for narratives.</div>
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And the way I picture it, that’s pretty darn <i>great</i>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObNZm9z8joa5ntbGJT7vuXk5m3SBMI8au1B8Bu32nr_-TZasOKjRIW9fcZ0GZfBrAo2P8WODmZM0Za7h_kEtrW_M44QEUi0AmQ8aG6IartjV50aG4N-7WbH8oLuM4SJk5-LyBgSSLbOCX/s1600/whole-board-1000px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObNZm9z8joa5ntbGJT7vuXk5m3SBMI8au1B8Bu32nr_-TZasOKjRIW9fcZ0GZfBrAo2P8WODmZM0Za7h_kEtrW_M44QEUi0AmQ8aG6IartjV50aG4N-7WbH8oLuM4SJk5-LyBgSSLbOCX/s1600/whole-board-1000px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-26653263180935557282016-04-23T12:15:00.001-07:002016-04-23T12:15:35.376-07:00Crowd-Sourced Graphic Novel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you came by my board during the Arts Festival, thanks for your input! I really enjoyed meeting you and hearing your ideas! Such great fun. My experiment went even better than I had imagined it would. I will be working on this over the next couple of days and will post it -- as my latest Benched post -- #99. <br />
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In the meantime, if you're curious, feel free to read some of my other posts from other benches I've warmed around the country.<br />
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-26689997924016251042016-04-20T02:53:00.000-07:002016-04-20T02:53:15.343-07:00Benched Week 98: what the waves whispered<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2n1fi1j8iwn-dQssOok7DaGJzstC3uD_yV3JOBwvAZBKVLci-XtmvExUpSDs_-Rc8dJdYDHCTSBZWAQhFwbkqtDjlXYxQ60EvXTn67aKKaZ4dICtR1TU47tMn0u0F0Nc85CUFc0CSAFIc/s1600/banner-ocean-1100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2n1fi1j8iwn-dQssOok7DaGJzstC3uD_yV3JOBwvAZBKVLci-XtmvExUpSDs_-Rc8dJdYDHCTSBZWAQhFwbkqtDjlXYxQ60EvXTn67aKKaZ4dICtR1TU47tMn0u0F0Nc85CUFc0CSAFIc/s1600/banner-ocean-1100.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_4_mf"><b><span class="_5yi-"><span id="goog_407529280"></span><span id="goog_407529281"></span>The surf, kicked up by a strong breeze, matched my spirit: <i>restless, hurried, purposeful.</i> </span></b> I had, perhaps, another half hour of light. I was determined to finally sit on a beachside bench.</span><br />
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Since I began this blog, my life has changed. I am now primarily traveling to Florida for events. Worse things have happened, I know. It has been wonderful to catch an occasional sunrise. But the time to have a leisurely sitting has been elusive.</div>
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<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _2vxa"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10V2J75ZVLLKWXE2bNp9EpWYycvZBhIotTffnbvdPu68zGBe84Ro7x8W44VrfWJt4pNIf76PEL2szpd45lM-KwExVEF9u02za0eJ98wgRtKpL2Win1ElyZFXFwoyyuvB_NLPY6AdeM54V/s1600/view-from-hotel-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10V2J75ZVLLKWXE2bNp9EpWYycvZBhIotTffnbvdPu68zGBe84Ro7x8W44VrfWJt4pNIf76PEL2szpd45lM-KwExVEF9u02za0eJ98wgRtKpL2Win1ElyZFXFwoyyuvB_NLPY6AdeM54V/s1600/view-from-hotel-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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On top of that, I’m pressing. My goal of 100 posts is within sight. I want go out on a high note.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9H7jG14E5vg00veciwrbBCfrSKT85VgV8La-u8ANRSWCrhd_Q3ZWO9IyeyCJVeW4G_9ZhuM8pMASXYiw5cQ06e-4LjHyEUaTBXcvOtP3ScS1kYxUZAcHwngA3PWl1UFTXb0Tnd6ZxKks-/s1600/beach-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9H7jG14E5vg00veciwrbBCfrSKT85VgV8La-u8ANRSWCrhd_Q3ZWO9IyeyCJVeW4G_9ZhuM8pMASXYiw5cQ06e-4LjHyEUaTBXcvOtP3ScS1kYxUZAcHwngA3PWl1UFTXb0Tnd6ZxKks-/s1600/beach-bench-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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So, as I found my bench and sat, my internal voice chanted, <i><span class="_5yi_">“Make it work, make it work.”</span></i><br />
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But the ocean had a different thought. <i> <span class="_5yi_">“Just…wait,”</span></i> it whispered. <i> <span class="_5yi_">“Just… wait.”</span></i><br />
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<i><span class="_5yi_"> </span></i>I took a deep breath. And waited. And tried to stop looking through my framework of hurriedness.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV35-cjXkMqlRxn3ln39XmuIGrjFyVYLTZ8l30X5pJNwORm727PaPmFlMfQ1WU5lgOrtDTJ9CQ-xV4lLjcvU84ydCfKJuG1rVW40LZoEwNJAnyJBzPxrrAdNPVLugyP-R6HPD6iw5LuiW0/s1600/ocean-framed-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV35-cjXkMqlRxn3ln39XmuIGrjFyVYLTZ8l30X5pJNwORm727PaPmFlMfQ1WU5lgOrtDTJ9CQ-xV4lLjcvU84ydCfKJuG1rVW40LZoEwNJAnyJBzPxrrAdNPVLugyP-R6HPD6iw5LuiW0/s1600/ocean-framed-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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That’s how I noticed the moon over the palms.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJy5fvAmx5PEQuzVfoRaHlOpBa2v2SbjFtdEfv9SGlFl9VM6hgvI-0PiIoUe94GfPfcmWqMWVh4p3by4LCtJnpm9K4ZmPJxBzoboQOMc5wDV4b7K761xZMAAA-SwqxVu67dAB-kRceXwjO/s1600/moon-over-palms-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJy5fvAmx5PEQuzVfoRaHlOpBa2v2SbjFtdEfv9SGlFl9VM6hgvI-0PiIoUe94GfPfcmWqMWVh4p3by4LCtJnpm9K4ZmPJxBzoboQOMc5wDV4b7K761xZMAAA-SwqxVu67dAB-kRceXwjO/s1600/moon-over-palms-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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The flock of pelicans overhead.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh913775XcZeaW1n2ry-sq8sWfNMWnAmq1Ohn03t3B-KTesRS1vhfjZvQtqMoGcqlXXoRI9IYRJZEfW7sfg8QaUmmRuu9YyT0p9X880J0ICl6BkBwWYtx70p340Sou5C1RlUtcUEFnc25bz/s1600/pelicans-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh913775XcZeaW1n2ry-sq8sWfNMWnAmq1Ohn03t3B-KTesRS1vhfjZvQtqMoGcqlXXoRI9IYRJZEfW7sfg8QaUmmRuu9YyT0p9X880J0ICl6BkBwWYtx70p340Sou5C1RlUtcUEFnc25bz/s1600/pelicans-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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The elderly woman who had joined me in taking in the beauty and the breeze.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYao9Zc1vGIqVkedcFR4ByfE8m81LMPuuyLjse5Rm0DnQVOjCqoZzWotnrK7RJ4naGwJ_syb9d5L2pceY4YXsMuiby8CgK_94k3MtlNsDk0RYbxv9qNWaZXo5pTH8RaOHlacgcLk85Dg8y/s1600/old-woman-watching-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYao9Zc1vGIqVkedcFR4ByfE8m81LMPuuyLjse5Rm0DnQVOjCqoZzWotnrK7RJ4naGwJ_syb9d5L2pceY4YXsMuiby8CgK_94k3MtlNsDk0RYbxv9qNWaZXo5pTH8RaOHlacgcLk85Dg8y/s1600/old-woman-watching-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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And the joyful kids who were poised like victors on a wall they just climbed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQAT-kUEXu2Dis5s5urVXCIFxrOOL03nfOj-HTqCA9BVbxdTPYAcNH6xMyEAw2ic7uZZipdTAySN9PjQnzp2fc0ztcpKxnK3uT3Lo7AyOCJtL3csXXAMomEJKm5Vs4YFZIwLN1hbA4COl/s1600/noir-boys-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQAT-kUEXu2Dis5s5urVXCIFxrOOL03nfOj-HTqCA9BVbxdTPYAcNH6xMyEAw2ic7uZZipdTAySN9PjQnzp2fc0ztcpKxnK3uT3Lo7AyOCJtL3csXXAMomEJKm5Vs4YFZIwLN1hbA4COl/s1600/noir-boys-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi-">Most of all, I was able to take in the ocean.</span> Scientists say that humans experience a calming effect when faced with something invariable in form, yet filled with variety in expression. That’s why we love campfires, aquariums, waterfalls, and, yes, oceans. We’re all a bunch of oxymorons. Our hearts long for the comfort of constancy mixed with the delight of difference.<br />
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Theme and variation: too much varying is exhausting. Too much theming is dull.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfqoqUVYNU0uvNu2dlW9t5j_HEJF4cnwUyLvduMPS04CzZ01TyllacPmYnUqxz-nxRdPuGViPnnlKxrMVjRdiDhMf6VALPWCIKuoaxywo1uSwFSu-ns1jF5zU4AoKAihZaDXra3jdmss1/s1600/sunset-waves-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTfqoqUVYNU0uvNu2dlW9t5j_HEJF4cnwUyLvduMPS04CzZ01TyllacPmYnUqxz-nxRdPuGViPnnlKxrMVjRdiDhMf6VALPWCIKuoaxywo1uSwFSu-ns1jF5zU4AoKAihZaDXra3jdmss1/s1600/sunset-waves-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">I’m ready, after 98 benches, to riff some variations on a different theme. </span> What that will turn out to be is yet to be discovered. I have an experiment I’m going to run on Saturday for my penultimate post that may give me some answers. We’ll see. It may, eventually, involve social media.</div>
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But, sitting and soaking in the view of the sea, I’m comforted by the constancy of the pursuit, wherever it may take me. Call it The Call. <span class="_5yi_"><i>Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free.</i> </span> Onward and upward.</div>
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<img alt="" class="_h2z _297z _usd img" id="u_jsonp_7_9" src="https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xtf1/v/t1.0-9/13001313_10208258661119409_2715672654178175399_n.jpg?oh=3bcf7e41561b8079ddf39126f32bc59b&oe=57B909E7" /></div>
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And like the husband who reluctantly removed his shoes to follow his wife onto the beach, I may take a bit to get adjusted to each new idea that pops up. But I’m ready to get my feet wet.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3y2mgBL3RMeUh2SdfNzn0eguOln7tlXMWJQ5Y7fBm2-P_68VnJDIqa7pFFXwVwlfiaHTE_uBT7JZTp1NCFJgt1OE-qAZxwhVpRyLsDHqTCEWDFHF3JxM9V1_LhLA8ZYvOTdRVVnlGIUaY/s1600/following-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3y2mgBL3RMeUh2SdfNzn0eguOln7tlXMWJQ5Y7fBm2-P_68VnJDIqa7pFFXwVwlfiaHTE_uBT7JZTp1NCFJgt1OE-qAZxwhVpRyLsDHqTCEWDFHF3JxM9V1_LhLA8ZYvOTdRVVnlGIUaY/s1600/following-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-9342620731304405682016-03-27T06:19:00.000-07:002016-04-07T03:06:21.487-07:00Benched Week 97: found in translation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQJ0cdHjL0AoZIn6DsKhTDWpZYdZwVzFGFzreo-CqcQf_yOxvjzHWyQ3pJefwEtG2MQg8mfEi2EQoJMieEbIbt2ipot7heVvh4sEjpZlnj7O873cB_JXDckba8KH0ZvRClJzFhbJnf1Lb/s1600/grace-flat-out-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQJ0cdHjL0AoZIn6DsKhTDWpZYdZwVzFGFzreo-CqcQf_yOxvjzHWyQ3pJefwEtG2MQg8mfEi2EQoJMieEbIbt2ipot7heVvh4sEjpZlnj7O873cB_JXDckba8KH0ZvRClJzFhbJnf1Lb/s1600/grace-flat-out-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuiRnM71hwZwe8SGE84IHTug_n47RbSceZU5RLnCFE7i0FN8hxSI9s8EQ2xFu1f_J5JwYRZ5Bje90filIy1K0iwDSHjXHOYibNJx1obE2zoFICTrS_94jXUa9_08t4JbmFrJnk1tDsiKN/s1600/grace-looking-at-lake-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<i><b><span class="_5yi-">One of life’s great joys is passing on a passion. </span> </b></i>Not simply handing over information, but igniting a flame in someone else. Or opening their eyes to a new way of seeing.<br />
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I found a pointed visual for this as my daughter, Grace, and I wended our way along the second of three hikes in my favorite Pennsylvania state park, Black Moshannon. (Which in a perfect world, would have been thus named in honor of a pirate and not just the tannin-steeped water of the boggy lake.) There, just off the trail was a dead pine, with the green branches of a sapling growing out from just behind it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKtSLmoI1Ftt5Uk0iAMqaQx-nYQ06BoI3wvNeyJ10aQY64me4hyRPNQzbMgJiQylF3HzZknO1wSfwSNeJI_i1jJSljTotNhkRrNH8A6_roqHgwr9INqkAnRl2ia5I2i0EgivLRXijAFdT/s1600/old-and-young-trees-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRKtSLmoI1Ftt5Uk0iAMqaQx-nYQ06BoI3wvNeyJ10aQY64me4hyRPNQzbMgJiQylF3HzZknO1wSfwSNeJI_i1jJSljTotNhkRrNH8A6_roqHgwr9INqkAnRl2ia5I2i0EgivLRXijAFdT/s1600/old-and-young-trees-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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The old giving life to the new.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ao4XYxEDnv08IEgDYjFb-LXYop9IB5Ml-apeqrp25Ela__3s-aUvJDIU6p8AZBqFtiLKsCocMSpQ0XuznzWegQhqOmgLvsZU_GZeMU9GmX13GplQyCxjwErA7hYFS8OBJLnX6kQxmYXp/s1600/shadow-bird-better-450px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ao4XYxEDnv08IEgDYjFb-LXYop9IB5Ml-apeqrp25Ela__3s-aUvJDIU6p8AZBqFtiLKsCocMSpQ0XuznzWegQhqOmgLvsZU_GZeMU9GmX13GplQyCxjwErA7hYFS8OBJLnX6kQxmYXp/s1600/shadow-bird-better-450px.jpg" /></a><br />
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">On this day, passing on a passion meant handing over the camera.</span> </b></i>As I did, I gave her this challenge: find me shots for this Benched post.<br />
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She
took to it with gusto and an exquisite eye for framing. On our first
stroll, she was taken with the bright sunlight reflecting off the lake,
silhouetting a bird.<br />
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And a stump she likened to a tiny island.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCkxUDTJ0Mrfs56oaSxayivptlpUZuhogFlh-UEmB3_9xujFJnGvVOVKaw7TS1q8-KsueMTr8gj-oRKUVc1SRRynr3L8FofhdTNSEYsk_ws3vEpZ9XModCux2YmcxkEapSVL3gT6IKrxB/s1600/stump-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCkxUDTJ0Mrfs56oaSxayivptlpUZuhogFlh-UEmB3_9xujFJnGvVOVKaw7TS1q8-KsueMTr8gj-oRKUVc1SRRynr3L8FofhdTNSEYsk_ws3vEpZ9XModCux2YmcxkEapSVL3gT6IKrxB/s1600/stump-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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When we stopped for lunch, the magic of serendipity was in full force. I asked Grace if she knew why I chose this table. She said no. I said, pointing up to the vapor trails above us, “I just looked for the X that was on the map.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic34RikOWUjCeM9VIMByv-2W7lnc4dqH421i8ArYsKwm3vtyvohonsCFeS6HfLKXXRWadVaOuY4V3VoTKEJo7ETJyhBaAB49uaPqwsu96whbTo9dMH6Q5IeYAVM5uEnxn50VDILDyUtZsm/s1600/x-marks-spot-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic34RikOWUjCeM9VIMByv-2W7lnc4dqH421i8ArYsKwm3vtyvohonsCFeS6HfLKXXRWadVaOuY4V3VoTKEJo7ETJyhBaAB49uaPqwsu96whbTo9dMH6Q5IeYAVM5uEnxn50VDILDyUtZsm/s640/x-marks-spot-600px.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">After lunch, I found my bench.</span> She joined me. I asked her what she liked about photography. She answered readily. “Seeing things differently. Framing things.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc06C3jTYdz0biAG_J1gEltIp74QQoJ-fEQR9H4KqwQIASPv2E81w9vZCyXUl_uqtZKT6LCQnk-cEeh-W54qkhcAw9V6uFhzwlnkIM4o7OUe852rqCw6XqS7XMTSdBE4-xMqEC29_nywBc/s1600/lake-bench-bvp-400px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc06C3jTYdz0biAG_J1gEltIp74QQoJ-fEQR9H4KqwQIASPv2E81w9vZCyXUl_uqtZKT6LCQnk-cEeh-W54qkhcAw9V6uFhzwlnkIM4o7OUe852rqCw6XqS7XMTSdBE4-xMqEC29_nywBc/s320/lake-bench-bvp-400px.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“What do you think is hard?”</div>
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She pondered this. “Finding interesting subjects,” she answered. “And how to highlight them to make them look differently to others.” I expanded on this a bit. It’s hard to capture wonder for people. She added, “It gets lost in translation.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuiRnM71hwZwe8SGE84IHTug_n47RbSceZU5RLnCFE7i0FN8hxSI9s8EQ2xFu1f_J5JwYRZ5Bje90filIy1K0iwDSHjXHOYibNJx1obE2zoFICTrS_94jXUa9_08t4JbmFrJnk1tDsiKN/s1600/grace-looking-at-lake-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUuiRnM71hwZwe8SGE84IHTug_n47RbSceZU5RLnCFE7i0FN8hxSI9s8EQ2xFu1f_J5JwYRZ5Bje90filIy1K0iwDSHjXHOYibNJx1obE2zoFICTrS_94jXUa9_08t4JbmFrJnk1tDsiKN/s1600/grace-looking-at-lake-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">We all have perspectives and values we hope to pass on, particularly our kids.</span></b></i> Creativity is one of mine. A key part of that is the ability to recognize the extraordinary around us every day. But great treasures should be shared. How it warmed my heart to see Grace splayed out on the wooded walkway, eager to get a close-up of the shoot of the ignoble skunk cabbage. She sees. She’s eager to share.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggj0DhuyTKjI5cOc-KLZiRdJPcxQ93wNBaeJJl3qAg1gX1MsMNd4fUAMskjmDsIXbHUVljOytGHXhOUfhvEgh0k3HfZx3fXaELLEoOisZca8-0CU2ZabpXV2Wu2KQIN1QQEg5Eb11stPmZ/s1600/skunk-cabbage-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggj0DhuyTKjI5cOc-KLZiRdJPcxQ93wNBaeJJl3qAg1gX1MsMNd4fUAMskjmDsIXbHUVljOytGHXhOUfhvEgh0k3HfZx3fXaELLEoOisZca8-0CU2ZabpXV2Wu2KQIN1QQEg5Eb11stPmZ/s1600/skunk-cabbage-600px.jpg" /></a> </div>
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At the end of our third hike, we chanced upon a natural hallway in the brush. Immediately, I said, “You know what that reminds me of?” She knew what I was going to say: we found a similar scene six years ago on another hike. “Do you remember the pose?” I asked.<br />
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The question was unnecessary. She had already struck it, waiting for me to take the shot.<br />
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It made me beam.<br />
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I guess we’ve had a long history of translating delight. And sharing it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0-VrdYS_Rf0czsgEgzjAfCQgY-hCPBwEjJfJrVTx5aT-dr8Z4o50MoLS1j4ShGGeQ9gAtldZht7ENv6a8mqwUQ7Fb6ldRv9LZ__DQ5wryCgxaMiLzMuN6n21yYww6hZswJflitCQajoyh/s1600/two-doorways-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0-VrdYS_Rf0czsgEgzjAfCQgY-hCPBwEjJfJrVTx5aT-dr8Z4o50MoLS1j4ShGGeQ9gAtldZht7ENv6a8mqwUQ7Fb6ldRv9LZ__DQ5wryCgxaMiLzMuN6n21yYww6hZswJflitCQajoyh/s1600/two-doorways-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-60315618783336052412016-03-20T15:38:00.004-07:002016-03-20T15:43:15.250-07:00Benched Week 96: fantastical beasts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGg3-hyTEB4NWVL1FTLjTBrfJGHwtBjkYi6qy9iHSPakYgJAiF5XaZwz11TvYcYlwdSQcyLIwAljlqHv9mrcMNijbUXZJO1_MViat3b_MIKUhhejlG8M8xZRpiAYpooBOvdc3u0_Bm_9ef/s1600/griffin-800px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGg3-hyTEB4NWVL1FTLjTBrfJGHwtBjkYi6qy9iHSPakYgJAiF5XaZwz11TvYcYlwdSQcyLIwAljlqHv9mrcMNijbUXZJO1_MViat3b_MIKUhhejlG8M8xZRpiAYpooBOvdc3u0_Bm_9ef/s1600/griffin-800px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi-">I went looking for strange creatures this week in Washington, D.C. </span> I know, I know: <span class="_5yi_">it shouldn’t be very hard,</span> you quip. Especially only a few blocks away from the Capitol, swathed in scaffolding.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmnVMnHQ-5TdD2GaBHopKaPw6a3gmO2RrpysXalnlaheFZIlWc8fqUnCXnxPkHTxPekIUxMZX_2PFVwIL3M3Ia4xtp0r554Mp9qsV_YYbpjgAZxNinY4fWPLsgDiI_-wcQ6jLYliYuJIPH/s1600/capitol-construction-280px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmnVMnHQ-5TdD2GaBHopKaPw6a3gmO2RrpysXalnlaheFZIlWc8fqUnCXnxPkHTxPekIUxMZX_2PFVwIL3M3Ia4xtp0r554Mp9qsV_YYbpjgAZxNinY4fWPLsgDiI_-wcQ6jLYliYuJIPH/s1600/capitol-construction-280px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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But I made my search harder today by not knowing for some time what I was after. When I set out under gray skies after my event ended today, my only thought was to find a bench.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdSpZOjp-GUcbF6mxwIcvVfpyf9Yb5rO7Lw7MZZ8EGllWkF1tltpF32FMN2GgxufM00CDMW2ftp3YQOfebIbR2RbKK6FpqpEDnLyT5JKq5F0OlqWrLxX5XheKB_LlcxZqJl7dtHVxp2D3/s1600/bench-row-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdSpZOjp-GUcbF6mxwIcvVfpyf9Yb5rO7Lw7MZZ8EGllWkF1tltpF32FMN2GgxufM00CDMW2ftp3YQOfebIbR2RbKK6FpqpEDnLyT5JKq5F0OlqWrLxX5XheKB_LlcxZqJl7dtHVxp2D3/s1600/bench-row-600px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<b>And at first, nothing out of the ordinary presented itself.</b> I sat. And listened. People passed. After a while, a squirrel caught my eye. Doggedly digging, he finally came up with the prize of an acorn. Inspired, I thought I’d wander a bit and dig a bit more for something noteworthy.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgwjccI08hXr1Amdes8vvfGvmjk4OHXIe_zqANUeIpQnGlRSqa4hweY6rqX19TKJbkf0ocwWvlv66cVMt5-y4zqc_G9iCJR-pWNGrTfxvHzcKBGVUPOdtEvFzpQ-uTc5465Q0w8IhN_vx/s1600/squirrel-find-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLgwjccI08hXr1Amdes8vvfGvmjk4OHXIe_zqANUeIpQnGlRSqa4hweY6rqX19TKJbkf0ocwWvlv66cVMt5-y4zqc_G9iCJR-pWNGrTfxvHzcKBGVUPOdtEvFzpQ-uTc5465Q0w8IhN_vx/s1600/squirrel-find-600px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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There were signs of spring. Worthy of a shot or two, but not a blog post.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv0r3UMgtPJF81U1EL95rXhcGKWWgYScRmQTfJVKnkLREPuzhSKFl9p00gF7gMLf9XHwuiIF52w-6P_N6yNtJxY6wkbLZx2Aby3cNUzeRHTunVwxV0yXiRg-54_pJbcsZWPuPLHEud0ON/s1600/tiny-daffodil-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv0r3UMgtPJF81U1EL95rXhcGKWWgYScRmQTfJVKnkLREPuzhSKFl9p00gF7gMLf9XHwuiIF52w-6P_N6yNtJxY6wkbLZx2Aby3cNUzeRHTunVwxV0yXiRg-54_pJbcsZWPuPLHEud0ON/s1600/tiny-daffodil-600px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHBELHr2KYJSJVXhoXBM4Rm5VFodBDIFW7jJpCJ8bOaP7_9dSlywWYNgf0-Wkt2j9uY1BwHPJRIRPzSfhMjL2_8zXpHFYSb1gYZN6dadTlHJavd3QzH-VzRqmvcS8mhvpAnjyVo7EGWub/s1600/cherry-blossom-cropped-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHBELHr2KYJSJVXhoXBM4Rm5VFodBDIFW7jJpCJ8bOaP7_9dSlywWYNgf0-Wkt2j9uY1BwHPJRIRPzSfhMjL2_8zXpHFYSb1gYZN6dadTlHJavd3QzH-VzRqmvcS8mhvpAnjyVo7EGWub/s1600/cherry-blossom-cropped-600px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi-">It took my looking up to find it. </span></b> There, in a park, on the side of a tree was a weirdly shaped burl, and from my angle, looked like a type of warty ogre. </div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_2WIWAZQxGeSeZVOfeQcgtGfrK1EixMa73tb07keygW-noag-qbkXGyMpYZEtOzyOkwOgEHG-Tco7O-TjA7AdbS4qocJvylQnlY4Y30hslT99YSEQeEy8t0rC8b2QPyxJqzccfwTL57d/s1600/treebeast1-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_2WIWAZQxGeSeZVOfeQcgtGfrK1EixMa73tb07keygW-noag-qbkXGyMpYZEtOzyOkwOgEHG-Tco7O-TjA7AdbS4qocJvylQnlY4Y30hslT99YSEQeEy8t0rC8b2QPyxJqzccfwTL57d/s1600/treebeast1-400px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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Nearby was another one, more of a brutish bruin.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifV83gD0wRUbTNRpFsd6rF99zFAhg2evkn-2_VsQgeYE9OxWIAeukHIJX6AJYzszzMa9ExEbF28nQ3VzkcMygjoXtfqSculj_Lfyn2hLd3dVOWV8NGT4KCQHrMt5ABGfeMY1K2jcWq-fxn/s1600/treebeast2-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="_5yi-"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1ZeSsj0_mvOZjo-jZ1bqSUfBToIxKdGh6El9qwQGUyGFfx1S4tcNAGJmC2Q7fOtHFiDdK1_RP17nPhJkJ54Y6XlbXG5U3ap-6PnVlJD1Y6MVBDj-Af1_wuWTUe0m65s5DN3qLL7eIgFk/s1600/griffin-1100px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="_5yi-"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC1ZeSsj0_mvOZjo-jZ1bqSUfBToIxKdGh6El9qwQGUyGFfx1S4tcNAGJmC2Q7fOtHFiDdK1_RP17nPhJkJ54Y6XlbXG5U3ap-6PnVlJD1Y6MVBDj-Af1_wuWTUe0m65s5DN3qLL7eIgFk/s1600/griffin-1100px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifV83gD0wRUbTNRpFsd6rF99zFAhg2evkn-2_VsQgeYE9OxWIAeukHIJX6AJYzszzMa9ExEbF28nQ3VzkcMygjoXtfqSculj_Lfyn2hLd3dVOWV8NGT4KCQHrMt5ABGfeMY1K2jcWq-fxn/s320/treebeast2-400px.jpg" width="320" /></span></div>
