Archives For reflection

Grain of Sand

Mary Liz Ingram —  September 16, 2014 — 1 Comment

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

-William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

Magical evening, original photography


If you follow my blog, you may have noticed it’s been awhile since my last post. I’ve taken a few steps back to regroup, to build my garden, to reflect, absorb and let peace grow and guide. This time of retreat ended with a magical week with my family at Grayton Beach. I took this picture on the evening we arrived, and was blown away by the beauty of our world.

We played and read, built sand castles and dug holes, swam and walked and enjoyed every second, living in the moment.

I doodled every day and recorded my thoughts in words and art:

“A week at the beach, life relaxed.

Cotton candy clouds on early mornings, we beat the sun.

Thunderstorms in surround sound, we watch from the porch, candles flicker as clouds flash.

Feet in the blinding sand, we become one with the sun, warmly wrapping us and renewing our souls.

Splashed by aqua waves, we wade deeper into the mystery of the sea, finding new things and taking in life.

Rejuvenation. Perspective. Enjoyment. Refreshing retreat as the world swirls vividly around us.”


What’s the point?

Mary Liz Ingram —  April 28, 2013 — 3 Comments

“Ah, ignore me. I’ve got a touch of existential flu”  –Inspector Lewis, “Soul of Genius”

Every now and then I have a bout of artists angst.

The Point, original photographyMy creations seem worthless, foolish, juvenile attempts. I ponder questions of the meaning of life, of my daily doings. I wonder internally and externally “What’s the point of it all?”

After purposed distraction away from my “existential flu,” I am able to reflect upon firmer footing. I hear quiet, in-progress answers.

The point of art, of “platform-building,” of more Twitter followers, more Facebook likes, more blog subscribers, art shows…well, of everything really…the point of it all is to share.

At least to me, at least today.

Sometimes our efforts are directed toward success: fame and fortune. Probably not gonna happen. I honestly can’t name a single “famous” living artist. I can name successful, well-known local artists, or respected artists in this particular group or that. But an overarchingly world-famous modern day artist? Not your household name.

Hoping for posthumous fame? It could happen…but why strive only for such a slim, seriously almost impossibly slim, chance? Not my goal… (I mean, hey, if I turn out to be amazing and take the world of art by storm, and am remembered throughout future history, I won’t complain).

Fortune? I sell art  in a satisfying amount, at what I hope are reasonable, accessible prices… Not seeking my fortune.  (yes, I have a day job, as most artists do…)

At this point in my life, the point of my strivings are to collect and share.

To collect pieces of beauty, depth, purpose; to evoke memories, some form ofgoodness, to encourage reflection and change, to share truths small and large as I find them.

It may sound mushy; “sentimental hogwash,” if you will. But I think it is a worthy endeavor.

I think this “point of it all” can be applied everywhere in life. To share what we can with our fellow beings. To share support with those who need it, to foster environments of safety & respite where it is lacking. To share peace & beauty when things seem dim, to share some sort of goodness in a world that holds on to much pain. To share a presence and an understanding that life is not easy, and you are not alone.

“We’re all in this thing together
Walkin’ the line between faith and fear
This life don’t last forever
When you cry I taste the salt in your tears”
-Old Crow Medicine Show

Little Feathers

Little Feathers, photograph

The sunlight glistened through the fringed canopy of Spanish moss, draped lazily over the gnarled and reaching branches of the ancient live oaks. The oaks stood a strong and timeless watch over the calm waters of the marsh and the piles of oyster shells littered among the stones and grasses of the shore. The cool autumn air hung gently in silence, bathing the walk in a fresh, friendly calm, and the little boy trotted along behind the red wagon, tasseled shirt hanging low, with bright feathers giving him distinction amongst the gold and mossy hues.

(my reflections as we spent a calm, beautiful Thanksgiving in Savannah, Georgia.)

Little Feathers