Texture surrounds us. I don’t like the scratchy tags of my soft fleece sweater. Some foods have the wrong texture on our tongue--like okra. And some have the right texture--like ice cream. 

In painting the painter is constantly challenged to show texture. It is truly a vital sense. Most people are very tactile. Watch mothers with babies, shoppers in the produce section, children with kittens, men with guns. Well, you get the picture.

I walked around Confluence Park searching for texture examples. My senses were bombarded. Canada geese trampled the sky. Snow geese rattled above my head. Nuthatches, mountain blue birds, sparrows trilled at many decibels. Thickets of branches encased me, marbled trunks of trees surrounded me. Leaves below and clouds above created a cacophony of texture. The wires on the hanging bridge were rough on my hands, snagging my new made-for-iphone texting gloves. Even the squirrel in the branches gave some softness to the scene. Some of the texture samples are below. I saw, felt, heard and tasted the day, a little bitey, a lot awake. I even ate an apple to even out the senses, and only thought of the taste of bark and little Russian olives. 

Childhood has its textures, too. Long slow  days filled with idle oat grass tumblings, random cat tail explosions, flights of fantastic weavings of dreams and wishes. Stormy keeps picking her way through past and pleasure, forming a tapestry both nostalgic and tightly woven.