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That’s when I went on my quest for fanciful creatures. It actually wasn’t very hard. I soon tracked down and captured a lion.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr00jJ_Z1WXSFeBPJcwDplQ6bxdkPncF2VqbZQgVtmbRMN_-uW2BB7K_5yymIGtIws0ZtJzDGSUCN7BrARHg1TNWSVldmOIO_7ZxTR-r7EGeofoPLMR1kmh6VoAmqhuOVSN8SP5YEcMrGi/s1600/stone-lion-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr00jJ_Z1WXSFeBPJcwDplQ6bxdkPncF2VqbZQgVtmbRMN_-uW2BB7K_5yymIGtIws0ZtJzDGSUCN7BrARHg1TNWSVldmOIO_7ZxTR-r7EGeofoPLMR1kmh6VoAmqhuOVSN8SP5YEcMrGi/s1600/stone-lion-600px.jpg" /></a></span></span></div>
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A griffin.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWmJUtXHarrn29IpZ6yxc28lCRee6Tjq7yD8VFciASCk6QIjwVJNHPS-6T6zhK2bS7Eo3T_iROfDc5gTMLQrat1P2HhX4B-5Mh7ujeO8XYolKAlCqdbQTrEAfbEDZSrejou4aDLGYK9zo/s1600/griffin-profile-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBWmJUtXHarrn29IpZ6yxc28lCRee6Tjq7yD8VFciASCk6QIjwVJNHPS-6T6zhK2bS7Eo3T_iROfDc5gTMLQrat1P2HhX4B-5Mh7ujeO8XYolKAlCqdbQTrEAfbEDZSrejou4aDLGYK9zo/s1600/griffin-profile-600px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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A somewhat lame phoenix.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnLvBgqX17RjyLmLwwSN9Mj3w6eA6NKBDIwQ91f9qu9Y2Bhe5nNR2I0bqXwTJLh2gMrBJtFicLv4wjODiwyI-SHyRY3v1ijeZIQ0hQateQwQyxmzIn6NM99UQNKwJ9ixL00MGGBT7AcK3/s1600/phoenix-sign-300px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisnLvBgqX17RjyLmLwwSN9Mj3w6eA6NKBDIwQ91f9qu9Y2Bhe5nNR2I0bqXwTJLh2gMrBJtFicLv4wjODiwyI-SHyRY3v1ijeZIQ0hQateQwQyxmzIn6NM99UQNKwJ9ixL00MGGBT7AcK3/s1600/phoenix-sign-300px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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And a marvelously textured tiger with a gaping maw.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvjX7Ufl9qdPK6URDZoMoG5WYiwiADI6QOzlH0sU0vnf0XBEwCsIGpTWTKcmoiafa2PAjx7lL3ghmuw07VB3ThUoTXsHKwZFDolZ6GOw9x4aNcgY3AsVOwZqfoQxmqhcy-M8szHDiAums/s1600/stone-tiger-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvjX7Ufl9qdPK6URDZoMoG5WYiwiADI6QOzlH0sU0vnf0XBEwCsIGpTWTKcmoiafa2PAjx7lL3ghmuw07VB3ThUoTXsHKwZFDolZ6GOw9x4aNcgY3AsVOwZqfoQxmqhcy-M8szHDiAums/s1600/stone-tiger-500px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">My theme this year is to contemplate wonder.</span></b><span class="_5yi-"> </span> I’m on the lookout for things that make me ask, <span class="_5yi_">How can this be?</span> Perhaps that’s why we’re drawn to imaginary and majestic animals: they’re something wild in the midst of our predictable lives -- bound to make us wonder, if we took the time to consider them.<br />
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That’s the big IF. I am convinced that there is no such thing as <span class="_5yi_">drive-by wonder. </span> Amazement requires contemplation. And the funny thing is, one doesn’t need extraordinary nature to contemplate for it to work. As I watched a simple sparrow flit around me as I ate <span class="_5yi_">inside Union Station</span>, I wondered at its adaptability to thrive inside the cavernous building. It really is kind of incredible. </div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mKF5ZgXNzUiCk2HidWcDF1Q23JkSDUy7nYOOqEqUZmFg95wunu-c3Sm_FMsZ_8aZsWu1RIXTrQt146cUNzfq7K1cozbS_vh-VUX_gIzeKA21CvByERPriDverXG9ZO9o-E_sDcTui1iG/s1600/food-court-bird-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mKF5ZgXNzUiCk2HidWcDF1Q23JkSDUy7nYOOqEqUZmFg95wunu-c3Sm_FMsZ_8aZsWu1RIXTrQt146cUNzfq7K1cozbS_vh-VUX_gIzeKA21CvByERPriDverXG9ZO9o-E_sDcTui1iG/s1600/food-court-bird-500px.jpg" /></a></span><br />
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For that matter, so is learning a lesson from a squirrel. Wouldn’t he have been pleased to know I did.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WTwxffNfl9alkvojDepzvCmveazC6Kn3p8w2kiGoNkPBNoXNuXkK0KlVnGVoCfeTZ_9lIV2CUaHL-vP3qrpbz_gDan6cD8m7_s8IgnEW2UMCxxb5pn6dboy3Riea198WuOUm7yev-ncb/s1600/smiling-squirrel-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WTwxffNfl9alkvojDepzvCmveazC6Kn3p8w2kiGoNkPBNoXNuXkK0KlVnGVoCfeTZ_9lIV2CUaHL-vP3qrpbz_gDan6cD8m7_s8IgnEW2UMCxxb5pn6dboy3Riea198WuOUm7yev-ncb/s1600/smiling-squirrel-600px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-89000823458543047082016-01-31T16:57:00.004-08:002016-01-31T16:59:05.093-08:00Benched Week 94: will it go ‘round in circles?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQlPaE1sO3IGFfGBAIRHe6WFbF23yyKRW2sVXrPUlkkDt5z81e8utMOkGXpKdvuZYtkH2dG-G_oPOZuv7qagRO7g5heF7BHOeRIkKiByXcHLfmWR0bKUsE4nx3EfN66GLoV3rRjcYKTYm-/s1600/carousel-for-header-1000px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQlPaE1sO3IGFfGBAIRHe6WFbF23yyKRW2sVXrPUlkkDt5z81e8utMOkGXpKdvuZYtkH2dG-G_oPOZuv7qagRO7g5heF7BHOeRIkKiByXcHLfmWR0bKUsE4nx3EfN66GLoV3rRjcYKTYm-/s1600/carousel-for-header-1000px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi-">When I looked at the hotel for tonight on Google maps, I saw that it was only a block and a half from the Inner Harbor of Baltimore.</span></b></i> Unfortunately, I had already posted from that spot. I considered waiting for another trip, but when I arrived and saw the snowy landscape, I decided to wander down and take another stroll.</div>
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After all, there’s value in revisiting familiar territory. There’s always more to learn. It’s true in art. In love. Certainly, in landscapes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8JIQ-biTvFiqQYDwXoYsvyDSl5sds-c91gN_SPeiU4gCF22ZoOMD7_GwxG2otiAzmwuxnA448z-Le00JVc6VOdwUT77uv7Xmh7tTNf8_Xf8pw5iZc86nrlUfgPJhGHiz6cj6WF3aV3aV/s1600/statue-hat-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8JIQ-biTvFiqQYDwXoYsvyDSl5sds-c91gN_SPeiU4gCF22ZoOMD7_GwxG2otiAzmwuxnA448z-Le00JVc6VOdwUT77uv7Xmh7tTNf8_Xf8pw5iZc86nrlUfgPJhGHiz6cj6WF3aV3aV/s1600/statue-hat-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">For instance, there was a statue I had missed on my first sitting.</span> Feeling compassion for its bald head, I loaned it my hat for a minute. A woman passing laughed and said, “He would have liked that.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdJCgvmdpWOX0kwr2IPvmJYYDQP5j-rYHFKiz7E-p-YQm9KC5QL8SsIfNrB7KQIVTRB3san6b5Ddlm2O8FiixKnPpGmaVoLeIEsGKlbalG1SPfWrchw4lYvpEX9SVL9bZd_3iKmcsgeKp/s1600/old-glory-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijdJCgvmdpWOX0kwr2IPvmJYYDQP5j-rYHFKiz7E-p-YQm9KC5QL8SsIfNrB7KQIVTRB3san6b5Ddlm2O8FiixKnPpGmaVoLeIEsGKlbalG1SPfWrchw4lYvpEX9SVL9bZd_3iKmcsgeKp/s1600/old-glory-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Old Glory fluttered over Federal Hill Park.</div>
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Two benches caught my eye. First there was the wildly optimistic one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOBbYMZXKBQI8zfxz-k5AhAsEWkXd7AIuhlZQjeRITR2SJu-Z5aOgoAUmMsPDVMRD6FrA485Ggiu9XtDzSPOf-jjDLZlq01DDRsTQGw1QHR2NuR3dleZldUQMZLmuBBqNZfnWoBbMqni4/s1600/baltimore-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOBbYMZXKBQI8zfxz-k5AhAsEWkXd7AIuhlZQjeRITR2SJu-Z5aOgoAUmMsPDVMRD6FrA485Ggiu9XtDzSPOf-jjDLZlq01DDRsTQGw1QHR2NuR3dleZldUQMZLmuBBqNZfnWoBbMqni4/s1600/baltimore-bench-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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And then, the bench that invited me with its bright colors. I sat on this one for a while.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyJJZQg2P386PJaDM5LxNycU6xmOf-XIl2qTsPpcWOfz_VYW7LAGPqnD53soTHJEuqlyaJfQLOt2qk3pKzkWaIhV31nou_8Zc736xCrVFVtzYqa5sYFo-LC8xyl3fcc52UeZBnTishWBPA/s1600/wild-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyJJZQg2P386PJaDM5LxNycU6xmOf-XIl2qTsPpcWOfz_VYW7LAGPqnD53soTHJEuqlyaJfQLOt2qk3pKzkWaIhV31nou_8Zc736xCrVFVtzYqa5sYFo-LC8xyl3fcc52UeZBnTishWBPA/s1600/wild-bench-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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The Inner Harbor is always an impressive view.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCV1WD5e-IgWcDhAdK30BIVP7tmV-rmdO2MrjVgJTIt9byegB6jatKLZSrtCUwMkGTCZs2lt6POXpSGAHWGLjGEqddXUoiA9-SpJLkfL9ZIWRfy-9_VrPhABbzyeyOyYeS8MURha8u__aO/s1600/inner-harbor-blue-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCV1WD5e-IgWcDhAdK30BIVP7tmV-rmdO2MrjVgJTIt9byegB6jatKLZSrtCUwMkGTCZs2lt6POXpSGAHWGLjGEqddXUoiA9-SpJLkfL9ZIWRfy-9_VrPhABbzyeyOyYeS8MURha8u__aO/s1600/inner-harbor-blue-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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But today, it looked as if Banksy had just run by with cans of shaving cream.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLc3P0i1XrxGN-ZQTCd-ZSQeZ7RdONCqI5d_ZHSGHF4Q54_nfdHF2M5a2V1Qhkv3xtCcrMMsPLu5eVTtPZx4wjA5bp1iKjx5ek1aCh94nCJTtKXUKQHzbObV3Ej5d4521op8e8jWb1Zt5q/s1600/dock-snow-narrow-vert-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLc3P0i1XrxGN-ZQTCd-ZSQeZ7RdONCqI5d_ZHSGHF4Q54_nfdHF2M5a2V1Qhkv3xtCcrMMsPLu5eVTtPZx4wjA5bp1iKjx5ek1aCh94nCJTtKXUKQHzbObV3Ej5d4521op8e8jWb1Zt5q/s1600/dock-snow-narrow-vert-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b>In my mind, I kept coming back to the theme.</b></i> </span> Which was, in fact, the theme: <span class="_5yi_">coming back. </span> How many times can one return to something before it grows stale? Before there’s not much left to glean? I think these Benched posts are running out of steam. I press on to reach 100, but often feel like I’m humming tunes I’ve picked up from previous musings.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblmKsj0_v-ka22WlI2DRrzHTiIWNMjpNqvCZUUHw8oRkgJZy45YSIDKlknjfYqqEHvF9gJx8-lrYWm9_hWoN_GjgJqEklFKywmjlfRRjzjH1I8OzHusNbVb-DzOKTT6_87OkvFrVchqHt/s1600/carousel-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblmKsj0_v-ka22WlI2DRrzHTiIWNMjpNqvCZUUHw8oRkgJZy45YSIDKlknjfYqqEHvF9gJx8-lrYWm9_hWoN_GjgJqEklFKywmjlfRRjzjH1I8OzHusNbVb-DzOKTT6_87OkvFrVchqHt/s1600/carousel-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Much like the carousel just off the harbor, covered up for the winter, sometimes revisiting familiar territory is a circular journey. It provides comfort in the familiar. A favorite book. The same spot for vacation. A church worship service.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLLDsuDLGYFU6OzI5XmHZ2hRkuJ0OM363Z0B2kzSxJChBsMFLLCTNuot0YOhAG9yJUfX7RuwPR_8HRc6sAXv5e0qYEV5iCG0LhYIH-b6-cxZmdCIouEawCmMCY08CZbvr_YJ0ugU-DlOh/s1600/carousel-jester-400px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLLDsuDLGYFU6OzI5XmHZ2hRkuJ0OM363Z0B2kzSxJChBsMFLLCTNuot0YOhAG9yJUfX7RuwPR_8HRc6sAXv5e0qYEV5iCG0LhYIH-b6-cxZmdCIouEawCmMCY08CZbvr_YJ0ugU-DlOh/s1600/carousel-jester-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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No harm there. Until it becomes mindless repetition. Until it becomes simply a habit, yielding little more than a vague sense of safety in the recognizable. Mark Twain called this entrenched habit <i><span class="_5yi_">custom</span></i>. And custom, he wrote, “is petrification; nothing but dynamite can dislodge it for a century.” That Twain – a jester with a point.</div>
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We don’t have to be trapped by our carousel of custom. If we walk away replenished from the encounter -- or better yet, changed by it, then it’s not truly circular. It moves us forward.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMF6z9oX5NRxSHuTyjKTZ7cjXFOrJB6JWu7WkcaF4sFCICCPyhKISrnjEQ1jys2W7DWNfaXZyBVuMdpn3TOOn8DpkW9WqnMUAZhUX9FmBUkjf_NoPLE9dfMA_slk4FnDN2IFp3TQnaJTf/s1600/bike-in-snow-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMF6z9oX5NRxSHuTyjKTZ7cjXFOrJB6JWu7WkcaF4sFCICCPyhKISrnjEQ1jys2W7DWNfaXZyBVuMdpn3TOOn8DpkW9WqnMUAZhUX9FmBUkjf_NoPLE9dfMA_slk4FnDN2IFp3TQnaJTf/s1600/bike-in-snow-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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That’s where the rubber meets the road, at least for me. It’s about moving forward. Continuing the journey.</div>
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Even if sometimes I look back to where I’ve been.</div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-37618519252527833822016-01-15T05:26:00.001-08:002016-01-15T05:30:58.549-08:00Benched Week 94: how can this be?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"> Every January, I start the year giving myself a pep talk.</span></b> In one sentence. Call it a personal slogan – a simply-put idea to focus on throughout the coming months. This year, I’m charging myself to wonder about wonder.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPcrPz8NexAc7Xif3azTlhaZF8GgKmnEW5Tj25vmresHYcxo7zBHXUCG-gXK0Bx1OqcZtxIY3nMpbYnyOeBZTexUVCk3SMXT6LTeiwwdBIJacjiV-k0quWr1PhweOpowgy_7DAKviQxYU/s1600/first-night-wonder-400px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPcrPz8NexAc7Xif3azTlhaZF8GgKmnEW5Tj25vmresHYcxo7zBHXUCG-gXK0Bx1OqcZtxIY3nMpbYnyOeBZTexUVCk3SMXT6LTeiwwdBIJacjiV-k0quWr1PhweOpowgy_7DAKviQxYU/s1600/first-night-wonder-400px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPcrPz8NexAc7Xif3azTlhaZF8GgKmnEW5Tj25vmresHYcxo7zBHXUCG-gXK0Bx1OqcZtxIY3nMpbYnyOeBZTexUVCk3SMXT6LTeiwwdBIJacjiV-k0quWr1PhweOpowgy_7DAKviQxYU/s1600/first-night-wonder-400px.jpg" /></a>I recently attended a performance where a magician brought a young girl on stage and had her throw invisible coins into a metal bucket. He look of utter astonishment with the first clink of a coin was priceless. (I drew this from a photo I took a bit later, when he was making coins drop from her elbow.)<br />
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This old-time photo from the web captures the expression.<br />
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFeyl0N41m8UxeLz6SyUux7725QDFPi9Bg2gOgq5zP0lD1TxwHLJ5yLMZhgaEUhx0nDPZ3ienZo3cBRUNhhWAT98zzcTDhtkvBxmLi3yv8IYQO3WFvDRgkNYivHgmv2wSw2BP14jsKH7O/s1600/roller-skate-wonder-300px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFeyl0N41m8UxeLz6SyUux7725QDFPi9Bg2gOgq5zP0lD1TxwHLJ5yLMZhgaEUhx0nDPZ3ienZo3cBRUNhhWAT98zzcTDhtkvBxmLi3yv8IYQO3WFvDRgkNYivHgmv2wSw2BP14jsKH7O/s1600/roller-skate-wonder-300px.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
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Pondering what constitutes wonder, I’ve decided that a key question drives it: <span class="_5yi- _5yi_">“How can this be?” </span> Incredulity is necessary for our reaction. But there’s also an essential abundance required for the cause: <i><span class="_5yi_">something is good over and above the norm.</span> </i> When good happens, we are grateful. When something extraordinarily <span class="_5yi_">great</span> happens, we wonder.</div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29s9TqyE-uUosriP_QEecXvM-KAX-a174hJ4XiECCOpwTGYTxrqicVv33m-GqcceSViUN2xUhva5wJG7S9qPmwLnXB6rgidUIudnA-4rXr8pEkht5CdasLc7xNH1syUc2Hi2yxBLyO9Wj/s1600/crowds-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29s9TqyE-uUosriP_QEecXvM-KAX-a174hJ4XiECCOpwTGYTxrqicVv33m-GqcceSViUN2xUhva5wJG7S9qPmwLnXB6rgidUIudnA-4rXr8pEkht5CdasLc7xNH1syUc2Hi2yxBLyO9Wj/s1600/crowds-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">Which brings me to my bench.</span></b> I was on the sidewalk in Manhattan on Tuesday night, having finished my all-day capture of a visioning session. Dreading the drive home in rush hour traffic, I was fully focused on the problem – a “grim-faced and fell” road warrior (as Tolkien might have described). Striding my way through the crowds.<br />
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BINyYyd3tohQopyvPkePp4-Sm0s0mvShl3gF2qZShZEyhHVH576k6F9SjXZ73viFR4DFyDzXa8fsQ-NiMtW9BDA-FCwAwiUMpdqxFDtJ2ohuW8Uno1akBtI2zqXkCr7mlYfiDRya-yv8/s1600/library-with-lion-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BINyYyd3tohQopyvPkePp4-Sm0s0mvShl3gF2qZShZEyhHVH576k6F9SjXZ73viFR4DFyDzXa8fsQ-NiMtW9BDA-FCwAwiUMpdqxFDtJ2ohuW8Uno1akBtI2zqXkCr7mlYfiDRya-yv8/s1600/library-with-lion-500px.jpg" /></a></span></b> </div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">Then I passed the New York Public Library with its majestic lions.</span> As I stopped to take a photo of one, realization crept into my mind like moonlight under a pulled shade: <span class="_5yi_">Dude, you are in New York City! </span> (Apparently, Realization speaks like a frat buddy.) Here I was, not in the days of desperate hawking of my portfolio thirty years ago, but by invitation of a global company. This was no mild career improvement. This was an incredible, unexpected turn-around.</div>
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I had to find a bench, just to sit and wonder for a while.</div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOeqvSY9XouvuNdS9FlNhTHFD4T8Uwoz3TPlBf5Z5IuRMoy27yhOso5ILECjiIoBsocXh5JeFpC9GVCP__xhSiSjCxgTPngf6refvBSVINlFOXWWWb8xfqnK6jqOj_LUeSDoV11s3YFrA/s1600/library-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOeqvSY9XouvuNdS9FlNhTHFD4T8Uwoz3TPlBf5Z5IuRMoy27yhOso5ILECjiIoBsocXh5JeFpC9GVCP__xhSiSjCxgTPngf6refvBSVINlFOXWWWb8xfqnK6jqOj_LUeSDoV11s3YFrA/s1600/library-bench-500px.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">Abundance in some forms is easy to spot.</span> There is the abundance in beauty – seen easily in nature. Like the orchid I captured recently at the U.S. Botanic Gardens.</div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHvPr7tqA2_U0T3MhaeGApSrNm_0mUamjN2Z6NubEAEWV3X_PQhD5v9xQ54C8Z6zM4SoHD8jnCEcsNDpfcOvoIYa_LoxmulQGcXysAYgSdd1_PSX37i_RRlmouUb0csBBmvbdweh0AyIY9/s1600/orchid-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHvPr7tqA2_U0T3MhaeGApSrNm_0mUamjN2Z6NubEAEWV3X_PQhD5v9xQ54C8Z6zM4SoHD8jnCEcsNDpfcOvoIYa_LoxmulQGcXysAYgSdd1_PSX37i_RRlmouUb0csBBmvbdweh0AyIY9/s1600/orchid-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
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Or seen in man-made beauty, like a Lord & Taylor’s display. (Though, note to L&T: brighter isn’t always better.)</div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1234OosOeo8X44HNtO_dE2Ewj_qK6ElHW6Jqhzx1jyM8kdPc51JubkTvrL7eXXcYdzDq-h0aD1d8Y_V2C-dJsx79jTghCGczJiGpQIjrGT5t8dK8mN0dkiF5K7ajISsQdc92MisSRbvfB/s1600/L%2526T-window-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1234OosOeo8X44HNtO_dE2Ewj_qK6ElHW6Jqhzx1jyM8kdPc51JubkTvrL7eXXcYdzDq-h0aD1d8Y_V2C-dJsx79jTghCGczJiGpQIjrGT5t8dK8mN0dkiF5K7ajISsQdc92MisSRbvfB/s1600/L%2526T-window-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi-">It’s harder to recognize abundance in</span></b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><b> situations.</b> </span>The everyday graces. The surprising blessings. Why are these harder to see? Our sense of entitlement blinds us. If we want to be wide-eyed with wonder about a coin in a bucket, we can’t expect it to be there. The first step toward amazement is to stop looking at the extraordinary as mundane. Stop seeing lions just as overgrown cats.<br />
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg945KO1OzjwQlB4I91ORlgNH_rg6rv9iSl08-iYL8vTdWgkQ8h2ywtIWH1XehzR_gL_6blo56Yg3afWtWc_R3wBuMdYjwaeZnoaJ8oAlsW_hMwyXY2Sks9yFYI23kVHoO2rG5RjFU_d6r7/s1600/library-lion-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg945KO1OzjwQlB4I91ORlgNH_rg6rv9iSl08-iYL8vTdWgkQ8h2ywtIWH1XehzR_gL_6blo56Yg3afWtWc_R3wBuMdYjwaeZnoaJ8oAlsW_hMwyXY2Sks9yFYI23kVHoO2rG5RjFU_d6r7/s1600/library-lion-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b> </div>
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Sometimes that will require to cease our purposeful striding. Find a bench to sit on.<br />
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And look up in contented disbelief.</div>
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<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbC3X0vMPIf3H5VwnHHz45aByojfp6hFgM_Wa_s-v0WyYJ6Ia2dUO2ARTWIsG4Wz16vwDeyxBbYi_5cCr1B4KGo0URmj8dba0j9YH1s0_0k2ACJmgOAoENl3PVzHA_wP4tLvzOoRs8FkT/s1600/bvp-in-ny-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbC3X0vMPIf3H5VwnHHz45aByojfp6hFgM_Wa_s-v0WyYJ6Ia2dUO2ARTWIsG4Wz16vwDeyxBbYi_5cCr1B4KGo0URmj8dba0j9YH1s0_0k2ACJmgOAoENl3PVzHA_wP4tLvzOoRs8FkT/s1600/bvp-in-ny-500px.jpg" /></a></span></b><br />
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-73312181484576137032016-01-09T10:19:00.001-08:002016-01-09T10:26:06.595-08:00Benched Week 93: what time will tell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvTm74cQSQNAWwsQeMlOLZkVUkpuH64Dl0hr-_n2h706VHY0wNxgx3a6jCxGHlQhI0Rh7sxanDMN2P4Qwlr5fK9NYMH7ntkjfLgub9PMatBDWfqJKxP_Ss_f1H3AL6ai2xZTMQ8e68hP9/s1600/big-clock-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvTm74cQSQNAWwsQeMlOLZkVUkpuH64Dl0hr-_n2h706VHY0wNxgx3a6jCxGHlQhI0Rh7sxanDMN2P4Qwlr5fK9NYMH7ntkjfLgub9PMatBDWfqJKxP_Ss_f1H3AL6ai2xZTMQ8e68hP9/s1600/big-clock-600px.jpg" /> </a></span></b></i></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">Time is a curious thing.</span>
</b></i> It’s so changeable. Sometimes the clicks of the clock are like ants
marching in a long line. Then suddenly, a moment will soar skyward,
giving us a dizzying bird’s-eye glimpse of the span of our lives.</span><br />
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_"></span>This happens often when I read my old journals. Present Me coexists in the same instant with Younger (and often Clueless) Me. But this also happens when I reconnect with long-lost friends – something I’ve been doing a lot lately.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFBA3RwRg-ZBDwFAuaY7V3dxZtmUy8R8TyrsBCWVG3JZHykmAwzq_nKXlKBLzqomYYdqPHx4ofS9jUP8OBk4yezf5teelQNThRJ2p4DiADzF_Ekowp5H-mLxe_sSGXHBPRI8fNBSrnd7n/s1600/Paul+and+me.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFBA3RwRg-ZBDwFAuaY7V3dxZtmUy8R8TyrsBCWVG3JZHykmAwzq_nKXlKBLzqomYYdqPHx4ofS9jUP8OBk4yezf5teelQNThRJ2p4DiADzF_Ekowp5H-mLxe_sSGXHBPRI8fNBSrnd7n/s400/Paul+and+me.jpg" width="400" /></a><i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"></span></b></i></div>
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Here I am with my long-lost childhood friend, Paul. He’s just one of a half-dozen of old friends who have recently stepped out of the past with a warm embrace. Each one has handed to me precious reminders of who I was. And perhaps, still am.</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi-">Which brings me to my bench.</span></b></i> With a suitable compression of time, I return to the photos I took a month ago in a park outside of Washington, D.C. where I discovered two interesting visuals -- metaphors of the past.</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6s6pqQk61hDfZB83stHxFaM1ELL9O_MuQPf9uJdKsWDMZNYHB9RKyKk-y2g2IBU-cpPjqmL56zxwTnigdAbm4kV0dRTyJdy8y5gr__Jiw27W5V-QmMm17t-zMA6_pCYWlAJKxReM7fJ9j/s1600/bench-roses-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6s6pqQk61hDfZB83stHxFaM1ELL9O_MuQPf9uJdKsWDMZNYHB9RKyKk-y2g2IBU-cpPjqmL56zxwTnigdAbm4kV0dRTyJdy8y5gr__Jiw27W5V-QmMm17t-zMA6_pCYWlAJKxReM7fJ9j/s1600/bench-roses-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></i></div>
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On one modern bench lay a wilting bouquet of roses. It was startling to see such luxurious red in a drab landscape.<br />
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And nearby, another bench…</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzWIBv-DLj1mz2F8pF2OfrYRHTxL8sUb2cS5PyCL21VJXsndkxNCFpHWfMjraKWsofpnP4GRHxQjRO3Xo1XuUIOXlXEs5RlzwobikyrOOMjNrXAABqNWDRrXbZ-LKy2a9wIQNrIM5nlq7/s1600/wood-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzWIBv-DLj1mz2F8pF2OfrYRHTxL8sUb2cS5PyCL21VJXsndkxNCFpHWfMjraKWsofpnP4GRHxQjRO3Xo1XuUIOXlXEs5RlzwobikyrOOMjNrXAABqNWDRrXbZ-LKy2a9wIQNrIM5nlq7/s1600/wood-bench-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></i></div>
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…gave me a view of the stone foundations of a farmhouse.</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdE8gIquoDnTq3UmeK3gvcMtjqxrXFTGIDACxMO_a7M1iBLR76UMFHWLMWVZfrU6dypruOdY9KWth7NJv2U9X9DLgnwkOc9Y3CHw8MGKOw6QnMT-Lb-06JMB3bbvWFTYLTDK0pX0iFsJBv/s1600/foundation-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdE8gIquoDnTq3UmeK3gvcMtjqxrXFTGIDACxMO_a7M1iBLR76UMFHWLMWVZfrU6dypruOdY9KWth7NJv2U9X9DLgnwkOc9Y3CHw8MGKOw6QnMT-Lb-06JMB3bbvWFTYLTDK0pX0iFsJBv/s1600/foundation-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></i></div>
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<span class="_5yi-"><i><b>This is the time of year when I take time to reflect on recent history.</b></i> </span>I love that we have a reset button in our calendar, when we all give ourselves fresh starts. As I use my bird’s-eye view of the past year, my hope is to celebrate those glorious, yet fleeting, moments and successes – the memories of which fade like the bloom of roses. And to find those rock-solid lessons on which I can build.</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqU8QMVp3WKP6u0nivzX-cejrNkXMhuKOfaLMihs6kWUNUvIG8rOT87D2GvZoFCLdyb6r5nOxnP2I4sB44ASm7_iSTU8JCqgygmtlHAxqq5tHGXmExTF-PPSGX9vj-1SP-Klup7CH1KLJI/s1600/stone-shed-alone-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqU8QMVp3WKP6u0nivzX-cejrNkXMhuKOfaLMihs6kWUNUvIG8rOT87D2GvZoFCLdyb6r5nOxnP2I4sB44ASm7_iSTU8JCqgygmtlHAxqq5tHGXmExTF-PPSGX9vj-1SP-Klup7CH1KLJI/s1600/stone-shed-alone-500px.jpg" /></a></span></b></i></div>
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<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">That’s the challenge.</span> Cherish the good of the past. But never stop building. Keep creating. Constantly grow.<br />
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Celebration and anticipation. Looking back and looking ahead.<br />
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For me, for now, the best vehicle for that dual perspective is the visual journal I’ve been keeping for the past year. In some ways, it is the outlet for my personal creativity I’ve searched for on all these benches. </div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWlcRXkOmG-z_B29dNC5fX8m1XJbxlOS3LmeF_787FRPo8dMMi_3aqrt0YT-5o0H7Fdkqjx4iYI4HxP8Mamgr0xIZWKYOwT5B1NqDDfgf9awc8nyNScxMsa81ktgV1iIRhNjRGnSzRh11/s1600/drawn-journal-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWlcRXkOmG-z_B29dNC5fX8m1XJbxlOS3LmeF_787FRPo8dMMi_3aqrt0YT-5o0H7Fdkqjx4iYI4HxP8Mamgr0xIZWKYOwT5B1NqDDfgf9awc8nyNScxMsa81ktgV1iIRhNjRGnSzRh11/s1600/drawn-journal-500px.jpg" /></a></span></b></i></div>
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For though it slowly fills with memories, every day starts the same way: <span class="_5yi_">with an invitingly blank page.</span> And like the time remaining for each of us, blank isn’t simply the absence of content.</div>
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It’s the presence of unlimited possibility.</div>
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Time to get started!</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGMJpMQVWYx5WTOeMr1EQBdn6Vk96H21R15M4AdWXz61cT7eXX3WR3rKO-56eK6yqpXC7ktBblZu8h2kiA-2bludQCHsIcZFmHT8ctEX_29RM3zmsnwbyRJmgt8gl_FhwkDkxgfj79Xia/s1600/open-journal-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGMJpMQVWYx5WTOeMr1EQBdn6Vk96H21R15M4AdWXz61cT7eXX3WR3rKO-56eK6yqpXC7ktBblZu8h2kiA-2bludQCHsIcZFmHT8ctEX_29RM3zmsnwbyRJmgt8gl_FhwkDkxgfj79Xia/s1600/open-journal-600px.jpg" /></a></span></b></i></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-17231234903499498222015-12-11T09:57:00.000-08:002016-01-09T10:30:00.238-08:00Benched Week 92: sneaking up on me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a class="_2yug" href="https://www.facebook.com/bruce.vanpatter" target="_blank"></a><b><span class="_5yi-"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRv2-ZOYxPWeubwGFWe4AsNfXN5DrIzV4ZDafYdJ_CBXFQz9FYNLxiHK6-76GwC4VkX4iMNzxmfB5up877LZNWuX_x_wBEDerxDpCwTBoZ34KruzRJNCE46cDPejBJ7oQDdjVnykZgreOy/s1600/santa-and-kid-closeup-800px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRv2-ZOYxPWeubwGFWe4AsNfXN5DrIzV4ZDafYdJ_CBXFQz9FYNLxiHK6-76GwC4VkX4iMNzxmfB5up877LZNWuX_x_wBEDerxDpCwTBoZ34KruzRJNCE46cDPejBJ7oQDdjVnykZgreOy/s1600/santa-and-kid-closeup-800px.jpg" /></a></span></b></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi-">‘Tis the season of surprises.</span> </b> If you think about it, it’s a main ingredient for the way we’ve cooked up our cultural take on Christmas. There’s the surprise of opening presents. The surprise of Santa’s stealth run. And for parents our age, there’s the surprise of seeing which kids come home for the holidays. (Think Folger’s “Peter!”)</div>
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<b><span class="_5yi-">But I haven’t had time for the unexpected.</span></b> With a travel schedule that is allowing me one full day at home for the first three weeks of December, I have been doing my best to eliminate anything unpredictable. I have enough trouble trying to figure out if I am sinking or swimming as I try to keep up.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlKBeNHOMbjGi449vX8X2DxuUB2amYu4B1lDRz5KdfMYKRFhRhGBBB0v2SGlIKQkKM42NkDGuT6YaqJ4EIvcxE3kS99KusD9j5yshTTnGtTVuZkOiVEiJ6S69CPkpSgVeiuEK81czEnFl/s1600/sink-or-swim-500px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlKBeNHOMbjGi449vX8X2DxuUB2amYu4B1lDRz5KdfMYKRFhRhGBBB0v2SGlIKQkKM42NkDGuT6YaqJ4EIvcxE3kS99KusD9j5yshTTnGtTVuZkOiVEiJ6S69CPkpSgVeiuEK81czEnFl/s1600/sink-or-swim-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Then, this morning, preparing to leave my hotel in Sugar Land, Texas, I had a few minutes before catching an Uber, so I wandered into the “town square” of this a-bit-too-cute, designed community.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkC8hETKsiUZtb9AcCOCzudE2kSMoW0HzJhuaacQO2PweI_k-Eb4_J22J5tHUiOue9x0b76tK5cpAsj5ZoPiP_kgea_KKb8wZiCiD5A5JHv46kyhaQetaaqc-te_xBmIQVw5c7eSCPURAQ/s1600/town-hall-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkC8hETKsiUZtb9AcCOCzudE2kSMoW0HzJhuaacQO2PweI_k-Eb4_J22J5tHUiOue9x0b76tK5cpAsj5ZoPiP_kgea_KKb8wZiCiD5A5JHv46kyhaQetaaqc-te_xBmIQVw5c7eSCPURAQ/s1600/town-hall-600px.jpg" /></a> </div>
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And just like a playful elf, the unexpected sneaked up and startled me. Just to see if it could draw out a smile.<br />
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First was the unlikely sight of fall colors in December.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutqamRhA0bGZ2V-kUI-YzcDwAkhUjhj1ukIkgcCxYZJTF6Nbv0q8acA4DdCqU9ohpQO3J36ab-_4depQ4Q40FF6hHuN7nt-x-y7ZJKEIR9MzwhJK0FUyn8S7yusW_iVHJNL-CezQDHaRJ/s1600/fall-colors-400px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiutqamRhA0bGZ2V-kUI-YzcDwAkhUjhj1ukIkgcCxYZJTF6Nbv0q8acA4DdCqU9ohpQO3J36ab-_4depQ4Q40FF6hHuN7nt-x-y7ZJKEIR9MzwhJK0FUyn8S7yusW_iVHJNL-CezQDHaRJ/s1600/fall-colors-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Then, there was the magic trick of a floating present.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJfgsER0iiUGic0ZF_SerbT0nzory_qeoyXjOVZ-OXZh5eeH8oA6P3FLyP8WkmJSwrNoO8n6FqCWKH8UKFafUUhxPMGEPqpFMdWrwUC-Ldha8mJYDcqWz9ghxTkQo9UiCREpdtDVC5TI_b/s1600/floating-present-500px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJfgsER0iiUGic0ZF_SerbT0nzory_qeoyXjOVZ-OXZh5eeH8oA6P3FLyP8WkmJSwrNoO8n6FqCWKH8UKFafUUhxPMGEPqpFMdWrwUC-Ldha8mJYDcqWz9ghxTkQo9UiCREpdtDVC5TI_b/s1600/floating-present-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Saving the best for last old elf himself appeared before me. On a bench.</div>
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And that did make me laugh.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9oIxIFamLYleuwuq_hP99XMrKrDuTPxZdnFJT-UHlui2ugE_inmT8ZNuqMp-8GilyuR2lmvDidqkEhJRPUOHFX1iDkwxYPwmx3CewDmZu6XDaVaPUvyP0tfq_UGSohe97N9Y-yAKn1cO/s1600/nick-bench-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9oIxIFamLYleuwuq_hP99XMrKrDuTPxZdnFJT-UHlui2ugE_inmT8ZNuqMp-8GilyuR2lmvDidqkEhJRPUOHFX1iDkwxYPwmx3CewDmZu6XDaVaPUvyP0tfq_UGSohe97N9Y-yAKn1cO/s1600/nick-bench-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b><span class="_5yi-">Delight is such a precious commodity.</span></b> None of us can get enough of it. Delight is the by-product of surprise, when that which sneaks up on us is right or true or pure or lovely. Like my encounter, earlier this week with the son of one of the participants in our event. I stretched out on the ballroom floor to draw for him. Tomas sat down next to me. (He was surprised and amused by my bald pate. His mortified parents apologized profusely.) But I was the one delighted – by the sweetness of a little child.<span class="_5yi-"> </span><br />
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<span class="_5yi-"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__CsHKdgFbuVznx95Saes6llMv7j2fE_Q5Fb_ffvl3h8dl7TlJxOOvcrkoz_aqxPKXZXBao4sdmxKh5-u1Soq90FTHIdc4GuQUYXqozg31TGLqSnyOAOtzT1kqlgQU0zX4B0DFKXMIlz1/s1600/tomas-rex-400px.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__CsHKdgFbuVznx95Saes6llMv7j2fE_Q5Fb_ffvl3h8dl7TlJxOOvcrkoz_aqxPKXZXBao4sdmxKh5-u1Soq90FTHIdc4GuQUYXqozg31TGLqSnyOAOtzT1kqlgQU0zX4B0DFKXMIlz1/s1600/tomas-rex-400px.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="_5yi-">Isn’t that, after all, what makes this season so wonderfully surprising? </span> Not that tired truism that “Christmas is for children.” But that Christmas is about that one Child. The most unexpected gift of all.</div>
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With delight waiting in the wings.<br />
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-48516647354003553932015-10-31T04:23:00.001-07:002015-10-31T04:23:23.830-07:00Benched Week 91: our heads in the cloud<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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During the day, in any given city, I can find a bench with a respectable amount of solitude. Not this week in San Francisco. There’s a huge, city-wide convention going on. Arriving at the Yerba Buena Gardens, I felt like a party crasher.</div>
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The convention is all about the cloud. It’s a concept that dominates the events I scribe – transferring our data to a remote and seemingly limitless repository. </div>
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But as I watched the people around me, I couldn’t help but wonder if we’ve transferred more than just our data. All around me, people seemed buried in their phones or laptops.</div>
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Griping about people on their phones, though, is pointless. It’s our new reality. I run the risk of looking as stodgy as this church does next to its sleek corporate neighbors.</div>
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<span class="_5yi-">But a funny thing happened as I sat and watched. </span> After a while, up through the babble of tech conversations, other sounds emerged.</div>
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The laughter of a young mom.</div>
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A rake in the grass.</div>
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<img alt="" class="_h2z _297z _usd img" height="178" id="u_o_6" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfa1/v/t1.0-9/11224777_10206976237299615_7156115985501022492_n.jpg?oh=fdd84abd1a4f899e14774cfdba72ba11&oe=56B2A739" width="320" /></div>
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The enthusiastic greeting of a man to a dog.</div>
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<img alt="" class="_h2z _297z _usd img" id="u_o_7" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xap1/v/t1.0-9/11222567_10206976251979982_3810656294820275926_n.jpg?oh=95e3ceb6c275dc5b8b6757cbb0444fcb&oe=56C8BE28" /></div>
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A bird behind me, feeding on seeds.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMfMd2hbAk0khZBcDZdgN0sNy5J7y1fZ2QUybGFy4mNyc5sldxvJiXn4i0gwgC4eCh7VYFiqIOzp03VbJjB0HPsmakf5icGG9qR3_7jHWYJ0yfiz9MCm_q5N4HJTfwOhNpGgIXyMDXtsd/s1600/thankyou-guy-400px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMfMd2hbAk0khZBcDZdgN0sNy5J7y1fZ2QUybGFy4mNyc5sldxvJiXn4i0gwgC4eCh7VYFiqIOzp03VbJjB0HPsmakf5icGG9qR3_7jHWYJ0yfiz9MCm_q5N4HJTfwOhNpGgIXyMDXtsd/s320/thankyou-guy-400px.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
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And the one word that was said to me, spoken by the groundskeeper in the
hat who passed me when I picked up my paper that had blown to the
ground: “Thanks.”</div>
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They were all little vignettes of everyday life. Anchored in the real world.</div>
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<i><b><span class="_5yi-">In a strange way, art is like the cloud.</span></b></i> A painting represents a world of information accessible through a small interface. But rather than being just a storage of content, retrievable when we need it, art calls us to engage that world. And be changed by it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another park pressed with people!</td></tr>
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I read recently a comment by Semir Zeki, a researcher in neuroaesthetics – a relatively new field of study of the effect of art on the brain. He observed, <i><span class="_5yi_">“The blood flow increased for a beautiful painting just as it increases when you look at someone you love.”</span> </i> Art challenges us to engage. It connects us with our common experiences.</div>
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It grounds us. </div>
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Though it does require slowing down to engage with it, art helps us keep our eyes and hearts open to the world around us.</div>
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Even if our future looks very cloudy.</div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-41369257577187672892015-10-25T05:50:00.001-07:002016-01-09T10:23:13.219-08:00Benched Week 90: and no cats were harmed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinO8V_A13lCOhrch17Juh3TcWBDkES5rpJEvh2MHz75C76IIFWpn0hAJ8JVRlXWMHYOVBo3mY0koBelxakgFr09_hIAYSR6QfEIDFz_bn6Heuw5E1n5D6eDPfheOzeaaU-22duVPfYSxq/s1600/mario-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinO8V_A13lCOhrch17Juh3TcWBDkES5rpJEvh2MHz75C76IIFWpn0hAJ8JVRlXWMHYOVBo3mY0koBelxakgFr09_hIAYSR6QfEIDFz_bn6Heuw5E1n5D6eDPfheOzeaaU-22duVPfYSxq/s1600/mario-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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What are you curious about? </div>
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On my way down to Drexel University this week in Philadelphia, I listened to a podcast of an interview with a successful author and entrepreneur. At one point he said that his earliest memory was one of being curious. He then said, “Curiosity is the essence of someone who solves problems.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8aMpAz7TgNJJqaY1qyff7zx6ko62Q1mZbFL5B6Cp-nF-uOlpm7sYLEXJl5wlETR2RyWpFJAkB-qg1zAq9DwKYPAiLB4HL2eOSovzeqVBKroxB4h-FuoTiRIxKDQua7izzhKnts3O0dJny/s1600/bench-lines-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8aMpAz7TgNJJqaY1qyff7zx6ko62Q1mZbFL5B6Cp-nF-uOlpm7sYLEXJl5wlETR2RyWpFJAkB-qg1zAq9DwKYPAiLB4HL2eOSovzeqVBKroxB4h-FuoTiRIxKDQua7izzhKnts3O0dJny/s1600/bench-lines-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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So I decided to give myself a problem while looking for a bench: <span class="_5yi_">what could I wonder about as I wandered?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdHpBRh7RqkUHeEV_Ql54YXn1LUjSvVhLOxdg3jXS_2OZdmYhwphut7Ba426c05zXDcnrDT8wedRXWAoho4-PiRD3mKzuabQTpc_FddEulxxF8OOhM-cAHwAh04DQYG-S8F3uwE8v2_Rez/s1600/mario-full-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdHpBRh7RqkUHeEV_Ql54YXn1LUjSvVhLOxdg3jXS_2OZdmYhwphut7Ba426c05zXDcnrDT8wedRXWAoho4-PiRD3mKzuabQTpc_FddEulxxF8OOhM-cAHwAh04DQYG-S8F3uwE8v2_Rez/s1600/mario-full-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Some things were easy. It’s hard not to be drawn by a large dragon sculpture -- and to mull over why it was there. (That answer came easily. Marco the Magnificent is the school mascot. And he’s everywhere.)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnehzWSbnQ0FWXvwtyZKosN5Js1KWjEVMgk5v_bD4AMBPRDPmjV4CwFsAj_5rlby6xYvlqruWFwLmlpGts7b3orbEMDXIutxX_Wj5gihXIXm8Bfy9lGB5kDoHIBWWf8c9onLamFej1XZMd/s1600/drexel-flag-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnehzWSbnQ0FWXvwtyZKosN5Js1KWjEVMgk5v_bD4AMBPRDPmjV4CwFsAj_5rlby6xYvlqruWFwLmlpGts7b3orbEMDXIutxX_Wj5gihXIXm8Bfy9lGB5kDoHIBWWf8c9onLamFej1XZMd/s1600/drexel-flag-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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A dramatic fire escape made me consider if it was planned when the ornate building was constructed or added later.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0O345aEQrDT6Rr5eMojKhQyO2l986z5JtUlqrHOzjfvZ4DkeFH58Q8A7Q8vbP24LTZPjz8zsEAExecDb1EInwxR_-rAETFEbWSDv3NUTVNvJzVXYW3lQk9IUmT8BaRWR63VZ-qRhwdfLc/s1600/fire-escape-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0O345aEQrDT6Rr5eMojKhQyO2l986z5JtUlqrHOzjfvZ4DkeFH58Q8A7Q8vbP24LTZPjz8zsEAExecDb1EInwxR_-rAETFEbWSDv3NUTVNvJzVXYW3lQk9IUmT8BaRWR63VZ-qRhwdfLc/s1600/fire-escape-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
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But other ponderings called for more observation. What was this young woman studying so intently?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtuyho5JXmvXIR9XzzyPnMmBNNGkJ6t_tpjHByYFVlv0Utv8ay3VTtWfZ-t67O8zceBwd4ZmgZnnBfkPcdXCI7kQRVmNSUURCPjCkSYLrvpZlo2r60sR5q9K6lqfqwtUfVjJcElj4JSW_/s1600/studying-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtuyho5JXmvXIR9XzzyPnMmBNNGkJ6t_tpjHByYFVlv0Utv8ay3VTtWfZ-t67O8zceBwd4ZmgZnnBfkPcdXCI7kQRVmNSUURCPjCkSYLrvpZlo2r60sR5q9K6lqfqwtUfVjJcElj4JSW_/s1600/studying-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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How could such a smartly-dressed man be so stupid as to smoke?</div>
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<img alt="" class="_h2z _297z _usd img" id="u_2q_5" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xtp1/v/t1.0-9/12063867_10206955793788540_3491022317356954313_n.jpg?oh=1f8aed18f579e27c42704ef44daebb64&oe=56CD3E56" /></div>
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What brought these two women into the world of coeds?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1Xqob8WHG4P0j-9xtsvAEKZM9KVNmtDko05PxBUDmmOTnnexTacgyUehiH0L-SXHK_pxHXSJSAGbIZZsNZiD4YqW0NVTubvHjH63h7Mgx5PbsgCOmyWHZhxstYs5NTjY6nVKnXxnZTEY/s1600/talkers-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1Xqob8WHG4P0j-9xtsvAEKZM9KVNmtDko05PxBUDmmOTnnexTacgyUehiH0L-SXHK_pxHXSJSAGbIZZsNZiD4YqW0NVTubvHjH63h7Mgx5PbsgCOmyWHZhxstYs5NTjY6nVKnXxnZTEY/s1600/talkers-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Why is that one window different?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R_fhksyuKENS4Nem24RAdF2qsB0FbnIEIhO9L67tMeGgvy4lONlEDKpwomDeYZzfxogN3fyAvkzTvD0_Rl7f_wzlbZsUq8MJCxyRk5WSLwktAMbWOPU0cf9pGAeNKIIrquS3fLngo-zg/s1600/solo-window-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R_fhksyuKENS4Nem24RAdF2qsB0FbnIEIhO9L67tMeGgvy4lONlEDKpwomDeYZzfxogN3fyAvkzTvD0_Rl7f_wzlbZsUq8MJCxyRk5WSLwktAMbWOPU0cf9pGAeNKIIrquS3fLngo-zg/s1600/solo-window-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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And who in their right mind would order anything from a truck with a cow like this on it?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zVXcUNhgRUL7uW7T9Ww2LEFuL2Z4OFPJDoTuaugOB7D54xThyphenhyphenZJmM78eoVVGW3_iVx-b7P2qPMGajpLJMbVKZ7V58Ap5SNvAF7_yF8GKVarsaZ2WqQC_7jFTzJCueOvoplzW74-cLLrp/s1600/strangecow-sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zVXcUNhgRUL7uW7T9Ww2LEFuL2Z4OFPJDoTuaugOB7D54xThyphenhyphenZJmM78eoVVGW3_iVx-b7P2qPMGajpLJMbVKZ7V58Ap5SNvAF7_yF8GKVarsaZ2WqQC_7jFTzJCueOvoplzW74-cLLrp/s1600/strangecow-sm.jpg" /></a></div>
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All this questioning reminded me of something Denise Shekerjian, author of <span class="_5yi_">Uncommon Genius</span>, wrote: “Noticing has a cousin: curiosity.” The latter flows out of the former. If one sits down long enough to notice the world around, questions naturally arise.<br />
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<b><span class="_5yi-">True inquisitiveness goes deeper. </span></b> Honestly, none of these questions matter to me enough to find an answer. But even idle speculation has a purpose. It can lead to creating. If noticing asks “<span class="_5yi_">What</span> is it?” and curiosity, “<span class="_5yi_">Wh</span>y is it?” then creativity adds “What can it <span class="_5yi_">become?</span>” The cigarette above might become a visual metaphor for rebellion in a painting. Or the start of a new genre of campus film noir.</div>
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So, in my search to rediscover my personal art, perhaps it’s as simple as seeing it as a quest for questions.<br />
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Now, isn’t that a curious thing?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-r89ngGS187tmuuvgTRBjOft9Cb-0-Hv8ZzQ5GhDc4UXH4Il9J0wAlMW1HtEV_J215N-i7Y1xtsc5lty5Uhxtqb3aA8dFvBeD9_SGJ5hDxGfx2cWoL3UJfKINUQECCsOh2B3DyIZ8PUW/s1600/question-line-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-r89ngGS187tmuuvgTRBjOft9Cb-0-Hv8ZzQ5GhDc4UXH4Il9J0wAlMW1HtEV_J215N-i7Y1xtsc5lty5Uhxtqb3aA8dFvBeD9_SGJ5hDxGfx2cWoL3UJfKINUQECCsOh2B3DyIZ8PUW/s1600/question-line-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-77230214971888446232015-10-14T03:58:00.001-07:002016-01-09T10:24:19.329-08:00Benched Week 89: thinking inside the box<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5AAzaaJhwD5njysomnDAS8e9Dpioc5dkd7-mb2TyToOcwqHAH0Cg7G60_HA3Z16AT1y_wPj8e2fWj1IJb785Qufsj9Xlfy_IFcP96TByOzLZBfUAandKyT9ONrroSqJgKPZxQIbVnvAY/s1600/atrium-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr5AAzaaJhwD5njysomnDAS8e9Dpioc5dkd7-mb2TyToOcwqHAH0Cg7G60_HA3Z16AT1y_wPj8e2fWj1IJb785Qufsj9Xlfy_IFcP96TByOzLZBfUAandKyT9ONrroSqJgKPZxQIbVnvAY/s1600/atrium-bench-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
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I had been scribing for only a short time in my event this week when a familiar phrase popped up. “We need to think outside the box,” a participant reminded the large crowd. A little later, someone else suggested getting rid of the box altogether. Still later, another challenged everyone to “stand on the box!”<br />
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All the while, I was intently fixated on staying inside mine.</div>
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<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _3tvj"><div class="_h2x _4lh3" style="width: 351px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPRg1819OjFSIZHL50Jx7SQyGY4_CH18CaISfSNSFXWmkb744lceMWw8F5UTPdsPhsVLJ4q1HmKV1cMpN89Cu6pw88iCpk_FQNdF1qiTktPVtJiEWX8Ge5DQ82jb17lfNPPXC2mNBVgqo/s1600/two+together.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpPRg1819OjFSIZHL50Jx7SQyGY4_CH18CaISfSNSFXWmkb744lceMWw8F5UTPdsPhsVLJ4q1HmKV1cMpN89Cu6pw88iCpk_FQNdF1qiTktPVtJiEWX8Ge5DQ82jb17lfNPPXC2mNBVgqo/s1600/two+together.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
For this event, I had given myself the challenge of capturing content in “justified” columns – where all the lines ended at the same length, creating rectangles of words. Like articles in a newspaper.</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
<span class="_5yi- _5yi_">It relied on intuition.</span> I had to guess how large to make the initial letter of each line so that the words wouldn’t exceed my lightly ruled pencil box at the end. I didn’t do it perfectly, but close enough to make me happy.</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
<br /></div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
Though there was no reason to add an extra layer of difficulty, I suppose I wanted to flex my typographical muscles a bit. Which is why, when I went looking for a bench in the expansive atrium of the resort later, I had to choose the one under the screen that called me out.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjPMq9W1S99-GuigYRG6-Yf6jxYvbISw69TV1nIkuVDI6PBQaYOt4f15lsQmJ3O1YTyDihORMUBeIU2zbqMYrkkZzUlCENetVfDRKgTLuRjeTGIkY48CnZ2v_L2X2PAIn_H2duql3mL2y/s1600/show-off-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjPMq9W1S99-GuigYRG6-Yf6jxYvbISw69TV1nIkuVDI6PBQaYOt4f15lsQmJ3O1YTyDihORMUBeIU2zbqMYrkkZzUlCENetVfDRKgTLuRjeTGIkY48CnZ2v_L2X2PAIn_H2duql3mL2y/s1600/show-off-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
I had wanted to see what I could do in a confined space. Not unlike the Gaylord Palms hotel.<br />
</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQDdsO8uS6oUjG7gyMy02ZT44OVdO6E_xLbCen0hyB8qEYAApp75Jf-WLtjN_z6RnHrE6zCN7Sla8_VBo2-qMygAxjvOu0nQI8TPz3-6Yueo5_z821to8ojixCy3CRKiXNUg7z0DMN6Zjh/s1600/looking-up-600px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQDdsO8uS6oUjG7gyMy02ZT44OVdO6E_xLbCen0hyB8qEYAApp75Jf-WLtjN_z6RnHrE6zCN7Sla8_VBo2-qMygAxjvOu0nQI8TPz3-6Yueo5_z821to8ojixCy3CRKiXNUg7z0DMN6Zjh/s1600/looking-up-600px.jpg" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
Granted,<span class="_5yi_"> it </span>had a much bigger space to work with. Under a high, glass dome, the hotel creators had fashioned an elaborate green space, replete with waterfalls...</div>
<br />
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HbdJPiElLQv5CwJnzsCa72U9KoE1pPziDxgk7UjKcD29mVKeIok0m4TXfg6dsJiD7fSCFgTgmqpuS1LQxLHH2u-0qyZ0R3ocpcJgDii6BqfmUv2YWVKOeCy5Io4VXjbIYNvA_iebCJyv/s1600/waterfall-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HbdJPiElLQv5CwJnzsCa72U9KoE1pPziDxgk7UjKcD29mVKeIok0m4TXfg6dsJiD7fSCFgTgmqpuS1LQxLHH2u-0qyZ0R3ocpcJgDii6BqfmUv2YWVKOeCy5Io4VXjbIYNvA_iebCJyv/s1600/waterfall-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
...fake stone walls....</div>
<br />
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVVtgCtG4lNerML56oX-Ydmja1NGe4-FqGPfN4YRSj_5JjGyL9gIKEuQDOmuCggTEkAf7NhP6XkTNEmNRVAyqznFu2F9bTSKfKKhllUue8wEw4Al2hgYSGKeTRH8wpQuRHk7S6pPR9nkc_/s1600/wall-vine-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVVtgCtG4lNerML56oX-Ydmja1NGe4-FqGPfN4YRSj_5JjGyL9gIKEuQDOmuCggTEkAf7NhP6XkTNEmNRVAyqznFu2F9bTSKfKKhllUue8wEw4Al2hgYSGKeTRH8wpQuRHk7S6pPR9nkc_/s1600/wall-vine-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
...even alligators.</div>
<br />
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtG8KN7gWR-y3CIQTAUnexWr92iJu3yygpC3F2vDIkuZuNR7PvMrZ9UflsIT_vYYVsq64K4T9XYa59OKNssrzCZSmQ8xmgGFjXKdU6QNQI24ysvyKx81Wz8rM1Iw1vB3bMcRzpXqpMn9u/s1600/gators-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggtG8KN7gWR-y3CIQTAUnexWr92iJu3yygpC3F2vDIkuZuNR7PvMrZ9UflsIT_vYYVsq64K4T9XYa59OKNssrzCZSmQ8xmgGFjXKdU6QNQI24ysvyKx81Wz8rM1Iw1vB3bMcRzpXqpMn9u/s1600/gators-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
<br /></div>
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy _3tvj"><div class="_h2x _4lh3" style="width: 300px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3FHY1ErhFRifJF-bqXxtzl1YHzNFkLPklV7U2c8TTy4NCsNd8RxmNazn4MD73LMYgYrVw9adnoL2rHXwks1uwfZsccSrTBE5y5uH1H1_0G9qMe8Y4lkpfjEf4EhyphenhyphenEF9DZxiL3PZ4wjmym/s1600/pumpkin-paradise-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3FHY1ErhFRifJF-bqXxtzl1YHzNFkLPklV7U2c8TTy4NCsNd8RxmNazn4MD73LMYgYrVw9adnoL2rHXwks1uwfZsccSrTBE5y5uH1H1_0G9qMe8Y4lkpfjEf4EhyphenhyphenEF9DZxiL3PZ4wjmym/s1600/pumpkin-paradise-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
It had as much authenticity as a fall pumpkin display in sunny Orlando,
but I had to admire the creative effort. They almost transformed the
inside of their box to feel like the outside.</div>
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBB3EbrmaN3fjPsG8awFZMDg220wpJo0ekEbO1ozM8H729LTnYGkZxrYFWly03cB8dsNytTWHmiTvuY6pP_jBGhIeeMcaooFv53wZml7nR5pT7NoZwH9U6ezcyGmmAAEHzzkrt4II6y_C/s1600/looking-down-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBB3EbrmaN3fjPsG8awFZMDg220wpJo0ekEbO1ozM8H729LTnYGkZxrYFWly03cB8dsNytTWHmiTvuY6pP_jBGhIeeMcaooFv53wZml7nR5pT7NoZwH9U6ezcyGmmAAEHzzkrt4II6y_C/s1600/looking-down-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
<b><span class="_5yi- _5yi_">We all have boxes.</span> </b> Some we create. Some are dictated to us. The question is: <i><span class="_5yi_">what can we do within them?</span></i> One woman I talked with at the event told me how the first teacher to recognize her dyslexia told her she “had been given a great gift – a way of seeing things differently.” It’s the same perspective Malcolm Gladwell brings to dyslexia in his book <i><span class="_5yi_">David and Goliath</span></i>. That teacher’s words (and the lifelong relationship they started) transformed the girl’s mental box as vibrantly as the gardens did the atrium. And a whole lot more authentically.<br />
</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
As the woman shared with me, I noticed her fingernails. There, in the smallest of canvases, an artist had found space to be creative.<br />
</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
Ultimately it’s not the size of the box that matters. It’s what we’re driven to do within that space.</div>
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
<br /></div>
<br />
<figure class="_2cuy _4nuy"><div class="_h2x">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07OX6vG8MAWcqxoySABfCCFVDb_1N4BdsuMdaLDPE16ACpiLhwA3l8A8v3gBth1LKpifUmPMR4f1H2bohHhR2nt20xyHiKBeEX6-2CcI4MvHZcSTSQS6xIkhOPDlj77fGlsoz84_DubU_/s1600/fingernails-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg07OX6vG8MAWcqxoySABfCCFVDb_1N4BdsuMdaLDPE16ACpiLhwA3l8A8v3gBth1LKpifUmPMR4f1H2bohHhR2nt20xyHiKBeEX6-2CcI4MvHZcSTSQS6xIkhOPDlj77fGlsoz84_DubU_/s1600/fingernails-500px.jpg" /></a></div>
</figure><br />
<div class="_2cuy _3dgx">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-25237344346060008862015-09-22T03:57:00.002-07:002015-09-22T04:00:37.950-07:00Benched Week 88: the curious case of the rock-face door<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/bruce-van-patter/benched-week-88-the-curious-case-of-the-rock-face-door/10153640460852012"></a><span class="timelineUnitContainer"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xdrLToDJdaVI9LDl-q38Hcz9OY564by4f2SVKFoY8E_1_RR_15-clzKIuScxyxj6SDJMbPI-2zISd2B7wZxcoEO5toOvFYi6bgdarC-Brk0SX-G-O4krKvkMH2HLY_40HSCuWidFqVOv/s1600/door-in-cliff-detail.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xdrLToDJdaVI9LDl-q38Hcz9OY564by4f2SVKFoY8E_1_RR_15-clzKIuScxyxj6SDJMbPI-2zISd2B7wZxcoEO5toOvFYi6bgdarC-Brk0SX-G-O4krKvkMH2HLY_40HSCuWidFqVOv/s1600/door-in-cliff-detail.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>Sherlock Holmes has been on my mind of late. </b>(Hence the title.) Having recently finished <i>The Great Detective</i>, a fun read on everything Holmesian, I have been thinking often about mysteries. And curiosity. And the noticing of details.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQ_yP88gcgsruSZ5M_Sqzk-VzgbHLO247xD8fqxYsaUgpByzAp-w0uGEpCuiyMNfIYZfVneiDMbOhsEhpR7_PlczhQUpYZAONRhqIUqpV8Ui2TzmnTriH3_zAm264jMGABBF4ZrboDqIv/s1600/sign-400px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiar3OkKRX-2P669Yo7b9HfNKlNBOL8WiwtphSW_qnJSAAK5XAFVFxyc-VFVP2Ik3gJ7ZAc4b1EBJZ8EjDG_EL2DlyvIgcq2ri_XxXNobWywLlDhSh_SV3i7OhlGiEePLyp0L3bQF2FHIRx/s1600/island-view-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiar3OkKRX-2P669Yo7b9HfNKlNBOL8WiwtphSW_qnJSAAK5XAFVFxyc-VFVP2Ik3gJ7ZAc4b1EBJZ8EjDG_EL2DlyvIgcq2ri_XxXNobWywLlDhSh_SV3i7OhlGiEePLyp0L3bQF2FHIRx/s1600/island-view-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQ_yP88gcgsruSZ5M_Sqzk-VzgbHLO247xD8fqxYsaUgpByzAp-w0uGEpCuiyMNfIYZfVneiDMbOhsEhpR7_PlczhQUpYZAONRhqIUqpV8Ui2TzmnTriH3_zAm264jMGABBF4ZrboDqIv/s1600/sign-400px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQ_yP88gcgsruSZ5M_Sqzk-VzgbHLO247xD8fqxYsaUgpByzAp-w0uGEpCuiyMNfIYZfVneiDMbOhsEhpR7_PlczhQUpYZAONRhqIUqpV8Ui2TzmnTriH3_zAm264jMGABBF4ZrboDqIv/s320/sign-400px.jpg" width="320" /></a>But
as I made my way to find a bench on Raspberry Island, in the middle of
the Mississippi River with a view of St. Paul, I didn’t expect to find
anything curious or mysterious, just perhaps something I could sketch
out. <br />
<br />
It was a sunny day, with a stiff breeze as I started across the bridge toward the island. Flags were snapping above me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNGyepUFLziuDW9IiZLsIySnSn5qKW3JoQA8iSMtWd0fONOWmvDfqP_uaBXg6wpU-RFJ9YyJlG_1QU5kAAbvcey-15ec-d9wY66m388ejHDiZE0DmP0lW0Qdn2KG5fFi1CqTeyUt5kOTW/s1600/flag-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSNGyepUFLziuDW9IiZLsIySnSn5qKW3JoQA8iSMtWd0fONOWmvDfqP_uaBXg6wpU-RFJ9YyJlG_1QU5kAAbvcey-15ec-d9wY66m388ejHDiZE0DmP0lW0Qdn2KG5fFi1CqTeyUt5kOTW/s320/flag-400px.jpg" width="220" /></a><br />
<br />
There’s
not much on the island except some trails and a bandshell. But,
thankfully, there was a bench with a great view of the city skyline.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6B-2-8JnwfCTNvKDf_HB5DgiGYNkRTHPCe3RYrP6i5EBROKgRkFVZJq5Swner_MsxDegoALouHIuHXnUG-iGMuODwy1Vz5jCu0_I6RO03D9mhb9jRkaKFdKd5To_7Uxezt9J2QX59Tef/s1600/river-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH6B-2-8JnwfCTNvKDf_HB5DgiGYNkRTHPCe3RYrP6i5EBROKgRkFVZJq5Swner_MsxDegoALouHIuHXnUG-iGMuODwy1Vz5jCu0_I6RO03D9mhb9jRkaKFdKd5To_7Uxezt9J2QX59Tef/s1600/river-bench-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
As skylines go St. Paul’s is not spectacular. But the cliff on which it’s perched is rather unique.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxMhTh8OGk_xsj9fvOKHCaGXjTnp3fNRMdYJAf3Q6Q4NiK_crIdYif8CEfzMQFQRTOu3NnpvW1thiU1OWOdea_3ssrhZsYDXZ0ez10GPuKVDCc03a4NbVIszMW9pi73R1xr5kb0r3NmHR/s1600/view-with-boat-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxMhTh8OGk_xsj9fvOKHCaGXjTnp3fNRMdYJAf3Q6Q4NiK_crIdYif8CEfzMQFQRTOu3NnpvW1thiU1OWOdea_3ssrhZsYDXZ0ez10GPuKVDCc03a4NbVIszMW9pi73R1xr5kb0r3NmHR/s1600/view-with-boat-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>And as I sat and took in the view,</b> I noticed a <i>singular</i>
detail (a nod to you, Arthur Conan!): a square doorway, cut into the
rock face at a fairly inaccessible height. It begged questions: <i>Why was it there? Did it open into a cave? What could be inside?</i> Ever since my childhood, dark doorways have been like magnets to my imagination.<br />
<br />
<i>Dark doorways:</i>
an apt analogy for unresolved situations in life. We peer into them,
hoping to get a glimpse what lies ahead, drawn by curiosity, held back
by a vague sense of dread. There could be treasure waiting. Or a bear.
Over this past weekend, I was re-reading one of my journals, wishing I
could reach back and tell the me of twenty years ago what those dark
doorways of the time led to.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4HfEH3T1wWm9gd3KrupJI_tOoA7nfJLfCiFl6cdGGcUWxRe0LnO86gP128DEDlC4jo4mwOtOwpeMk8TCYOmHKEXEQE0Gz9VWdku7s1dSpHw1DRWZ7GuC5IW5Oq7UsqYKCzczGC7cEotXt/s1600/ropeman+starting.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4HfEH3T1wWm9gd3KrupJI_tOoA7nfJLfCiFl6cdGGcUWxRe0LnO86gP128DEDlC4jo4mwOtOwpeMk8TCYOmHKEXEQE0Gz9VWdku7s1dSpHw1DRWZ7GuC5IW5Oq7UsqYKCzczGC7cEotXt/s1600/ropeman+starting.jpg" /></a><b>Incredibly,
as if on cue, a young man appeared at the top of the bluff and tossed
over a rope.</b> To my astonishment, he descended toward the hole,
apparently as curious as I was. <br />
<br />
Seriously, what are the chances I’d be here at this moment?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-pAhERtztsi9arPOixY2nTtwpl9Qc789xDQPro-eeTq0gi4P-ROI76E_Rb3sOCbSXao8DvQbmuJKgKSG69LY-bMCmGRrPBDWLmoPCdOD620HhjPHJ5JsNrZgkjyBsETCSX1kUF_t5XHd/s1600/ropeman+in.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS-pAhERtztsi9arPOixY2nTtwpl9Qc789xDQPro-eeTq0gi4P-ROI76E_Rb3sOCbSXao8DvQbmuJKgKSG69LY-bMCmGRrPBDWLmoPCdOD620HhjPHJ5JsNrZgkjyBsETCSX1kUF_t5XHd/s320/ropeman+in.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<br />
When
he got to the doorway, he peered in for a moment then began his climb
back up. The cave must have been disappointing. The only mystery that
remained was whether his pants would make it to the top with him.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3UY6F2pOhEepKA8Nkww1PNGL7PFIkENlgrm0QS-9aSZPe9NbCXWCtizFhROQxQBfjNtpFUC_qRh9gPKRHp7ZjVGyVD54XHm4pizmwyim7qiXd5PRUiYEyhuph2TBz5hLRqJyl3828Xptq/s1600/ropeman+near.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3UY6F2pOhEepKA8Nkww1PNGL7PFIkENlgrm0QS-9aSZPe9NbCXWCtizFhROQxQBfjNtpFUC_qRh9gPKRHp7ZjVGyVD54XHm4pizmwyim7qiXd5PRUiYEyhuph2TBz5hLRqJyl3828Xptq/s1600/ropeman+near.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
You
know, maybe it’s one of God’s mercies that we can’t get a good look
into our dark doorways, that we can't have a Sherlock surety about what
lies ahead. That me of two decades ago needed the ongoing unveiling in order to become the me of today.<br />
<br />
The mystery is what makes the unfolding narrative interesting.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8e4JW1rKtAxwBKq3wPEVTYCa740Hjr9kwlU0R2bHqkce-weov_PW-d1flrdLTXj9ghwR7khGiNKB4OBPLfXHQv-qRp8cuJuV1sIQaoNbthwBPlQglJHNtGiP-bxzgUVtyuaV7DiJTzZF/s1600/cliff-drawing-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8e4JW1rKtAxwBKq3wPEVTYCa740Hjr9kwlU0R2bHqkce-weov_PW-d1flrdLTXj9ghwR7khGiNKB4OBPLfXHQv-qRp8cuJuV1sIQaoNbthwBPlQglJHNtGiP-bxzgUVtyuaV7DiJTzZF/s1600/cliff-drawing-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-63006878613921428102015-09-15T19:15:00.001-07:002015-09-15T19:18:39.311-07:00Benched Week 87: unicorns in the garden<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobUeKtK6JjDDx77NTvk730xqAXLLSqPi-suh2dYudrn4hHKN4P6kHZL_jMp05UK-d3Iyoym6lATBAgAIxXD1pCeuM53gXMF3UpNdoK41MLC9R-phG-78rgC-xOMd6oYiPTeFe2LljeJrT/s1600/garden-unicorn2-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobUeKtK6JjDDx77NTvk730xqAXLLSqPi-suh2dYudrn4hHKN4P6kHZL_jMp05UK-d3Iyoym6lATBAgAIxXD1pCeuM53gXMF3UpNdoK41MLC9R-phG-78rgC-xOMd6oYiPTeFe2LljeJrT/s1600/garden-unicorn2-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
I
opened the solid, wooden door of Thurber House in Columbus, Ohio, and
entered a little hesitantly. Expecting to find a docent hovering near
the historical building’s entrance, I waited, feeling like I had
intruded into someone’s home while they were napping upstairs. I
wandered a bit, reading little displays. A bench in the living room
beckoned, so I took a seat.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrAuzynU7dnwaMbSUKi-M94QxEAVMJ4q0Nh3YqDxpyOiAQ3S6G-ldv9b9JhSpRLAqADUM_v7LTsohmVyT6cyghn_675GzlnJJVsUz90FTUAsvvxFV6J8wqlaTSmojPcMuEF4H6vkEyCPM/s1600/livingroom-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrAuzynU7dnwaMbSUKi-M94QxEAVMJ4q0Nh3YqDxpyOiAQ3S6G-ldv9b9JhSpRLAqADUM_v7LTsohmVyT6cyghn_675GzlnJJVsUz90FTUAsvvxFV6J8wqlaTSmojPcMuEF4H6vkEyCPM/s1600/livingroom-bench-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Overhead, muffled voice accompanied creaking floorboards. Perhaps James was getting up from that nap.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzW8GEfk7C8QZNrhyphenhyphenmGEMze50V4P9AGSTbqXQqtAyNVlrvruDXu9iZpi9bdL7Mdzvd90UfEwVRwAJ3K__weJG4YRdctr1yRRYx0M3L8Fm_LPNjyqfGsIy8xcs6PyBPeBULzMOr-nUY3uoS/s1600/thurber-house-side-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzW8GEfk7C8QZNrhyphenhyphenmGEMze50V4P9AGSTbqXQqtAyNVlrvruDXu9iZpi9bdL7Mdzvd90UfEwVRwAJ3K__weJG4YRdctr1yRRYx0M3L8Fm_LPNjyqfGsIy8xcs6PyBPeBULzMOr-nUY3uoS/s1600/thurber-house-side-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
James
Thurber (1894-1961) was a cartoonist, essayist, playwright and humorous
author. Despite losing an eye in a childhood game of William Tell gone
tragically wrong, he had a wry view on life. His work was steeped in
satire, but a gentler sort than today’s sharpened swords of irony.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidV9BYodwPGTC3RfF2UHGyXAdUNYb0hM5YlJQsyjzjYM3ze80pS1IYbHKYWyeLsfdePs5cEV68iiyNa4FEaZsxKXiq3KdSMKq4tuzgRQIxyQc1GbFSbliYiAbn9xZ4FKn6Qm2m5cbcD88I/s1600/my-doodle-dog-300px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3wnBUhIISvdAwN80l_mVhx76SHmaH6q390LrjT0tn_aU9tcj7hAsLyYx8dHYkvedF0r9NrBvOJx3zJy3deHafWEPaKxS3vUoRAbT0miT26nic3-KggwSKKot4btSDscP4M3lNxAYjT12/s1600/thurberdoodle-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS3wnBUhIISvdAwN80l_mVhx76SHmaH6q390LrjT0tn_aU9tcj7hAsLyYx8dHYkvedF0r9NrBvOJx3zJy3deHafWEPaKxS3vUoRAbT0miT26nic3-KggwSKKot4btSDscP4M3lNxAYjT12/s1600/thurberdoodle-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>His cartoons have an odd looseness to them.</b>
His friend, Dorothy Parker, said they had a “semblance of unbaked
cookies.” I like Thurber’s dogs, in particular. I find that my go-to
drawing when I’m leaving notes in hotels or drawing for kids on planes
is a something similar. There’s something disarming about a silly dog.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidV9BYodwPGTC3RfF2UHGyXAdUNYb0hM5YlJQsyjzjYM3ze80pS1IYbHKYWyeLsfdePs5cEV68iiyNa4FEaZsxKXiq3KdSMKq4tuzgRQIxyQc1GbFSbliYiAbn9xZ4FKn6Qm2m5cbcD88I/s1600/my-doodle-dog-300px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidV9BYodwPGTC3RfF2UHGyXAdUNYb0hM5YlJQsyjzjYM3ze80pS1IYbHKYWyeLsfdePs5cEV68iiyNa4FEaZsxKXiq3KdSMKq4tuzgRQIxyQc1GbFSbliYiAbn9xZ4FKn6Qm2m5cbcD88I/s1600/my-doodle-dog-300px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
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This one is mine.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eV4J7lTDsLnMDxKm2Zo0WQ1xhCexWIFjdfSQiyjLOPzNTPhiYjxJBJcRmMmK2v91eALcyz7b-PNVsapbwBCnCj1UnnU3DmHMO-AD4h_Ok8X1kg0bklmy2tGvsFwXjxkL0EG12XG9WfOl/s1600/stairway-glow-500px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eV4J7lTDsLnMDxKm2Zo0WQ1xhCexWIFjdfSQiyjLOPzNTPhiYjxJBJcRmMmK2v91eALcyz7b-PNVsapbwBCnCj1UnnU3DmHMO-AD4h_Ok8X1kg0bklmy2tGvsFwXjxkL0EG12XG9WfOl/s1600/stairway-glow-500px.jpg" /></a><b><span class="photo photo_left"></span> </b><br />
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<b>He credited his mother for giving him his sense of humor. </b>Years
ago, while researching the childhoods of creative celebrities, I discovered a delightful story about Mrs. Thurber. One time, when dignified visitors had come to the house, she descended the stairs in her dressing gown, wild-eyed and hair disheveled, saying that she had just escaped from the attic, where she had been locked because of her profession of love for the postman!<br />
<br />
There’s some serious playfulness at work there.<br />
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Outside,
I found a shady side-yard, where two stone dogs kept me company. And
across the street, a ring of bushes surrounded a statue of a unicorn,
eating a lily. That image came from one of Thurber’s many fables, in
which a husband tries to convince his wife that he has seen a unicorn in
the garden.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgaVmsg9hNfQ39rgLauFCeP_xIS296-L5qAZacmZnilOrYbx1gS77KrRDOUjeimAmoe51q5TBMNWxsOl5__MLdVmIbxv8VnTovnsk-YdpYx783eBGQK-WcgFQrf3KGLKLEW6CbP9iqx9J/s1600/garden-unicorn3-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxgaVmsg9hNfQ39rgLauFCeP_xIS296-L5qAZacmZnilOrYbx1gS77KrRDOUjeimAmoe51q5TBMNWxsOl5__MLdVmIbxv8VnTovnsk-YdpYx783eBGQK-WcgFQrf3KGLKLEW6CbP9iqx9J/s1600/garden-unicorn3-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>It’s a nice analogy for Thurber’s created world </b>–
where the whimsical and the unexpected bump regularly up against every
day life. (Just like with another of his creations, Walter Mitty.) And
in my art, I strive to make the whimsical nibble at the edges of the
world’s seriousness.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivksvzbLA1DlCwTz2o8byuFdEQaTQyv-Dme5rYBqtPn5Ar2epeKM4VxRgLF66wDQxauEyuoyeFCYhF470_w3eVjKNx076hzsG5cmYlmCiXW-ls22uSPOWh-DY-_PTK2WR9KeMRClYFaiCy/s1600/ART-sky-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivksvzbLA1DlCwTz2o8byuFdEQaTQyv-Dme5rYBqtPn5Ar2epeKM4VxRgLF66wDQxauEyuoyeFCYhF470_w3eVjKNx076hzsG5cmYlmCiXW-ls22uSPOWh-DY-_PTK2WR9KeMRClYFaiCy/s1600/ART-sky-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
On
my way back to the hotel, I passed under an imposing piece of sculpture
at the Columbus College of Art and Design. But I’m happier thinking of
ART in lower-case letters. Art as the unicorn in the garden.<br />
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Or a slightly goofy dog.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcpBYBH9_gJsdXgw6-QfyFuBN9u4Q19RSEKIjZOD-Fda0PXTq4E7m9o2OBLfKCxB9PsP86TSIm9ZDCVSKaB-pI8dJP37pauUsGa1p45Tgt3rO73dLrKj8IfpfpvuiMznhHJlEf66ylOea/s1600/thurber-dogs-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCcpBYBH9_gJsdXgw6-QfyFuBN9u4Q19RSEKIjZOD-Fda0PXTq4E7m9o2OBLfKCxB9PsP86TSIm9ZDCVSKaB-pI8dJP37pauUsGa1p45Tgt3rO73dLrKj8IfpfpvuiMznhHJlEf66ylOea/s1600/thurber-dogs-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-54108442573782510572015-09-08T12:24:00.002-07:002015-09-08T12:34:45.036-07:00Benched Week 86: pears of wisdom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7JMhRyO6hkSmskDP5n_ayRXJzAMo9Yu1G0lkgZiYOcwR424keKX8mdoR684ZYrKh5_qlrEaRrzAq52c1gadnUwkNtQjd9z0ag24Wbr55FYmf6bdyakDr-PSn3w1A5QLjBQwymX1g7Mfj/s1600/bill-offering-pear-500px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7JMhRyO6hkSmskDP5n_ayRXJzAMo9Yu1G0lkgZiYOcwR424keKX8mdoR684ZYrKh5_qlrEaRrzAq52c1gadnUwkNtQjd9z0ag24Wbr55FYmf6bdyakDr-PSn3w1A5QLjBQwymX1g7Mfj/s1600/bill-offering-pear-500px.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i> </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i> Bill greeted me with a pear.</i></b>
</span> I had come to turn one of our occasional chats at his farm into a
bench-sitting, and the bench on his back porch was littered with the
fruit he had just picked. So he offered me one. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRzh40z0Kl7_swp1qjxJCXp3vM2v_cqRiIsPVHDhdSFhlGRqNlgc7GAAKQcBE4UAyVe1jA1m2lth31el6BaSKWOM0kfCD1KYYZhPv68EBZd4Dl3a8_4k0T6XMBFITHYi1mK5R0LX2UojZ/s1600/bill-clearing-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRzh40z0Kl7_swp1qjxJCXp3vM2v_cqRiIsPVHDhdSFhlGRqNlgc7GAAKQcBE4UAyVe1jA1m2lth31el6BaSKWOM0kfCD1KYYZhPv68EBZd4Dl3a8_4k0T6XMBFITHYi1mK5R0LX2UojZ/s1600/bill-clearing-bench-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZSSIbn6tTUvO6ZdbhPrPdUlesyu4Rt4nnaJE8b0z3deSBiUvMUziOukv1seuDsEulZh7ZrPxGRtnRIsV205AehuV48HOt-I-QlCqsHqkp-ci8s-N0Syy8LUpXYUEHdNVnASA6XHbk7CyD/s1600/b-picking-pears-500px.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZSSIbn6tTUvO6ZdbhPrPdUlesyu4Rt4nnaJE8b0z3deSBiUvMUziOukv1seuDsEulZh7ZrPxGRtnRIsV205AehuV48HOt-I-QlCqsHqkp-ci8s-N0Syy8LUpXYUEHdNVnASA6XHbk7CyD/s1600/b-picking-pears-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
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More
than that, he handed me the picker and said, “You’re tall. You should
be able to reach the ones I couldn’t. Make yourself useful.” So for
the first time in my life, I was plucking Bartlett pears off of branches
and dodging the ones that volunteered to try to bean me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7NbJty4b_m14-lGofRRgaONGirXXSSULMUXsL4qebq7UbpCtN1tHR1l2dpxKD3frIXH4lMJjGOXHgj30X_If3ito7zd5lu0Rp3t02Piv2BysFIc9wnOHGAphXJwlkMDwOyOwytIDQMdE/s1600/moore-farm-600px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7NbJty4b_m14-lGofRRgaONGirXXSSULMUXsL4qebq7UbpCtN1tHR1l2dpxKD3frIXH4lMJjGOXHgj30X_If3ito7zd5lu0Rp3t02Piv2BysFIc9wnOHGAphXJwlkMDwOyOwytIDQMdE/s320/moore-farm-600px.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Bill
looks every bit the part of a Pennsylvania farmer. And so he was,
growing up – that is, before he became the head of the Education
department at Bucknell University, across town, as well as a nationally
respected consultant. Farmer and professor: it’s as incongruous a
combination as the peacock that roosts in one of his trees.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xfQlIny9-ziQ6vd17cgEpvHcX0m6naKuGXE3eaTciqTHpTWSsrGZMVSN7yEH7EMBKsO9T8AE2F5touwOpmPKHlyZgyBabHLlHrSN3hoXg9j1HZvFWhSKRX5NCfDNGu967Fwj2lyiTu6u/s1600/peacock-feathers-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xfQlIny9-ziQ6vd17cgEpvHcX0m6naKuGXE3eaTciqTHpTWSsrGZMVSN7yEH7EMBKsO9T8AE2F5touwOpmPKHlyZgyBabHLlHrSN3hoXg9j1HZvFWhSKRX5NCfDNGu967Fwj2lyiTu6u/s1600/peacock-feathers-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>At 87, he’s still mentally sharp and active.</b>
As we sat down, I directed our conversation with a simple question:
“To what do you attribute your long life?” Knowing Bill, I knew he’d
answer me with stories. As with all of us, memories gather with the
passing years like pigeons on a silo.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6yjdq62zfOvyKzfigdHtmidoQ2FN-L74fXPTHXqfR07dp3MsEJtqt383de-TUNT8UCOUQ-hubHHhtGdaNRnS0cF4C6M3sC3e-VeGoJ3trH02XN9ps3VRozFUiE4ykVbaSX7TzEmNWnKB/s1600/pigeons-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6yjdq62zfOvyKzfigdHtmidoQ2FN-L74fXPTHXqfR07dp3MsEJtqt383de-TUNT8UCOUQ-hubHHhtGdaNRnS0cF4C6M3sC3e-VeGoJ3trH02XN9ps3VRozFUiE4ykVbaSX7TzEmNWnKB/s1600/pigeons-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
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He answered simply: “My work ethic.” Then, closing his eyes – as he often does when remembering – he explained.<br />
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As
a nine-year-old farm boy, he was milking cows two days a week, barely
strong enough to carry the buckets of steaming milk back across the
snowy field from the barn. And at age twelve, he was mowing fields of
hay with a team of horses. His mother and he would haul it into the
barn with hay forks. “I was exhausted beyond words,” he said. “But
then she would get me a glass of cold buttermilk and we’d chat a while.
And then she’d say – and I’ve never forgotten this – ‘Do you suppose,
Bill, we could get one more load of hay in the barn?’”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFKlV2QtbkJw8uFzjKUS7CaadP1blDMlD4A_uziC0xif2byC3KXWEPq0bw2JAXqAZSAZ1e0dypvGR8hep3Sqs-JrsBJA8CISDG_FGasTqQsrz1XR_NuTNWl1mNw4KMr_rhYnwtVviMHAr/s1600/bill-talking-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFKlV2QtbkJw8uFzjKUS7CaadP1blDMlD4A_uziC0xif2byC3KXWEPq0bw2JAXqAZSAZ1e0dypvGR8hep3Sqs-JrsBJA8CISDG_FGasTqQsrz1XR_NuTNWl1mNw4KMr_rhYnwtVviMHAr/s1600/bill-talking-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<i>Just one more load.</i>
That became a life motto for him. Just focus on doing one more thing.
Then before you know it, you’ve done much more than you expected.<br />
<br />
It’s
an ethic that drives me, as well. I try to push the boundaries of what
I can do. Go a little farther than expected. Give myself an extra
challenge – whether that’s trying out pastel on foam core boards or
adding one more event to an already full month.<br />
<br />
<b>But when is “one more load” one too many?</b>
Lately, I’ve been thinking more about the mixture of work and life,
even turning down a few gigs to spend more time at home. It’s a
question Bill has thought much about over his life as well. I shared
with him some of my struggle with this. And he listened and answered
with the insight and affection I appreciate so much in him.<br />
It’s
hard to get the balanced answer to life’s big questions -- without the
wisdom of family and friends. And as Bill has taught me, those
friendships are sweet. <br />
<br />
As sweet as a hand-picked pear.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1sL-B81d6SA39z4q4sw7_k3aMZYJIu4yE3piiRYNSHqOiEahEIUVhvN5GPgnTc2js3Kzw5mIKvpC6RrFWb6jPG_uNilNaHpFTcOVp0drV2QpSKZGEHBpWdsciKoCet6WBJLtFAMDj0xiU/s1600/eating-pear-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1sL-B81d6SA39z4q4sw7_k3aMZYJIu4yE3piiRYNSHqOiEahEIUVhvN5GPgnTc2js3Kzw5mIKvpC6RrFWb6jPG_uNilNaHpFTcOVp0drV2QpSKZGEHBpWdsciKoCet6WBJLtFAMDj0xiU/s1600/eating-pear-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<span class="photo "></span></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-18621561985860423022015-08-17T16:59:00.002-07:002015-08-17T16:59:47.349-07:00Benched Week 85: longing for simplicity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW7mrmqpYuWKCpfvfp2K5NJUJnUsekuLyL6Z1NOfwbe2J5kToHts8tt1kQWuVvYWzJ10ArCl2lfp5iKtivVzokHu8YYU-XN3-wa-zv4lhE1L-4-eA5n4DbQ3izgO4c3jQ4nwUEBUgZQjW/s1600/blossom-alone-2-250px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>
<a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/bruce-van-patter/benched-week-85-longing-for-simplicity/10153565770187012"></a><span class="timelineUnitContainer"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyB4yy4pjitTgoMZSJvj4XPtaZ7PWCBZkm-ip9QRNX_BC9hkMBBcoFmv9m2VNiw9z9ATKjaJPjy3EqJoSy9fThZ8Si8FJENJq0FsDpMukoSOXLr8Szt_dQ7JCAlnEjzC9sBW-3boZbeEYR/s1600/clemens-bench.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyB4yy4pjitTgoMZSJvj4XPtaZ7PWCBZkm-ip9QRNX_BC9hkMBBcoFmv9m2VNiw9z9ATKjaJPjy3EqJoSy9fThZ8Si8FJENJq0FsDpMukoSOXLr8Szt_dQ7JCAlnEjzC9sBW-3boZbeEYR/s1600/clemens-bench.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><b>The sun was bright on my center-city Philly bench.</b>
We had just come out of the dark stuffiness of the church where my
brother-in-law, Bernie, is an organist. He had treated us to a brief
tour, as well as a sample of the music he could perform on the powerful
instrument.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxemxp2_nHZDAFEHxitEdpY9BWZAYnfYQnkNe-vYdWq_GFPZSMjg7FtcEpwfdKIm__yqR7KUYoXLrRJAW-eew8tR-esuiUxkkocD0p6vA9bfHzkdo79wGi5_gY0xDqI5hV94sqrq7xl8Eh/s1600/bernie-playing-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxemxp2_nHZDAFEHxitEdpY9BWZAYnfYQnkNe-vYdWq_GFPZSMjg7FtcEpwfdKIm__yqR7KUYoXLrRJAW-eew8tR-esuiUxkkocD0p6vA9bfHzkdo79wGi5_gY0xDqI5hV94sqrq7xl8Eh/s1600/bernie-playing-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />The sanctuary had been impressive in its complicated, ornate decorations and statuaries of saints.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4GxBPDSOy-i3pwdWWEmSuzz3mPUb3OCJETAENyA66MK8yWijoHfmoTvNPY5MbZ9jKW88Sv_OvMorPDjMCq5kXtcJhOMb3aJp1rDVPfxOWJDyv6hFINYraDh9_R6kt6OgTzBV_X-hlac0/s1600/chruch-altar-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis4GxBPDSOy-i3pwdWWEmSuzz3mPUb3OCJETAENyA66MK8yWijoHfmoTvNPY5MbZ9jKW88Sv_OvMorPDjMCq5kXtcJhOMb3aJp1rDVPfxOWJDyv6hFINYraDh9_R6kt6OgTzBV_X-hlac0/s1600/chruch-altar-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />But once outside, a bit removed from the extravagance, I felt a familiar longing for simplicity rising up within me…<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXidezizBlUKVjOtE536Ya0z-2j2B0r0ODd3TcVv79Kx9iQ2lMvyfn1gv76PGy9_t6rwbLDzBXObwdvuut-9ErjE6uZZg7tXPTLVgQKBBVEjKPpZUcvnTcs4AmTMQxnO7NxiOQyPSf7I1e/s1600/church-reflected-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXidezizBlUKVjOtE536Ya0z-2j2B0r0ODd3TcVv79Kx9iQ2lMvyfn1gv76PGy9_t6rwbLDzBXObwdvuut-9ErjE6uZZg7tXPTLVgQKBBVEjKPpZUcvnTcs4AmTMQxnO7NxiOQyPSf7I1e/s1600/church-reflected-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />…one
that only grew stronger at our next stop, the Japanese House and
Gardens in Fairmount Park. The house, modeled on a 17th century
Japanese design, is starkly beautiful. Or boring, depending on the
visitor.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflrd6xX9Mqe150BljgKJ1Wo8yOCG89fibE7jCP7UZTtVfqYB8XZYQioHJdnz5tmMU9DjyqooqwvnbULc56bRr6BtNtmyzzGPPeZAKHBdbn8vz2DIE-8nW_L_yUMKgrH9hRnwkyrvZ42SY/s1600/bored-by-zen-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhflrd6xX9Mqe150BljgKJ1Wo8yOCG89fibE7jCP7UZTtVfqYB8XZYQioHJdnz5tmMU9DjyqooqwvnbULc56bRr6BtNtmyzzGPPeZAKHBdbn8vz2DIE-8nW_L_yUMKgrH9hRnwkyrvZ42SY/s1600/bored-by-zen-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />The gardens, viewed from that porch, were like a natural sedative, inviting the viewer to sit and be still. And ponder.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGc7gg5YdhtCHS-TM4c3Nf8s4Pz47GLBVvimAz2f2MAFoG4AfU98XkGFPfOWr_N1Kg6ziidAPVTF7CCp7AFKAcADZVhxkY89hSd8Y8rI8hDv_GZuyuoEoFjLkPdI5S6T4Y-xy4gqMjeSz0/s1600/japan-garden-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGc7gg5YdhtCHS-TM4c3Nf8s4Pz47GLBVvimAz2f2MAFoG4AfU98XkGFPfOWr_N1Kg6ziidAPVTF7CCp7AFKAcADZVhxkY89hSd8Y8rI8hDv_GZuyuoEoFjLkPdI5S6T4Y-xy4gqMjeSz0/s1600/japan-garden-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /><b>I’ve been pondering much in the last three weeks</b>,
since my mother-in-law passed away. In the days that followed, Alison
and I had the difficult task of emptying an apartment, filled with the
both the memorable and the mundane. There’s something strongly sobering
about seeing a life reduced down to a pile of things.<br /><br />Turning my
gaze inward, I have come to realize since then the “things” that
matters most to me are my creative expressions: the gifts of my art, my
writing, my photos. The rest of the trappings don’t need to be clung
to. Pass ‘em out when I pass on.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8K0_B2l8fMCcRHznWgJT2-m-_ke3Is1xlmkT4eiXwtHkqG2_Z-Ra3-l7qqnTlKeVjBBCx6CrJXLS7sSUrPS3ArOVdQN7M_j4UetPnnaOs2bjhohjDqoEjyZ8FXOodZ5sNTGWyD50RMUEF/s1600/francis-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8K0_B2l8fMCcRHznWgJT2-m-_ke3Is1xlmkT4eiXwtHkqG2_Z-Ra3-l7qqnTlKeVjBBCx6CrJXLS7sSUrPS3ArOVdQN7M_j4UetPnnaOs2bjhohjDqoEjyZ8FXOodZ5sNTGWyD50RMUEF/s1600/francis-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /><b>In the meantime, I want to stay centered on the important.</b>
Surprisingly, Francis of Assisi is helping me with that. I found a
statue of him hidden in the garden outside the church. And turning to
the web, I found this quote of his, which I then wrote into a photo I
captured of simple, textured stain glass in the sanctuary.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth1EeBJAlwhiYXoOCWGzTFzmzUMSao0UVljSNFIYejJ9Dph_6p2MYi8-kJVGCmX9R-AJ-2cIJjM9j3NOvvzPXK10_JL-t7AuoNKO57fNEXdlmnGkyd4LlNanaOqK1cir9PS7HDz_ZkoAA/s1600/clear-eye-francis-quote-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgth1EeBJAlwhiYXoOCWGzTFzmzUMSao0UVljSNFIYejJ9Dph_6p2MYi8-kJVGCmX9R-AJ-2cIJjM9j3NOvvzPXK10_JL-t7AuoNKO57fNEXdlmnGkyd4LlNanaOqK1cir9PS7HDz_ZkoAA/s1600/clear-eye-francis-quote-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />There’s a reduction I can live with. And live <i>by</i>. A simple credo: <i>use my talents to bless others</i>. It’s why I write this blog. And why I fuss with photos of your mugs. <br />
<br />
<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW7mrmqpYuWKCpfvfp2K5NJUJnUsekuLyL6Z1NOfwbe2J5kToHts8tt1kQWuVvYWzJ10ArCl2lfp5iKtivVzokHu8YYU-XN3-wa-zv4lhE1L-4-eA5n4DbQ3izgO4c3jQ4nwUEBUgZQjW/s1600/blossom-alone-2-250px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW7mrmqpYuWKCpfvfp2K5NJUJnUsekuLyL6Z1NOfwbe2J5kToHts8tt1kQWuVvYWzJ10ArCl2lfp5iKtivVzokHu8YYU-XN3-wa-zv4lhE1L-4-eA5n4DbQ3izgO4c3jQ4nwUEBUgZQjW/s1600/blossom-alone-2-250px.jpg" /></a> </b><br />
<br />
<b>In art terms, it’s a focal point.</b>
It’s that one point of contrast, that one splash of color that adds
meaning to seeming randomness, that puts an exclamation point to an
ordinary scene. It holds it all together.<br />
<br />Simplicity, then,
isn’t severity. It’s a narrow archway into a new, wider landscape of
“things.” But this time, hopefully, it’ll be the things that last.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzu6pVK_4LYKmoLtMRABroe9aNNWWPO11PvJawIQ9fb6YOt27ZK7OfFnmiuhhEdvygFvteJB3fzYG_5Pzq2_p_NfcD6oXJqLww8yvMuKrdnXM04J2gX9vFU1z5CT2ARcnR72QCJGACklYL/s1600/single-flower-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzu6pVK_4LYKmoLtMRABroe9aNNWWPO11PvJawIQ9fb6YOt27ZK7OfFnmiuhhEdvygFvteJB3fzYG_5Pzq2_p_NfcD6oXJqLww8yvMuKrdnXM04J2gX9vFU1z5CT2ARcnR72QCJGACklYL/s1600/single-flower-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-34850015113346070632015-07-13T18:11:00.002-07:002015-07-13T18:11:38.805-07:00Benched Week 84: break up the bricks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/bruce-van-patter/benched-week-84-break-up-the-bricks/10153459969612012"></a><span class="timelineUnitContainer"></span><div class="_5k3v _5k3w clearfix">
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuv8M0oxkqB3ox3Hj3N3FgtQ2OuEocDwiUQedjJo6dVkUlKv1ydH0vhq3ucXA087bc4Noyp95ygXzcRxsmx2x36hqI9Nk_il9zOgJLgtsIkgIGIWlCZ9lvpAD2p-ZEYTmDDbnxfnbcxk9O/s1600/blue-windows-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuv8M0oxkqB3ox3Hj3N3FgtQ2OuEocDwiUQedjJo6dVkUlKv1ydH0vhq3ucXA087bc4Noyp95ygXzcRxsmx2x36hqI9Nk_il9zOgJLgtsIkgIGIWlCZ9lvpAD2p-ZEYTmDDbnxfnbcxk9O/s1600/blue-windows-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><b>During my first photography course in art school,</b>
I had a “you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me” moment. A fellow student brought
in his series of photos, every last one focused on a different crack in
a sidewalk. I don’t know if this was a serious attempt at minimalism
or a last-minute desperation play, but I thought it was exceedingly
silly.<br />
<br />
This came to mind the other night when I was
sitting on a bench in the historic district of Fernandina Beach,
Florida. Surrounded by picturesque buildings, I wondered if I could
zero in on just a portion of a structure and make it visually
interesting.<br />
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-S3fyezxsrlTmEgocUWXYhXhkGULIW8YJmQ-O5a33tOHZ0VSYXmlbjCkowPt8rR2rwj_6S0ZGt2GgmacPv-f0Po0dbnBxZz3n8qrZBb9jqyHmY-KXjXDUU9T8mwPrY-1QkGgGB9g5bAFM/s1600/fernandina-bench-2-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-S3fyezxsrlTmEgocUWXYhXhkGULIW8YJmQ-O5a33tOHZ0VSYXmlbjCkowPt8rR2rwj_6S0ZGt2GgmacPv-f0Po0dbnBxZz3n8qrZBb9jqyHmY-KXjXDUU9T8mwPrY-1QkGgGB9g5bAFM/s1600/fernandina-bench-2-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<span class="photo "></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxdvCtosc3LwpDnwQqYacEh9J5RXKAsqkjLba03NDNo5gz7_1TuO_GnUmBgZ7LPxQ17txRYuyV48KqEhkEvFE-ISqAhX6cuF53wP_msaFFi3SUbLEwV_nkdsKhhRQywjwfDoZ6PXFiZHRs/s1600/fernstreet-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxdvCtosc3LwpDnwQqYacEh9J5RXKAsqkjLba03NDNo5gz7_1TuO_GnUmBgZ7LPxQ17txRYuyV48KqEhkEvFE-ISqAhX6cuF53wP_msaFFi3SUbLEwV_nkdsKhhRQywjwfDoZ6PXFiZHRs/s1600/fernstreet-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jqYTqCgjYWUp6bl27Sig7Fg4U90mKDWbToRj9PgOjBRUqRrIUIktazM7SGDjquIuBlvN9NX9AbThaNu8EUCQyiXyt17ANoVPLNDTiBF6yDw02HxifMN74sWL6MKuEekVxv7xC2xv2kad/s1600/town-hall-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jqYTqCgjYWUp6bl27Sig7Fg4U90mKDWbToRj9PgOjBRUqRrIUIktazM7SGDjquIuBlvN9NX9AbThaNu8EUCQyiXyt17ANoVPLNDTiBF6yDw02HxifMN74sWL6MKuEekVxv7xC2xv2kad/s1600/town-hall-600px.jpg" /> </a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUeXcHPJa0tX3LoVPqCE0v0asYPVfuJpfOSt3Fd1Pz3cuiKzQQuH2yZJvHsffHiAyRUc1STLhXkX-7GwVuJ7xRZyTQMbwplVNc9If-IexEEIb0FRvCLx3xHk2NGli6sQwIDsIqhlWlElM/s1600/flower-window-with-roof-600px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnUeXcHPJa0tX3LoVPqCE0v0asYPVfuJpfOSt3Fd1Pz3cuiKzQQuH2yZJvHsffHiAyRUc1STLhXkX-7GwVuJ7xRZyTQMbwplVNc9If-IexEEIb0FRvCLx3xHk2NGli6sQwIDsIqhlWlElM/s1600/flower-window-with-roof-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />
<br />
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<br />
It’s
harder than I expected. Taking away the broader context of a
recognizable landmark, one finds fewer tools in the toolbox: color,
shadow, texture, and angles become all-important.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tinkering
with framing reminded me how I love the interplay between hard and soft
elements, between the geometric and the organic. A bare wall is
blandly regular. But throw in a shadow from a tree – or better yet, the
brilliant green of a palm – and a wonderful dance begins between
something established and something developing. The immovable meets the
unstoppable.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhky2A26Cw3Li2m3EpAOdgaXq7chM0_ERQWN08A5oeRyVrzIuncc7qodvo54iG482Rri_siVqUindxlof-zy9Sx9i6XnpRohiTw6hyphenhyphenxZt3gAHK96v4NDnDR6o6h8RntrP5Tfv1eHm2HHh7d/s1600/palm-with-brick-building-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhky2A26Cw3Li2m3EpAOdgaXq7chM0_ERQWN08A5oeRyVrzIuncc7qodvo54iG482Rri_siVqUindxlof-zy9Sx9i6XnpRohiTw6hyphenhyphenxZt3gAHK96v4NDnDR6o6h8RntrP5Tfv1eHm2HHh7d/s1600/palm-with-brick-building-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /><b>This is the interplay at work in creativity.</b> For ideas to thrive, they need what I call a <b><i>loose framework</i></b>. Boundaries, if spaced too tightly, can leave no room to play; but having no walls at all actually inhibits the imagination.<br /><br />Take
summer. We all know how daunting it is for kids to go out and
manufacture fun in the wide, empty plane of summer. They need a
framework. Not the wall-to-wall schedule that so many parents submit
their kids to. But just enough structure to ignite their imaginations.
To help knock the rust off of those grounded spirits.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggVZn56DyymwO6P2qoyumgJukV4zTI2zqaT9QPENcsBPEjPA2H4uQAQB5xJOYQZ_48IhSJ8HlALKApunPGa-UboMjChyxDgL-BE9dQEsfKcWavooLFev1ymGg8r3zP5jOV0AUy3wd6FO-x/s1600/spirits-color-vignette2-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggVZn56DyymwO6P2qoyumgJukV4zTI2zqaT9QPENcsBPEjPA2H4uQAQB5xJOYQZ_48IhSJ8HlALKApunPGa-UboMjChyxDgL-BE9dQEsfKcWavooLFev1ymGg8r3zP5jOV0AUy3wd6FO-x/s1600/spirits-color-vignette2-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />Like
this idea by a friend of my son. She drew up this visual list for her
kids as a guide toward what to do when they’re bored. I love this so
much. I wonder how I never thought of doing it myself! (Not to mention
she is a potential scribe in the making!)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXeFG-v4O_FR7Zo1s8XjR92-ztK8gRIhPMgLx0W9z4-FyIfNroaKcFyaU8NWDAvsh8BBtjKmk8lBXSaEYCmsERJVf3NilJOdXGGup0k3Rjgni1Lo6dy5AI3ihqNLoliuk_AHtYLyJc8nN/s1600/summer-scribed-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXeFG-v4O_FR7Zo1s8XjR92-ztK8gRIhPMgLx0W9z4-FyIfNroaKcFyaU8NWDAvsh8BBtjKmk8lBXSaEYCmsERJVf3NilJOdXGGup0k3Rjgni1Lo6dy5AI3ihqNLoliuk_AHtYLyJc8nN/s1600/summer-scribed-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />This
is the interplay at work in our lives. We all have frameworks. The
question is whether we have space inside those walls to play. I know
that when life becomes so restrictive, when it’s like you’re bricked
into your schedule or your responsibilities or your grind, it’s not so
easy to push the bricks back. So, maybe it’s time to add some little
surprising accent. <br />
<br />
Paint a mural on that imposing wall.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldJsCP3iZw8tnV4YcH2vI77aBAf-x2ZS_GOjm6-CXLaRMLlZ-GJoKLLZczGiGTIGWZruAB_P52C41fkuT13gX0OpTnJyVXWAPSVD4-h2I02roU4Qviz2PCRvTBjMSEkdJQkB1jlUNt1ED/s1600/coke-house-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldJsCP3iZw8tnV4YcH2vI77aBAf-x2ZS_GOjm6-CXLaRMLlZ-GJoKLLZczGiGTIGWZruAB_P52C41fkuT13gX0OpTnJyVXWAPSVD4-h2I02roU4Qviz2PCRvTBjMSEkdJQkB1jlUNt1ED/s1600/coke-house-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Or at least hang a crazy towel in the window.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZFIyByXsfhJ1Oq_v9DUlU21qGC-h7tyGwNGNNsJ7cOo1-e-YB2aC6VuZhUFHvdXY4So5aVgCWRgsmZoVi96rOq6ynpkbZH1x2xuMhtBJNJZKaEySRBM7t1p2BuSy8poeiHqbh8A3rnC4/s1600/rainbow-window-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQZFIyByXsfhJ1Oq_v9DUlU21qGC-h7tyGwNGNNsJ7cOo1-e-YB2aC6VuZhUFHvdXY4So5aVgCWRgsmZoVi96rOq6ynpkbZH1x2xuMhtBJNJZKaEySRBM7t1p2BuSy8poeiHqbh8A3rnC4/s1600/rainbow-window-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
</div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-60882686429414240172015-07-08T05:19:00.003-07:002015-07-08T05:21:37.287-07:00Benched Week 83: the green nearby<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/bruce-van-patter/benched-week-83-the-green-nearby/10153441840202012"></a><span class="timelineUnitContainer"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir86o7n1x6A7KsVWF0iR2oCVykxm_TPXLRVgQFghaBRBu6pdhjAMcWfiNuk2b66t4Pgj1ogVuc-hV8MCCZq6Lk6vJOJPzs96EFuNSiBq3cvTO06lvASqTP36e5PqXGJ9d2Y_r7t99D5atj/s1600/resurrection-ferns2-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir86o7n1x6A7KsVWF0iR2oCVykxm_TPXLRVgQFghaBRBu6pdhjAMcWfiNuk2b66t4Pgj1ogVuc-hV8MCCZq6Lk6vJOJPzs96EFuNSiBq3cvTO06lvASqTP36e5PqXGJ9d2Y_r7t99D5atj/s1600/resurrection-ferns2-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
To
my delight, Savannah lived up to its reputation of charm. As my
brother and I walked the streets early in the morning, cameras in hand,
exquisite houses presented themselves at every corner, as if permanently
dressed for a debutant’s ball.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPc1NKTtv54qmlAOZkuvO5mEd250s8Dke3wP1MIXqHl5g-PlzgLedn40J9Uf1FeqR1k5OXsrBsQ9iKBmScEMwWmM5Re5lSjymS-ODYLWsTjd8d0I3k5_voPE5s-jHudOreBeFGvI_jmlL/s1600/hanging-pot-porch-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPc1NKTtv54qmlAOZkuvO5mEd250s8Dke3wP1MIXqHl5g-PlzgLedn40J9Uf1FeqR1k5OXsrBsQ9iKBmScEMwWmM5Re5lSjymS-ODYLWsTjd8d0I3k5_voPE5s-jHudOreBeFGvI_jmlL/s400/hanging-pot-porch-500px.jpg" width="266" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpMTfujpV1Roy4Lr77oSa3NJMS9bEg3H6lwonTYSoELOBi_GWsB7SRhk5c2Hel7ixFbRoXkrpWeLwtKupNKHQiy2GB4Bcy0SbwJTYXnSWbQbH-Q-9r8Ot0MRScO-fIasAE2jZTN-uoGWg/s1600/windows-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpMTfujpV1Roy4Lr77oSa3NJMS9bEg3H6lwonTYSoELOBi_GWsB7SRhk5c2Hel7ixFbRoXkrpWeLwtKupNKHQiy2GB4Bcy0SbwJTYXnSWbQbH-Q-9r8Ot0MRScO-fIasAE2jZTN-uoGWg/s400/windows-500px.jpg" width="266" /></a><br />
<br />
This,
I had expected. What came as a delightful surprise was the green. The
copious lavishness of green. The city planners, far ahead of their
time, dictated that twenty four square parks be evenly set throughout
the city so that no one would live more than two blocks from open space.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPq94Wvy5ld9CjuUiInND7pqPC2y4nFzbvWbuPOhUTr1KI_1coqNyR1Kjgk7T3NrJUQls3VF0pZjaZxpc_jduLvCEBUT6yvnM30_JhBS7RkXYzqmm9u14FlMvVLvYRD5s5Z5NhIgOkBHM/s1600/fountain-through-trees-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPq94Wvy5ld9CjuUiInND7pqPC2y4nFzbvWbuPOhUTr1KI_1coqNyR1Kjgk7T3NrJUQls3VF0pZjaZxpc_jduLvCEBUT6yvnM30_JhBS7RkXYzqmm9u14FlMvVLvYRD5s5Z5NhIgOkBHM/s1600/fountain-through-trees-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
And
because of that, Savannah could be called The City of Benches. I’ve
never seen the likes of it. Not just public benches. (Forest Gump’s
bench was famously set in Savannah.)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4h6sDjULEdyGSylKngk8nIS8gG_IPLY0c13XZzcqiuP7pfnqQeQVCzWNgh9DbYSiP6fV8ZgGsZmmp9FWaQ4ENJPdZJAJpVtU0CENnSGhzz-M5tf54S8re25KTEvoioxrqD6zxsfCCipU/s1600/benched-bride-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4h6sDjULEdyGSylKngk8nIS8gG_IPLY0c13XZzcqiuP7pfnqQeQVCzWNgh9DbYSiP6fV8ZgGsZmmp9FWaQ4ENJPdZJAJpVtU0CENnSGhzz-M5tf54S8re25KTEvoioxrqD6zxsfCCipU/s1600/benched-bride-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
But private ones, as well, tucked onto porches and in quiet, semi-hidden gardens.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qoGB5yDD_N-eGlR_PI0xtqIy9TyUbkFk3qCHdmzuAIWA2WW7EFm_vqwPXK_VXl06hbSKkLHHrzIFV96C86hQCV18tP3C6oJmSLq_Ha0MdAosqA1DnfdPNM99WOGEN9NXwxNlHKm2OJyD/s1600/bench_blue-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6qoGB5yDD_N-eGlR_PI0xtqIy9TyUbkFk3qCHdmzuAIWA2WW7EFm_vqwPXK_VXl06hbSKkLHHrzIFV96C86hQCV18tP3C6oJmSLq_Ha0MdAosqA1DnfdPNM99WOGEN9NXwxNlHKm2OJyD/s1600/bench_blue-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56no0Pla-HVQCUlxwRztXje725CCtr8OjxZki9B1VTtMtQmcP_drmL2hlVYEHglRfpWp06r_DkUVXxgbAOcCG7OLaVCisrLkH1jS0Jlw46zTY5bjf0TEuyzyAbMpftrythNH8oOKgujRi/s1600/bench_naturally_ugly-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj56no0Pla-HVQCUlxwRztXje725CCtr8OjxZki9B1VTtMtQmcP_drmL2hlVYEHglRfpWp06r_DkUVXxgbAOcCG7OLaVCisrLkH1jS0Jlw46zTY5bjf0TEuyzyAbMpftrythNH8oOKgujRi/s1600/bench_naturally_ugly-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJS1y6dE3s0JVytrbUG9_Oi4nvqm7HQ01EpoDiCd4TwHcqY8DBLttx_U05kE1a8Epz1rYHcqkQBBTaoBvCFWgphyS8qI6KztrzB9vIWH0gvK3yN4_F86kfWSw8fRt39Kogd9fgmpduJPXt/s1600/bench_wheels-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJS1y6dE3s0JVytrbUG9_Oi4nvqm7HQ01EpoDiCd4TwHcqY8DBLttx_U05kE1a8Epz1rYHcqkQBBTaoBvCFWgphyS8qI6KztrzB9vIWH0gvK3yN4_F86kfWSw8fRt39Kogd9fgmpduJPXt/s1600/bench_wheels-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbxcd-4yWInIgTVOKTHrdSAdVdmxVUEe2ulnPc3LhLw9MS9FurL16-BK7EnkKBYgxuj51_16x04UtQwsdd9k-m613RQ4e-dZOhk8RfQ0vhSb3ZnHbAU8Z0tawppdYl8enZrwZ6DZJKQZw/s1600/bench_wrought-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbxcd-4yWInIgTVOKTHrdSAdVdmxVUEe2ulnPc3LhLw9MS9FurL16-BK7EnkKBYgxuj51_16x04UtQwsdd9k-m613RQ4e-dZOhk8RfQ0vhSb3ZnHbAU8Z0tawppdYl8enZrwZ6DZJKQZw/s1600/bench_wrought-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Within the green, like a kind of antebellum nesting doll, were the trees. Long-limbed live oaks, draped with Spanish moss.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxWYrf7U0n5tSKpoFsVsu8dFm0tgGfanEIi6ejABEnz1EShWvBEw3ilgo1UcTi2bPoSWps-5phZWOHKZJpaKwXhL5sxCImsi5ORpw-yn3ficXd3sdysX76CE8-Lm5F_wz2zPjvyOweSsl/s1600/hoary-tree-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxWYrf7U0n5tSKpoFsVsu8dFm0tgGfanEIi6ejABEnz1EShWvBEw3ilgo1UcTi2bPoSWps-5phZWOHKZJpaKwXhL5sxCImsi5ORpw-yn3ficXd3sdysX76CE8-Lm5F_wz2zPjvyOweSsl/s1600/hoary-tree-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
And
on those trees were the most fabulous of things, new to me:
resurrection ferns. Dry and brown for long periods, they refresh to a
brilliant green with rain.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA1PYNTWNAdRMj8hj2KJ2Rj0WpMwVM08s-Tst6RkNNskDaFotyC3kkw5C2rPQEzWJekKC3ecQqmds0LbZdnzOF0p6X4Pzfn4dQUWDpnnut7H8Ce7odMKVe6dno2aFLDLcbmVG_WI2ezU5Y/s1600/sunlit-ferns-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA1PYNTWNAdRMj8hj2KJ2Rj0WpMwVM08s-Tst6RkNNskDaFotyC3kkw5C2rPQEzWJekKC3ecQqmds0LbZdnzOF0p6X4Pzfn4dQUWDpnnut7H8Ce7odMKVe6dno2aFLDLcbmVG_WI2ezU5Y/s1600/sunlit-ferns-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>What a perfect metaphor for vacation.</b> We often frame vacation as a break <i>from</i> something. It’s just as much as a reconnect <i>to </i>something. Paul Theroux, the accomplished travel writer, put it well:<br />
<i>“Travel,
which is nearly always regarded as an attempt to escape from the ego,
is in my opinion the opposite: nothing induces concentration or
stimulates memory like an alien landscape or a foreign culture.”</i><br />
<br />
We
spend much of our life making life manageable and predictable. Travel
shakes us awake, reminding us that there is a world of surprises outside
our little spotlight of focus. Another journeying writer, Pico Iyer,
delights that the joy of travel is seeing everything in a different
light. And from a crooked angle.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYhMxr6KV2JMq7NVHQ7ODHpUEcGiV9l9smNZAcgg1Zkob0ECOGzBdwRk1yiFI_A_qiIEMSHdIYtcZpu2jjprIU1k4EEbRyNjShWvC5DvAxh2nQOvFRw-boAMsIezkpM9ZSjGYEaT7Hs6S/s1600/crow-tower-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYhMxr6KV2JMq7NVHQ7ODHpUEcGiV9l9smNZAcgg1Zkob0ECOGzBdwRk1yiFI_A_qiIEMSHdIYtcZpu2jjprIU1k4EEbRyNjShWvC5DvAxh2nQOvFRw-boAMsIezkpM9ZSjGYEaT7Hs6S/s1600/crow-tower-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Which makes me thankful for this blog. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkn13Cig6F1hPg6-uZnwU06ea2Oy_TAgAghrySKTxCAAcaMv7qIDZzHETPhXmBXiPgjleJsGVs_fYjMx_MsdavKFJzrp4fWvtEVmbJesyV-MfQqZRiofjWUttbOR2jvVPg_cjBPuNKC5io/s1600/bench_drama_light-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkn13Cig6F1hPg6-uZnwU06ea2Oy_TAgAghrySKTxCAAcaMv7qIDZzHETPhXmBXiPgjleJsGVs_fYjMx_MsdavKFJzrp4fWvtEVmbJesyV-MfQqZRiofjWUttbOR2jvVPg_cjBPuNKC5io/s1600/bench_drama_light-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I
realized in Savannah that this habit of sitting and noticing is the
reason why my frequent travel hasn’t lost its ability to surprise. My
benches give me the rain I need to keep my ferns regularly refreshed.<br />
<br />
It’s what we all need: open space close to where we live.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImURUMxi-l33gRFJabcTzLAOkXH0sLfjNv-jOoUNQhT7J3dqaBXqECretlgzrK3U2xhyooLgAWwV78WOegEW-vBdMXCWGtswhxBR9YcVR0mPSYHAQ7KwSxZgoL6NRaVOWVP3u1U9ExAl-/s1600/face-in-the-green-550px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiImURUMxi-l33gRFJabcTzLAOkXH0sLfjNv-jOoUNQhT7J3dqaBXqECretlgzrK3U2xhyooLgAWwV78WOegEW-vBdMXCWGtswhxBR9YcVR0mPSYHAQ7KwSxZgoL6NRaVOWVP3u1U9ExAl-/s1600/face-in-the-green-550px.jpg" /></a></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-26860985537583489082015-06-28T03:58:00.005-07:002015-06-28T03:58:53.011-07:00Benched Week 82: I steal scenes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="timelineUnitContainer"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUe1xHKfbSWxvAaHZOCPXfPptSTSEv0DQKtF6hyDH2MhH6kXgtj-wIRXM2fXvalUmFll9e_cKogH1E-M1J34kbmD8O5H9HPalFcQMYeYOW9ok8bBhSSpDT0yfxCvmHPRRkjiF5BDekBFs8/s1600/girl-in-stream-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUe1xHKfbSWxvAaHZOCPXfPptSTSEv0DQKtF6hyDH2MhH6kXgtj-wIRXM2fXvalUmFll9e_cKogH1E-M1J34kbmD8O5H9HPalFcQMYeYOW9ok8bBhSSpDT0yfxCvmHPRRkjiF5BDekBFs8/s1600/girl-in-stream-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><div class="_5k3v _5k3w clearfix">
<div>
<br /><b>Artists are like go-betweens.</b>
On one side of them is life, humming along with a myriad of moments.
On the other side is an audience. The artist’s job is to grab one of
those fleeting experiences -- one that, hopefully, captures a bit of the
beauty or the mystery or the truth of life, and hold it up for the
audience to see. <br /><br />Or, to think of it another way, it’s like
reaching into a somewhat mundane film and pulling out a single frame to
say, “Hey, everyone --this one is interesting!”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YA7Z-a-W4TF7CiQBEzgutS16RLrf_fDLv353JAIUF_2vxnoDfokvqOd6gK3_Z0pqGzMOr3eyzLjctOkPO6Gkj2MloPljFyqBxmry2W7x5kOfITII71QVKx44oVnH8cem_XYt1X_RSt6m/s1600/park-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YA7Z-a-W4TF7CiQBEzgutS16RLrf_fDLv353JAIUF_2vxnoDfokvqOd6gK3_Z0pqGzMOr3eyzLjctOkPO6Gkj2MloPljFyqBxmry2W7x5kOfITII71QVKx44oVnH8cem_XYt1X_RSt6m/s1600/park-bench-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /><b>I think of this as I sit on this week’s bench.</b>
It is alongside a paved path in Caledonia State Park in southern PA, a
path that crosses a nearby bridge and ends at a public pool. The park
is surprisingly busy on a Wednesday afternoon. But, after all, it is
summer.<br /><br />And the light is gorgeous, flickering off of the mountain stream and silhouetting people against a bejeweled background.<br /><br />As
I watch, camera in hand, I’m conscious of being outside the flow of
life. I am the Observer. I catch snippets of conversation as people
stroll by. I take a shot of a young mother with a son on the bridge.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUwR_gK7-jaZSK_CmF7xIoJ23KxwPkCZcagQPvTYyAvnqbslR-E0PM0N_HKNvvHNEPqwsBXtnGH0K1ozVqJUtEGxKjHOFZtsMdUbDPVeDfgXxd__gROxchbuxookohtnKkEIV6NrtzAfA/s1600/menn-and-boy-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUwR_gK7-jaZSK_CmF7xIoJ23KxwPkCZcagQPvTYyAvnqbslR-E0PM0N_HKNvvHNEPqwsBXtnGH0K1ozVqJUtEGxKjHOFZtsMdUbDPVeDfgXxd__gROxchbuxookohtnKkEIV6NrtzAfA/s1600/menn-and-boy-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Followed by a sweet vignette of a man pointing out aquatic life to his grandchild.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcGZ7thmT25tlayRnLf-1cGGOd2E_eB_0v-Eo8fn21SCgxUSYxsEgXehTeFKhj9CLAkDncVto_Ve5YJJIjZ3a1_IKalWn1IJKG1PSLjEKL0493hpCQnYlzJIzhvS-ktV-zKMk42kSXstQ/s1600/grandfather-showing-stream-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcGZ7thmT25tlayRnLf-1cGGOd2E_eB_0v-Eo8fn21SCgxUSYxsEgXehTeFKhj9CLAkDncVto_Ve5YJJIjZ3a1_IKalWn1IJKG1PSLjEKL0493hpCQnYlzJIzhvS-ktV-zKMk42kSXstQ/s1600/grandfather-showing-stream-500px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Frankly,
it’s a bit disconcerting to be on the outside, looking in. And a bit
sad. Better to be living life than simply recording it.<br /><br /><b>But that’s when my son shows up. </b>And
for the next day, as planned, we camp together, cook together, hike
together. It’s still a bit strange to be taking photos along the way.
Each time I do, I feel like I’ve stepped outside the camaraderie and
become the Observer again. But Todd is an amateur photographer too (his
specialty: gorgeous shots of food), so he understands.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxi9sAff6pz9oZhqBocosFGlbP33thf20g-HtJi1Hw6jr5_6UVGmwlgN1mVwGvnolEXxhpYjRod6CPsJ-DSD3Dh7lvnKrl8kTzQfWCPE4ebnCI2gkQuYRqcfSwQVG3nWKHb9D-eMgbCMr/s1600/bacon-cooking-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxi9sAff6pz9oZhqBocosFGlbP33thf20g-HtJi1Hw6jr5_6UVGmwlgN1mVwGvnolEXxhpYjRod6CPsJ-DSD3Dh7lvnKrl8kTzQfWCPE4ebnCI2gkQuYRqcfSwQVG3nWKHb9D-eMgbCMr/s1600/bacon-cooking-400px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Sweeter
still is when we both stop along the trail during our hike and
concentrate on freezing the motion of a bee searching for pollen.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA4PPjTeLMoYry6J7XG3XjT3NT-CELQd5HYmEVxzaeFUzGx5tsjk1vBNzZMShhcaf6mbkmgT48gLRDUtLHY6lKf_5tzf0Pjv3Pouq_Cg7oBsR5r7WxOMLba50k8zYpycJ23xPx8-zpVU3I/s1600/bee-poised-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA4PPjTeLMoYry6J7XG3XjT3NT-CELQd5HYmEVxzaeFUzGx5tsjk1vBNzZMShhcaf6mbkmgT48gLRDUtLHY6lKf_5tzf0Pjv3Pouq_Cg7oBsR5r7WxOMLba50k8zYpycJ23xPx8-zpVU3I/s1600/bee-poised-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Or stopping a ebony jewelwing on a leaf.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fI4ELbhibuWNbDQ7IlU5vWGNEnD7BjUFj_UcayKbALW5kMLIBWO1BB58wi8qOPv_MhFQ7RzBokAO_ZyCKkts-2O6Rsr-qO5JHG0nXrwDbdYQM6LKhOzdS5WBaWmedGnyqXL0gICmeHSx/s1600/poised-darter-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fI4ELbhibuWNbDQ7IlU5vWGNEnD7BjUFj_UcayKbALW5kMLIBWO1BB58wi8qOPv_MhFQ7RzBokAO_ZyCKkts-2O6Rsr-qO5JHG0nXrwDbdYQM6LKhOzdS5WBaWmedGnyqXL0gICmeHSx/s1600/poised-darter-500px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />This is why I gravitate toward creating community in the process of creating images: <b><i>it blurs the line between artist and audience. </i></b>Ultimately,
it’s the individual artist’s eye and skill that imbues a captured scene
with significance. But as we work together to find those scenes worth
capturing, there can be more than one hand holding them up for us all to
enjoy.<br />
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmbSEIiqOS3ITK0WUd7RMYAycq8QJW6b8YVKEqtv_Wi8oTGZboOl-N6IAt3RQNivz5w9llEsGNm3IALWv5N4TZFEQnjBFKEJayU9nkMokI9m9YIN-c2pfiCX0rhnLE7OdgbiuU10wDdDH/s1600/todd-in-trees-taking-shot-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRmbSEIiqOS3ITK0WUd7RMYAycq8QJW6b8YVKEqtv_Wi8oTGZboOl-N6IAt3RQNivz5w9llEsGNm3IALWv5N4TZFEQnjBFKEJayU9nkMokI9m9YIN-c2pfiCX0rhnLE7OdgbiuU10wDdDH/s1600/todd-in-trees-taking-shot-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-87335574869031164392015-06-20T13:07:00.003-07:002015-06-20T13:07:58.693-07:00Benched Week 81: prepared surprises<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEsRPOR754GHHIXWVrxdf3mdus6RG_w_kwevJW5K8Nh_JGSfbbrjxhMxGvMExIrW6rnsPsmMz5q6jZhR058SQYFnPFICAPfDaY3thIfpTh6b4C5u06KQd47GhA2ebSjPar-12hEXoRzkNG/s1600/ohenry-2-cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEsRPOR754GHHIXWVrxdf3mdus6RG_w_kwevJW5K8Nh_JGSfbbrjxhMxGvMExIrW6rnsPsmMz5q6jZhR058SQYFnPFICAPfDaY3thIfpTh6b4C5u06KQd47GhA2ebSjPar-12hEXoRzkNG/s1600/ohenry-2-cropped.jpg" /></a><br />
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For
all his storied skill at twist endings, William Sidney Porter (AKA O.
Henry) never mastered the surprise beginning. And yet, here I was at
the O. Henry Hotel in Greensboro, NC, having had only half a day’s
notice to get there. The hotel itself was filled with unexpected
delights, from its dark-wood lounge...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCjVfeoYF_FblLa5XDf052FrCXR3ND7GJviNGvLhVbzA5ZbDjoLMYQaQu1pYqhaodTOO1MiowH7NBmonmnGOYmTxUlkrg6w7dfKvx0U20x7vc7l0NxTtGPwR3FhpSt3H6bsGH8HU-oadx/s1600/ohenry-interior-500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCjVfeoYF_FblLa5XDf052FrCXR3ND7GJviNGvLhVbzA5ZbDjoLMYQaQu1pYqhaodTOO1MiowH7NBmonmnGOYmTxUlkrg6w7dfKvx0U20x7vc7l0NxTtGPwR3FhpSt3H6bsGH8HU-oadx/s1600/ohenry-interior-500.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
...to the free copy of the namesake’s book in the room.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiup6ete4bbpTrL9dWZUlVLIjzPgxme9SgctfXVuCqsHDGpY_F5usNm8fBWPLPFA3uPI7tvupeoCM4WJyw4jLFADCuyUj5g5ZFG3SV7IHBcFuryO-YNq5hPXTFAStw5w34CyuOIAGq4Kdrb/s1600/ohenry-book-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiup6ete4bbpTrL9dWZUlVLIjzPgxme9SgctfXVuCqsHDGpY_F5usNm8fBWPLPFA3uPI7tvupeoCM4WJyw4jLFADCuyUj5g5ZFG3SV7IHBcFuryO-YNq5hPXTFAStw5w34CyuOIAGq4Kdrb/s1600/ohenry-book-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
And
so, when my event ended in the early afternoon, I went out into the
blistering heat -- mentally adding bloggers to the short list that
included mad dogs and Englishmen -- to walk to the nearest potential
site for an interesting bench: <i>Bog Garden.</i> I was determined to find a surprise ending to the outing.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLAarlLtCsgwn1PD03Pi5P5NQDoRBaFF0sv09xUxXDNDQuWLO2euiOJoSjZtVoyJeF7thtzBNOTJlx7Gp70EwZDuypFjG6QG_jNW3bssgAkcO7LcHKlr4Rh3Wlg4nSXMARkQ30yaSvMAR/s1600/lakeside-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvLAarlLtCsgwn1PD03Pi5P5NQDoRBaFF0sv09xUxXDNDQuWLO2euiOJoSjZtVoyJeF7thtzBNOTJlx7Gp70EwZDuypFjG6QG_jNW3bssgAkcO7LcHKlr4Rh3Wlg4nSXMARkQ30yaSvMAR/s1600/lakeside-bench-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>The garden itself was an anomaly.</b>
Acres of soggy forest are not what one anticipates in the middle of
office complexes and shopping centers. On my chosen bench, I watched a
blue heron serenely stalk in still water only a short distance from a
Harris Teeter.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirogEXjp9PhAo13tTWN0X7BGrkczOFe4lUGQYFj-cLYBaty7pXzZc7zz-6K3Wr7lFe2XWyZ58ZT_EtyGwnGyXIcViR5aB9Eaun89pCicAlawZ6Dr150EtzxWJNJOJac7it74kIoL_bWWEo/s1600/crane-v-v1-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirogEXjp9PhAo13tTWN0X7BGrkczOFe4lUGQYFj-cLYBaty7pXzZc7zz-6K3Wr7lFe2XWyZ58ZT_EtyGwnGyXIcViR5aB9Eaun89pCicAlawZ6Dr150EtzxWJNJOJac7it74kIoL_bWWEo/s1600/crane-v-v1-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
As
I strolled the twisting boardwalk through the wetlands, I came across a
man pointing a zoom lens at the dense foliage. “What are you trying to
shoot?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“That, over there,” he answered, pointing to a
large bird on a distance branch. I recognized it from books as a barred
owl, and just as quickly regretted that I don’t travel with my
telephoto lens.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_8i2wbCmiEfE8cD_hPZMzyn-fD36Pc8_5rxVY4OIKiptfuWHJ_7kDE83ffcPjQiabiag3DLvXARnzCRBwxkQlG1LGAvCVlzTXGnmg3ewpUQ2D8AmhhmxXFNJx6E1uT9Rr3SJ_K0kdx7l/s1600/tom-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_8i2wbCmiEfE8cD_hPZMzyn-fD36Pc8_5rxVY4OIKiptfuWHJ_7kDE83ffcPjQiabiag3DLvXARnzCRBwxkQlG1LGAvCVlzTXGnmg3ewpUQ2D8AmhhmxXFNJx6E1uT9Rr3SJ_K0kdx7l/s1600/tom-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
We
talked for a while. His name was Tom and he was an avid birder and
amateur photographer. He regularly visits the bog with camera in hand
since, he said, it the best place in Greensboro to see birds of all
kinds. That owl, I thought, would be the perfect surprise to wrap up
this post, but it was just too far away. I thanked Tom for the insights
and started back, disappointed.<br />
<br />
<b>Can we plan for surprises?</b>
I think we can in two key ways. First, we can put ourselves in
situations where unpredictable things happen. Step outside one’s
comfort zone, even if it means a hot walk in the midday sun. We wall
ourselves in with predictability. Sometimes we need to scale those
walls.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTDzTgjJxKEZAMe-kORZh48FGnTh7sH-UBPXY-ldsA4MwUD-5mq-Y-sbynt_topY70arUPPGN0AsoqjZhOJR04KC6dV1ChB-VcksuVVxauY1I55RRQ-1Y3b7nr0_8cc19yHE4Ie7km594t/s1600/michael%2526watts-reading-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTDzTgjJxKEZAMe-kORZh48FGnTh7sH-UBPXY-ldsA4MwUD-5mq-Y-sbynt_topY70arUPPGN0AsoqjZhOJR04KC6dV1ChB-VcksuVVxauY1I55RRQ-1Y3b7nr0_8cc19yHE4Ie7km594t/s1600/michael%2526watts-reading-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
And
then, we need to decide what a surprise is. If we had the facility to
recognize the extraordinary nature of seemingly ordinary things, our
days would be filled with wonder. Is it any wonder that children are so
easily amazed?<br />
<br />
Perhaps I just needed to find something a little less remarkable than a shot of a barred owl in the daytime.<br />
<br />
<b>That’s when I heard someone calling me.</b><br />
<br />
It was Tom. I hurried back along the boards and found him. “I wasn’t sure you heard me,” he said, quietly. “But he’s moved.”<br />
<br />
And there was the owl, sitting within the reach of my lens. It was in just the right place for a surprise ending.<br />
<br />
Just like me.<br />
<br />
Porter would be proud.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOM97jhJjq5zzFPgdAa6WR92jkFLbcTyLwKScPM0Z0nXNavwc2rCjdkTwpVBl1sTipGSfa5bLAmR9Hgy8RTS4iONLWX3nx3DFTr5yVaVOM0iBSNwmyzbogfrQmGxb-qNO3SzMujX9sbqL/s1600/barred-owl-view2-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOM97jhJjq5zzFPgdAa6WR92jkFLbcTyLwKScPM0Z0nXNavwc2rCjdkTwpVBl1sTipGSfa5bLAmR9Hgy8RTS4iONLWX3nx3DFTr5yVaVOM0iBSNwmyzbogfrQmGxb-qNO3SzMujX9sbqL/s1600/barred-owl-view2-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-81227699167165173272015-06-09T17:06:00.002-07:002015-06-09T17:06:59.239-07:00 Benched Week 80: moments and memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyE5GhBSGKv-GqGEBWKA5inK8nlanWlIN4VVJE4D2XrGkLBkr9AiIiNpYXQdVdrIRRGV1sSvkZbjPUxpWXcmB2JsAdJmSkDfOOCi0hvY6axbd8yr08sltEoBh_qWzcPbGNbV3J_t_HEZyL/s1600/barn-landscape-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyE5GhBSGKv-GqGEBWKA5inK8nlanWlIN4VVJE4D2XrGkLBkr9AiIiNpYXQdVdrIRRGV1sSvkZbjPUxpWXcmB2JsAdJmSkDfOOCi0hvY6axbd8yr08sltEoBh_qWzcPbGNbV3J_t_HEZyL/s1600/barn-landscape-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><b>It had not been my plan to find a bench before my son’s wedding. </b>
But we arrived at the gorgeous Chadds Ford farm on Sunday morning with
time to spare. Finding myself alone in the barn with this rustic bench
right before me, I sat down and took a few moments to let it all soak
in.<br />
<br />
<span class="photo "></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_XN8jiLcg_iP_xbe12IMir3xzm8zMpMgNoIdkI6lkH2lPXa09o9UT_626l9KqqZ2tVa4cW9orujnDG0EMm1OhFQN5MAn4kyQkMJFehNQNZL3jUIiuVdsyq_UXlb8PWMPs5b6Iu0-hqBN/s1600/barnbench-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ_XN8jiLcg_iP_xbe12IMir3xzm8zMpMgNoIdkI6lkH2lPXa09o9UT_626l9KqqZ2tVa4cW9orujnDG0EMm1OhFQN5MAn4kyQkMJFehNQNZL3jUIiuVdsyq_UXlb8PWMPs5b6Iu0-hqBN/s1600/barnbench-400px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />As you know, if you regularly read this blog, I’ve discovered that <i>co-creating</i>
has become a major theme for me. Sitting on the bench, I had a chance
to consider how many people had contributed ideas for the event that was
about to happen.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8RrnLycsvQiYHbsYqpryvbwIWK526gRS88XqT4l5uTfWFlS29AF0Vk7c7bY5Dv1IMa9Gi-9jHLpvLaX1Owbj9cKEkOTQA8DEoEwVdT4WwlsCNs75LUBaKbW5XjZT4rHk7ldQel0Ehlwm/s1600/barn-inside-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd8RrnLycsvQiYHbsYqpryvbwIWK526gRS88XqT4l5uTfWFlS29AF0Vk7c7bY5Dv1IMa9Gi-9jHLpvLaX1Owbj9cKEkOTQA8DEoEwVdT4WwlsCNs75LUBaKbW5XjZT4rHk7ldQel0Ehlwm/s1600/barn-inside-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><b>A great number of the decorating ideas came from my son and his bride. </b>The use of the farm-grown peonies on the tables. Mason jars coated inside with paint. Strings of lights. Drapery.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mJFph3fnC-sqrZXY2_dXlbtlFdZu_X5Rtnmldw9bDRmo1Ilg_2EoeMHHbl3IJmvsVWuOiu3nd_2fiApRsrgsjlAg7MDYiO79vTHcAlgBL2dD4ccPOUoZfGiVAoRAeY0j2HRgzU2_gOIt/s1600/wedding-party-table-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mJFph3fnC-sqrZXY2_dXlbtlFdZu_X5Rtnmldw9bDRmo1Ilg_2EoeMHHbl3IJmvsVWuOiu3nd_2fiApRsrgsjlAg7MDYiO79vTHcAlgBL2dD4ccPOUoZfGiVAoRAeY0j2HRgzU2_gOIt/s1600/wedding-party-table-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />Copies
of the same day of the New York Times crossword puzzle were placed at
each setting, commemorating the bride’s recently-departed, beloved
grandfather’s hobby.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dmjd7oLYjigjN8lDZ0vh2tQRykj0S4oe24zh4zYTLsWUaGLKLWh6Omoh7TJeLYjnp0wW8_pAbsnmU30xg4VcMIS0sVTMskTqp1HmrZFopeYVsDbvRa2fxEMOtbfGJ6T3I90RdodJIm1L/s1600/crosswords-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dmjd7oLYjigjN8lDZ0vh2tQRykj0S4oe24zh4zYTLsWUaGLKLWh6Omoh7TJeLYjnp0wW8_pAbsnmU30xg4VcMIS0sVTMskTqp1HmrZFopeYVsDbvRa2fxEMOtbfGJ6T3I90RdodJIm1L/s1600/crosswords-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Her mom planted flowers outside. Her sister baked 200 cupcakes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqjfvvo22OQWQN_GqBmAOrYqFdT5ksG9tuAnOYNXdpjn57KDCzLFL1bJFHmlmwDikqDbiBz1kqrAQpZxSUh6Dha9e43TR2oD59rLNl_6kOJUHSQcDob8sLEY2HTAxVr3RO6tk6o0WsIo8l/s1600/cupcakes-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqjfvvo22OQWQN_GqBmAOrYqFdT5ksG9tuAnOYNXdpjn57KDCzLFL1bJFHmlmwDikqDbiBz1kqrAQpZxSUh6Dha9e43TR2oD59rLNl_6kOJUHSQcDob8sLEY2HTAxVr3RO6tk6o0WsIo8l/s1600/cupcakes-400px.jpg" /></a><br /><br />My wife added timely suggestions. My eldest son used his problem-solving expertise to hang various adornments.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRp5FSPgFxhePlhb1VXOagjXNmdZMSFjUrrugwJTEwByp2QJ2RRB8h8zU1JazpEJl75W7rZLun_bdiQR7YifHU4JP65VKhlUeXONxZ6uzMgKSgf42cfLcKGgyBDZnPgr-hUQDUEopXf4-l/s1600/todd-putting-up-flowers-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRp5FSPgFxhePlhb1VXOagjXNmdZMSFjUrrugwJTEwByp2QJ2RRB8h8zU1JazpEJl75W7rZLun_bdiQR7YifHU4JP65VKhlUeXONxZ6uzMgKSgf42cfLcKGgyBDZnPgr-hUQDUEopXf4-l/s1600/todd-putting-up-flowers-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />I contributed my hand-lettering, first on direction signs.<br />
<br />
<span class="photo "><img alt="" class="photo_img img" src="https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xft1/v/t1.0-9/11390148_10206002371473578_6344529008478260381_n.jpg?oh=72e3766d9d5f78999d1a0149b9bd6887&oe=56341010" title="" /></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJks2TNGfGoFc4nU3Xiw2F8VeyBf9OWF29jOp0EENIZm79wXdHemoePkocIrWduRYIb17Oteb3MK-mt4sqFN0oq5nclHicZsO574lXyY6HKSwvxcdicAj2sSHkjEUNvjmmIEiMSIUWfnu-/s1600/instruction-board-narrow-500px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJks2TNGfGoFc4nU3Xiw2F8VeyBf9OWF29jOp0EENIZm79wXdHemoePkocIrWduRYIb17Oteb3MK-mt4sqFN0oq5nclHicZsO574lXyY6HKSwvxcdicAj2sSHkjEUNvjmmIEiMSIUWfnu-/s1600/instruction-board-narrow-500px.jpg" /></a> And then on the welcome chalkboard.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><b>I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me to realize that a wedding is a collaborative event.</b>
After all, two families, linked by a relationship, come together and
share their abilities and talents to create a memory – not just for the
happy couple but also for those who come to join them in celebrating.
It’s a communal experience, meant to give each person a story, which
they then take home and shape as they retell it.<br /><br />The collaboration, then, isn’t just in the <i>making</i>
of the event (or, for that matter, a piece of art). The co-creating
continues through the shaping of each person’s memory of what happened.
It’s <i>ongoing</i>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagnSnQpLfu5QKNpUgYEoa6GFu_osLn3jNI6g_vbnjd5H_EX5xe8NWbOCe6x7tuLdTgewpKcGDBNgSMCVZym3dzi1m-ARzWXFnObRB3tXCO-La681nCUuCo-Uh8v3KFzYI5HQuywU7KjXO/s1600/will-telling-story-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagnSnQpLfu5QKNpUgYEoa6GFu_osLn3jNI6g_vbnjd5H_EX5xe8NWbOCe6x7tuLdTgewpKcGDBNgSMCVZym3dzi1m-ARzWXFnObRB3tXCO-La681nCUuCo-Uh8v3KFzYI5HQuywU7KjXO/s1600/will-telling-story-600px.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><b>Just like a relationship.</b>
I’m so happy for my son and, now, daughter-in-law. They have a whole
life ahead of them to use the everyday materials of life to fashion
experiences – for them and for others – that can be framed and enjoyed
throughout the years ahead.<br /><br />Co-creating. It’s what a wedding – and a marriage -- is all about.<br />
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZ3cYmLFH32XDFrFUlsWvegusWSAIWJcNZBVSxItJd9Tu7_kU4W8BXmnpE9BGCE8C8FVVYMm2djtXDjE3ZJ9CjJ9YBhpYy6cBn2YkdNQ_xGv5OTXix6lOylrPYglzEbO-fl30HJIq1YnB/s1600/W%2526T-praying-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWZ3cYmLFH32XDFrFUlsWvegusWSAIWJcNZBVSxItJd9Tu7_kU4W8BXmnpE9BGCE8C8FVVYMm2djtXDjE3ZJ9CjJ9YBhpYy6cBn2YkdNQ_xGv5OTXix6lOylrPYglzEbO-fl30HJIq1YnB/s1600/W%2526T-praying-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<span class="photo "></span></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-9262595321918971942015-06-04T12:21:00.004-07:002015-06-04T12:22:46.677-07:00Benched Week 79: the deliberation of seeds<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSODm-CYbDyVAqS0BSBedh31oYLqNYkUxPxF4p0kDqpY8IVEu9uwM-UlkNKAuC0AT-QTdCSBVcDLbkYRKIfNo3eeCUBPLkaCWdliLKE6oBS4sHRpdB6fr7p4V97JQ8Iza8fGxRSJR82ID/s1600/pitcher-picture-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSODm-CYbDyVAqS0BSBedh31oYLqNYkUxPxF4p0kDqpY8IVEu9uwM-UlkNKAuC0AT-QTdCSBVcDLbkYRKIfNo3eeCUBPLkaCWdliLKE6oBS4sHRpdB6fr7p4V97JQ8Iza8fGxRSJR82ID/s1600/pitcher-picture-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I
had almost given up trying to find something interesting in my little
patch of Corporateland, USA – aka downtown Arlington, VA. Above the
park I chose, the looming buildings looked like giant Lego
constructions. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPHBrufoaSliNjODCheH63UaAy-G2JL03kCY5CAwMWlU8bVzWicor2civNLywfoFZQfSzWnmLWqHRyAwtr1AWXXZ3ywQPnmg79QjnhENmpmKNUSfsX6XLoV3Z5USI1QZfJhEWuEw_pXne/s1600/corporate-legoland-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPHBrufoaSliNjODCheH63UaAy-G2JL03kCY5CAwMWlU8bVzWicor2civNLywfoFZQfSzWnmLWqHRyAwtr1AWXXZ3ywQPnmg79QjnhENmpmKNUSfsX6XLoV3Z5USI1QZfJhEWuEw_pXne/s1600/corporate-legoland-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
There
were a few green spaces to choose from, nestled between the corporate
centers with their first-floor restaurants. One fountain glowed
dramatically down a shaded walkway.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNqi65uvkEc87C1ivVVBzVSRsidN9DVn661zHjhLF7eddWDzb-tQyKl4z6HlN59rEhQktstOfYb-S566GZwcd35zp0-1nDsP082kHLrhQloelNpVrsq_6dblnS3LfME9tBQQCb5-fgvSYg/s1600/blue-fountain-slice-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNqi65uvkEc87C1ivVVBzVSRsidN9DVn661zHjhLF7eddWDzb-tQyKl4z6HlN59rEhQktstOfYb-S566GZwcd35zp0-1nDsP082kHLrhQloelNpVrsq_6dblnS3LfME9tBQQCb5-fgvSYg/s1600/blue-fountain-slice-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
But it all seemed so cold and calculated. Pretty. But lifeless.<br />
<br />
Until I saw Mackenzie out of the corner of my eye.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dp5l7rbBZsBSz3AJ706GlBalKw9nJ9KR3t095TJF5NeoR2ZOAZltttR4Hy5dL-EZOePWj8fGlbJ5E4TlnVr76ygK0hWPqkeKmKNQUucjC3wHx6hQ7lTH7bY5cPDLgmcEsd980ZkZaO41/s1600/bench-row-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dp5l7rbBZsBSz3AJ706GlBalKw9nJ9KR3t095TJF5NeoR2ZOAZltttR4Hy5dL-EZOePWj8fGlbJ5E4TlnVr76ygK0hWPqkeKmKNQUucjC3wHx6hQ7lTH7bY5cPDLgmcEsd980ZkZaO41/s1600/bench-row-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
That’s
the name given to this little child, poised with a watering can over a
patch of dirt, presumably having just planted a seed. An inscription
nearby said, “There now, you can grow.” Mackenzie forever lingers in
wait over that spot, anticipating.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9GJ8426pY0lNhljJCyXLs3sHsj7pXSVStWrhzuA8v4TQOGoobTthXAidhZgXyeivn6_fQfVP_mBqI8fyKqygLDYMOUBX7VDGdQkFvnbf3JL-Do9xzXP90IarTuHmsOFS3xNOu8LQVXfh/s1600/garder-kid-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin9GJ8426pY0lNhljJCyXLs3sHsj7pXSVStWrhzuA8v4TQOGoobTthXAidhZgXyeivn6_fQfVP_mBqI8fyKqygLDYMOUBX7VDGdQkFvnbf3JL-Do9xzXP90IarTuHmsOFS3xNOu8LQVXfh/s1600/garder-kid-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I can relate.<br />
<br />
<b>Growth is a deliberate process.</b>
Frustratingly slow. Whether it’s a garden plant or an idea or a
child, growth demands patience in the waiting and diligence in the
working. We do our part to get the environment right to encourage
sprouting. But the progress has its deliberate pace. It’s hard to see
the incremental changes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgRlXf_SqsrwBt8TCJRUXoODuadAHVTTbjLP3tUqkKzXH7XOwoSUWdzx3MgEJK0YIuMa3oCidnQ_6-28p6xRApZWqiLdb0A2EXv_0hyphenhyphenXE_m7eD5XfFrnostx3OzhBDEQEcTgqBg4tmZDB/s1600/zucchini-flower-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdgRlXf_SqsrwBt8TCJRUXoODuadAHVTTbjLP3tUqkKzXH7XOwoSUWdzx3MgEJK0YIuMa3oCidnQ_6-28p6xRApZWqiLdb0A2EXv_0hyphenhyphenXE_m7eD5XfFrnostx3OzhBDEQEcTgqBg4tmZDB/s1600/zucchini-flower-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>But there’s pleasure in the unfolding. </b>I
know it’s pathetic to check my little vegetable garden out back twice a
day, but I can’t help myself. Knowing I won’t see much difference, I’m
comforted to know it’s changing, if ever so imperceptively. One day
these yellow blossoms will be replaced with zucchinis. Far too many
zucchinis. <br />
<br />
And when they come, time will play that shimmering
trick where it is, simultaneously, a blink of the eye and an eon. Too
fast and too slow.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JCice8SaCfb6STRwVSA6bIXP1yp5bskH5xAZG1FOoyu3ppWt-SiZUE75XPMxU-vjaVVLE1LRsZk-O_ekRshJXMEYdZdFQu71Z8hBJ75fPWTJi_fM1ijj6ZNEDRaPFBheuQQuBAkA6SQ8/s1600/will+with+mute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NwPXtwJ-VdH8jPniCFRY7naBTXzA7DzzxLo9W_nymUeL7S1eEgtnRrpEU5jPsa35VceCpfJQf1DwxG5s16gsUPmddM0bPdh0b9HCxYkqyFfwjwRvFlbOIKmnx8ERmQAYCpdhmK_XxZro/s1600/fountain-lens-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NwPXtwJ-VdH8jPniCFRY7naBTXzA7DzzxLo9W_nymUeL7S1eEgtnRrpEU5jPsa35VceCpfJQf1DwxG5s16gsUPmddM0bPdh0b9HCxYkqyFfwjwRvFlbOIKmnx8ERmQAYCpdhmK_XxZro/s1600/fountain-lens-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Thinking of this on my bench, a new sound grabbed my attention: the sound of a trumpeter, busking near the subway.<br />
<br />
<b>And it made me think of Will,</b>
our trumpet-playing son, who is to be married on Sunday. And though
I’m tempted to wonder where the time has gone, I know the answer: <i>into a long parade of moments.</i>
Some exhilarating. Some challenging. But all a part of the process
of becoming. All watched over with the preparation and patience that
parents know so well. As do artists. And gardeners. Ever checking the
conditions so as to say:<br />
<br />
<i>“There now, you can grow.”</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JCice8SaCfb6STRwVSA6bIXP1yp5bskH5xAZG1FOoyu3ppWt-SiZUE75XPMxU-vjaVVLE1LRsZk-O_ekRshJXMEYdZdFQu71Z8hBJ75fPWTJi_fM1ijj6ZNEDRaPFBheuQQuBAkA6SQ8/s1600/will+with+mute.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JCice8SaCfb6STRwVSA6bIXP1yp5bskH5xAZG1FOoyu3ppWt-SiZUE75XPMxU-vjaVVLE1LRsZk-O_ekRshJXMEYdZdFQu71Z8hBJ75fPWTJi_fM1ijj6ZNEDRaPFBheuQQuBAkA6SQ8/s640/will+with+mute.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-33756300619944957022015-05-25T17:15:00.002-07:002015-05-25T17:16:18.886-07:00Benched Week 78: master class<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a class="uiLinkSubtle" href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/bruce-van-patter/benched-week-78-master-class/10153275313392012"></a><span class="timelineUnitContainer"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbWqGH6cg4DKfm9CtA7EUy1rn_LYJjx2AfxrrI_klXP-_jIRhdd6VxChr3LiEJ01DRUCjg8qOCL-9etnQ8rh8KbaFcrZZjLbAAHvdo6EE3-yjGT7C76-DGCesVC85-GIyYNeT9vcitLyh/s1600/scott-macro-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbWqGH6cg4DKfm9CtA7EUy1rn_LYJjx2AfxrrI_klXP-_jIRhdd6VxChr3LiEJ01DRUCjg8qOCL-9etnQ8rh8KbaFcrZZjLbAAHvdo6EE3-yjGT7C76-DGCesVC85-GIyYNeT9vcitLyh/s1600/scott-macro-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
A
bluebird landed ten yards ahead, as my good friend, Scott, and I
emerged from the woods. I fumbled with my camera, eager to catch the
wonderful juxtaposition of the brilliant bird on a dark, weathered
sign. I checked the settings, raised the long lens, and… <br />
<br />
...it was gone.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t been ready.<br />
<br />
<b>But that’s why Scott and I had each set aside this day from our busy travel schedules:</b>
to help me learn from him how to take better nature shots. He’s an
internationally known nature writer and speaker. What is not as well
known is his keen understanding of photography. I had asked him to
give me a few tips. He was eager to help.<br />
<br />
The first lesson was
to better understand the combinations that went into taking a long, slow
capture of a waterfall to give the rapids a silky feel.<br />
<br />
<span class="photo "></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglw3KQgfFLvwV8sHQcnMRFwO0Y0S3GdR96OJ5f1WSkl-o1ih1z4HSdpCjF6tkGZLr8e9buZNm-SWXGXc9sZpYTlE40cuA7V08T3PjcycZcBD6AJImgl5i5n5cREnRDD7BpRRwHxT1s84ll/s1600/waterfall-upright-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglw3KQgfFLvwV8sHQcnMRFwO0Y0S3GdR96OJ5f1WSkl-o1ih1z4HSdpCjF6tkGZLr8e9buZNm-SWXGXc9sZpYTlE40cuA7V08T3PjcycZcBD6AJImgl5i5n5cREnRDD7BpRRwHxT1s84ll/s1600/waterfall-upright-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
On
the way back, I had missed a dramatic framing of a chipmunk perched in a
ray of light on gnarled tree roots eye level with the path. But it
caused me to notice this rather grumpy-looking fellow. Scott showed me
how to use the tripod and a timer to get a richly detailed shot of him.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjhf_0HNAyXrBUIF-jMbLfkI7byS94kAFCBu9HloClxZroQo8GbqBKf1IjVa45hG_T9zU0GcHpdVeRgspO8sEedIPXN2NjgMxr4jgwTkI-mR7rjY5E2TGpw6-Yf1IhS2RGyEXi0F_DnJwH/s1600/toad-hole-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjhf_0HNAyXrBUIF-jMbLfkI7byS94kAFCBu9HloClxZroQo8GbqBKf1IjVa45hG_T9zU0GcHpdVeRgspO8sEedIPXN2NjgMxr4jgwTkI-mR7rjY5E2TGpw6-Yf1IhS2RGyEXi0F_DnJwH/s1600/toad-hole-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
A little later, we came across this butterfly.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqx5fBtABm1bz_KXOA2Q-6a9qB8EtZWK-gwpvmpjVM9QkTJaG1wAP6Waw_MrP6OWz1SrEoEBI9ZAmJ3upISyVZMGDFoYYl0PsAMiJTpWdZZPs5VZphRIXr_6DyIudTb7URxdJmY98Wuff/s1600/butterfly-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqx5fBtABm1bz_KXOA2Q-6a9qB8EtZWK-gwpvmpjVM9QkTJaG1wAP6Waw_MrP6OWz1SrEoEBI9ZAmJ3upISyVZMGDFoYYl0PsAMiJTpWdZZPs5VZphRIXr_6DyIudTb7URxdJmY98Wuff/s1600/butterfly-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b><i>In this world of instant online tutorials, instruction is easy to find. </i></b>
But videos and web-guides are a pale comparison to a flesh-and-blood
instructor. Teachers have enthusiasm. And lessons fit more into a
broader context. For Scott, nature photography is more than configuring
f-stops and film speed. It’s about knowing the subject matter.<br />
<br />
Sensing
my disappointment over missing the bluebird, he said, “Let’s sit on
that bench. The signpost is most likely one of his territorial
perches. He’ll be back.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDT1iFkAY_tKi_RPBoMLMO0v2S0b7CxHcCDM689lxpp_5dWJsHGJLqfP_0lSjqx0AK_0ugBu4_CVkuSFuFtw4I5UfkZkqc-G4k96pxOwez2El0iGuSUBDQTTTUA49BC1TL-RznMjON8qg/s1600/lake-bench-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDT1iFkAY_tKi_RPBoMLMO0v2S0b7CxHcCDM689lxpp_5dWJsHGJLqfP_0lSjqx0AK_0ugBu4_CVkuSFuFtw4I5UfkZkqc-G4k96pxOwez2El0iGuSUBDQTTTUA49BC1TL-RznMjON8qg/s1600/lake-bench-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>And sure enough, a few minutes later, the bird returned. </b> I got my shot. And with it, I realized that a major reason why I enjoy photography is because it is another way to <i>co-create</i>.
Nature provides impromptu, unexpected opportunities, ready to be a part
of a new, creative work. But as Louis Pasteur said, "Chance favors a
prepared mind." Those opportunities test my preparedness and knowledge
and artist's eye. Even the bluebird seemed to turn to me with a
lecturing look that said, "You ready <i>now?"</i><br />
<br />
Of course, it's easier to be prepared for a test with the teacher at my side giving me the answers!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBm-NtAmOiz2uxytB0Lcpjsr137VGDgKktMZhalIyyXVZawC8JLpEW9fzTS4VHfw81aKLfVAfbcRPg0LpyBFOVrvCdwvUbVgWA7-SGgrncwFvcMoufIa5Lzn8tSbc7TZ8tDKaZoYEpMB4V/s1600/bluebird-scowling-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBm-NtAmOiz2uxytB0Lcpjsr137VGDgKktMZhalIyyXVZawC8JLpEW9fzTS4VHfw81aKLfVAfbcRPg0LpyBFOVrvCdwvUbVgWA7-SGgrncwFvcMoufIa5Lzn8tSbc7TZ8tDKaZoYEpMB4V/s1600/bluebird-scowling-600px.jpg" /></a></div>
Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8320992897956889588.post-80114679340076177682015-05-20T18:37:00.005-07:002015-05-20T18:43:35.043-07:00Benched Week 77: public faces<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYqHpIhkwp_80CzIOS46jVh2FEBPVvk7DhyphenhyphenvPiPOAJMypwl2RjcnoyFbYm7T5-0FvAoJbULUdlMt1S_RUg5uh-Au6qAEixoPUX_LbNMtcyk0ixkywt0dhUbiiL7cwiaFU-R75-5X0M4l4/s1600/a-pealing-detail-400px.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYqHpIhkwp_80CzIOS46jVh2FEBPVvk7DhyphenhyphenvPiPOAJMypwl2RjcnoyFbYm7T5-0FvAoJbULUdlMt1S_RUg5uh-Au6qAEixoPUX_LbNMtcyk0ixkywt0dhUbiiL7cwiaFU-R75-5X0M4l4/s1600/a-pealing-detail-400px.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
Do
you think you can read a person by his or her face? And conversely, do
you think the face you present to the world accurately depicts you?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbcz165R1_ZsULJCyIhK9LcALMOMeWCXZZCXG1McgbAqBI7xP8QsvG-hCz58_F6Agqf8-d0PtqEnTyWH8E6i3DfQPT4SA9uWG3H9n-v4UZa9rEBX_mBtxU3-Btl6jafiSdGUvebht1jIs/s1600/thinkier-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbcz165R1_ZsULJCyIhK9LcALMOMeWCXZZCXG1McgbAqBI7xP8QsvG-hCz58_F6Agqf8-d0PtqEnTyWH8E6i3DfQPT4SA9uWG3H9n-v4UZa9rEBX_mBtxU3-Btl6jafiSdGUvebht1jIs/s1600/thinkier-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I
mulled these over this week as I roamed around the Detroit Institute of
Arts. My original intent was to build on last week’s post and find
something that represented “secret spaces.” But though I found some
interesting paintings, none seemed to quite fit.<br />
<br />
Then, in my wanderings, I noticed the grand hall decorated for a reception.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6y15Vc-FFivdRS4bPAS0s1-t-iyFXVvjMpsjFfsG8VVQOsPrig6SBk1tAhQI53RL-bWA-2Jxe4OWJRABbr0NWT9Sok8d_965F1jU61I2A_1Z2o9gAY6VX8dVEz2A50q42_3r8xSVBfXC9/s1600/banquet-hall-600px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6y15Vc-FFivdRS4bPAS0s1-t-iyFXVvjMpsjFfsG8VVQOsPrig6SBk1tAhQI53RL-bWA-2Jxe4OWJRABbr0NWT9Sok8d_965F1jU61I2A_1Z2o9gAY6VX8dVEz2A50q42_3r8xSVBfXC9/s1600/banquet-hall-600px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Not long after that, I saw the reason: a bride and her entourage.<br />
<br />
<span class="photo "></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6SoqbL_qcmS95R7vecAYPAxEv8TXwjuCfxxRsY2tnjAjXqRY7SxNEhd8ycEaqCn-xpPCeOb0_KdxREOgR1guszo12_jeSrx_zgz5eugnztaoAVhPcgLIe1hY_Ly0jcUMt5hKJtfhPiBN/s1600/museum-bride-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6SoqbL_qcmS95R7vecAYPAxEv8TXwjuCfxxRsY2tnjAjXqRY7SxNEhd8ycEaqCn-xpPCeOb0_KdxREOgR1guszo12_jeSrx_zgz5eugnztaoAVhPcgLIe1hY_Ly0jcUMt5hKJtfhPiBN/s1600/museum-bride-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<b><i>I wondered what possesses a person to put herself on display in such a public way.</i></b>
It’s one thing to be surrounded by friends and relatives; it’s entirely
another to be intentionally engulfed by hundreds of gawking tourists.
(Not to mention sly amateur photographers.)<br />
<br />
<span class="photo "></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nw8lJJTOvFmCA518INe_yi-41pi6pOY_VdaiXuGUv7AfMpzqE3LM-_IxFpFHK35lyJmB3MjI6N8sZ68v55FAIxAxp95vouCXN9nHNFMk6GSSLi7gbqoJJ0E6cFkt3VDa-2rzeqLCR9pu/s1600/stained-glass-bench-500px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nw8lJJTOvFmCA518INe_yi-41pi6pOY_VdaiXuGUv7AfMpzqE3LM-_IxFpFHK35lyJmB3MjI6N8sZ68v55FAIxAxp95vouCXN9nHNFMk6GSSLi7gbqoJJ0E6cFkt3VDa-2rzeqLCR9pu/s1600/stained-glass-bench-500px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
But
as I sat on a bench and reflected on the art around me, I realized that
artists have always been doing that: putting themselves on display.
And nowhere is that more evident than in self-portraits. The museum had
a number of them. Some I recognized.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho16LclxhiJxmuB-QpISA4xCCGgPktQqTpTG9i9MJTwlBxHTwraTgM3v0X5ciRsl0ZFyM0BaKR60TzTmdH93ytjEuvrpaQdxfM5sOUcf49dKy0CWoZNBdbMLQBzUbsIlNqpGc18Ucr1TT5/s1600/van-gogh-selfie-400px.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho16LclxhiJxmuB-QpISA4xCCGgPktQqTpTG9i9MJTwlBxHTwraTgM3v0X5ciRsl0ZFyM0BaKR60TzTmdH93ytjEuvrpaQdxfM5sOUcf49dKy0CWoZNBdbMLQBzUbsIlNqpGc18Ucr1TT5/s1600/van-gogh-selfie-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
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<span class="photo "></span><br />
<span class="photo "><img alt="" class="photo_img img" src="https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xft1/v/t1.0-9/11102610_10205820805014530_5553248396441929117_n.jpg?oh=d45e3797fb6b9121b7feba401f4070f4&oe=55C295D0" title="" /></span><br />
<br />
Some I didn’t. But were impressed with all the same.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-Lu0RCj-TwRakTq85Pado0f5DReTmXa1KZoqUwVApUTALHIuPflwSOzF8LWoejEaXEr7qAlJhK5y_j-eoBtIESohPbCsE4nn35NokrbD6oHQFNC0diR9K9FL1Vd1wwzRT0sT6bK-YuXZ/s1600/a-pealing-portrait-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy-Lu0RCj-TwRakTq85Pado0f5DReTmXa1KZoqUwVApUTALHIuPflwSOzF8LWoejEaXEr7qAlJhK5y_j-eoBtIESohPbCsE4nn35NokrbD6oHQFNC0diR9K9FL1Vd1wwzRT0sT6bK-YuXZ/s1600/a-pealing-portrait-400px.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JkHcyCvwyXLbqtml8UwVIpxKe8QBac2goxvGdRR2ikuoelr-etdh4r1wlYS4hCvxzyKP4TMkpb1qjZWdRErE0XxFuoeHGPVropdRyAwb2r1LZRkzEg7HZGT6TnCMAnwRVGpksvx5rhbx/s1600/beechy-selfie-400px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JkHcyCvwyXLbqtml8UwVIpxKe8QBac2goxvGdRR2ikuoelr-etdh4r1wlYS4hCvxzyKP4TMkpb1qjZWdRErE0XxFuoeHGPVropdRyAwb2r1LZRkzEg7HZGT6TnCMAnwRVGpksvx5rhbx/s1600/beechy-selfie-400px.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
There’s
something bold and revealing – and vulnerable -- about putting one’s
face in a painting. A self-portrait invites strangers to come up and
engage, to decide for themselves what kind of a person this painter
seems to be.<br />
<br />
<b><i>It’s ironic that in my life, I’ve turned my back on audiences.</i></b> Literally. <i>Pay no attention to the man in front of the curtain</i>
– that interplay of words and pictures I weave. I’ve become the man of
a thousand typefaces. Or of at least a half-dozen. But I’m convinced
that anything we create as humans speaks about our true selves – whether
it’s the paintings we make or the words we write. The clothes we
select. Our gardens. Our houses. The mugs we drink out of. The mugs
we look out of.<br />
<br />
My deep desire it to make all these things in my life speak to who I am. Or better yet, the person I’m becoming.<br />
<br />
And put that best face forward.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FRcAOxa1mDwBytxnk1ZrU62hJSNicMpY8sKdsdSVfUZsjFLYs3otoIa_OUzNVUmkZTeMc_WLcJ73NuIzD6Zvu05Fj15Ms5H6urBwqeSz2pMKD_DweIGDXgSbWBaZz3FyBkfN_A6r8GG5/s1600/rembrandt-christ-300px.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FRcAOxa1mDwBytxnk1ZrU62hJSNicMpY8sKdsdSVfUZsjFLYs3otoIa_OUzNVUmkZTeMc_WLcJ73NuIzD6Zvu05Fj15Ms5H6urBwqeSz2pMKD_DweIGDXgSbWBaZz3FyBkfN_A6r8GG5/s1600/rembrandt-christ-300px.jpg" /></a><br />
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Bruce Van Patterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05279652936320171997noreply@blogger.com0