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Peace in the Valley
Peace in the Valley
This painting was created with a prayer for peace in the valleys of life. As I worked so much peace washed over me. I was reminded that though there are rocks along the way there is a gentle force flowing, moving around any obstacles. There is movement and in that gentle movement, there is comfort.
May you find peace in any valleys you are currently navigating. May remember to look at the delicate flowers along the edge of your path. May you trust in the flow carrying you along.
Original available for purchase! Contact artist for details.
78" x 48" (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry (Acrylic on Canvas)
Prints (and products) available here: https://society6.com/product/peace-in-the-valley837532_print#s6-7833589p4a1v45
Facing Sacred Moments
I saw a woman stand at her daughter's memorial service, with grace and gratitude, honesty and vulnerability. She spoke hope into the face of great darkness. She heroically faced a sacred moment in her life (rather than hiding, numbing, denying).
And yet I also honor what is not seen. The smaller moments. The unobserved moments. Waking up repeatedly with the loss of a loved one. Looking into the dark abyss of your heartache and choosing to keep walking.
In our society we celebrate specific things. We celebrate grad school and running long distances, but do we celebrate the quiet, hidden, moments of courage? Do we honor the daily heroism present behind closed doors and locked in hearts?
Being alive is heroic. Being alive and willing to face sacred moments is a gift to everyone around you.
I created these irises inspired by this woman, in memory of her daughter. Honoring her journey. Honoring her daughters journey. I think of irises, at least the varieties that grow near me, they are humble in the way the plant grows. They spread easily. They are hardy. And yet. Once they flower you realize the royalty, the exquisite beauty present right there. That is what this painting honors. It honors the blow your mind beauty present in ordinary life. That beauty feels destroyed when a loved one dies. And that beauty is restored as we learn to see it all around us. The courage to face life after such tremendous loss is like that gorgeous purple iris opening. It comes in ordinary/modest way, and yet its impact is extraordinary.
(left to right)
"Facing Sacred Moments I" 30" x 30" (SOLD)
"Facing Sacred Moments II" 30" x 30" (AVAILABLE)
"Facing Sacred Moments III" 30" x 30" (SOLD)
Remember the Presence of Love.
This morning tears were dropping down my cheeks as I painted. I don't know if it was compassion fatigue. Overwhelm about people suffering from destruction of hurricanes. The despair of racism and the current presidency. Maybe it is the sadness over the new cancer diagnosis of a friend's son and the courage needed for that battle. The very prayers I am holding at this canvas, "open to new life" "accepting uncertainty" and "peace in between", touch me personally. Being alive is so courageous. Battling for your life is courageous. Letting go is courageous. Tears fall for my brother in law who died suddenly just 10 months ago.
I sit and look at these magnolias. They are as delicate and elegant as a flower could be. Even in this incomplete stage, there is a calm and comfort that comes off of them.
And I'm reminded. Reminded that in the face of life's hardest battles, the darkest grief and deepest pain, beauty can help resuscitate us, and remind us of what is really true. If there is anything I know for sure, that this last year has taught me, it is that love keeps going.
Love is the wind in the leaves. Love is the friend helping you through a hard time. Love is speaking truth, taking a knee. Love is holding your hand during a nightmare you can't wake from. Love is present with you in the emptiness. Love is calling to you through the noise. When I am still enough, a stillness that comes to me with brushstrokes, I remember this presence of love.
#workinprogress
It's Not About the Hustle
“Time at the canvas is my commitment to myself to be still. To remember the love that is available and flows in to each one of us.”
It's not about the hustle. Art is prayer. Not another todo item. Don't get confused, friends.
I have been nearing confusion myself. I find myself in a storm of hustle. So many errands, outings, activities, and also the ordinary every day meals and cleaning, the list goes on and I know your list is longer than mine.
Yesterday someone looked at me in disbelief. "How do you do it all?" She said. And I stopped. I wanted her (and you) to know, painting for me is not another thing I get done. For me fitting painting into my life is about slowing down. It is about making space. It is resting. It is restoration.
As the Bahai' tradition says, my art is my prayer. Every moment at the canvas is as worshipful as a moment in meditation, as soul restoring as standing on a mountain top, as contemplative as a moment in a pew. My time at the canvas is my commitment to myself to be still. To remember the love that is available and flows in to each one of us. As I move the paint, following the edge of a flower, looking into the shadows of trees and leaves, I fall in love. Again and again. I fall in love with being alive. I fall in love with nature. I fall in love with God. I remember that even though life is terrifying, and the list of fears are long, this moment is enough and I am here. Breathing.
Don't get confused and think that I or another am doing a lot and you have to get busy and try to do more. It is about doing less. it is about making sabbath practice, prayer, stillness, quiet a priority. It is about carving out time, making it a priority, and slowing down.
Sometimes it does look like (or feel like) a hustle to make the time. But I want to remind you (and me): don't get confused. The only point is to be present. There is no other place to hurry and get to other than this very moment.
https://www.facebook.com/BronwenMayerHenry/videos/1401854329928629/
Unexpected Commissions
Sometimes commissions come at the most unexpected times. I love moments in life that remind me how connected we are to each other.
Six months ago I was in Florida with my family. While watching the kids swim, I sat on the edge of the hot tub, and met a friendly couple from New York. We only interacted a few moments before I was called back to the pool with my kids. And in that brief interaction I mentioned how I'm a painter and how I got into painting along an unexpected path with Thyroid Cancer. They seemed very interested and asked my name (remembering that is an achievement in itself). A few weeks later I was delighted to receive an email from the couple and their interest in commissioning a painting. It turns out the woman had also navigated Thyroid Cancer recently and our stories were connected.
When we connected on the phone, I was reminded of how each of our stories hold common themes. The grounding in gratitude. The sense of vulnerability.
I ended up creating these Hydrangeas for her. (I often work in a series for commissions giving the collector a choice. She chose the middle one.) And I named this series "Courage to Surrender" I found myself reflecting on the courage to surrender to pain, and the courage to surrender to joy. The courage to surrender to our failures and the courage to surrender to our path and purpose.
Left to Right:
"Courage to Surrender I " 24" x 36" Available
"Courage to Surrender II " 24" x 36" SOLD
"Courage to Surrender III " 24" x 36" Available
(c) Bronwen Mayer Henry (Acrylic on Canvas)
Shipping Options Available. Contact Artist for Details.
Do things have to make sense to do them?
Do things have to make sense to do them?
I'm not sure. I recently built this large canvas (78" x 48"). And decided that I would do my first attempt at water/creek. I was a bit nervous to get started. And that is the point. Leaving my comfort zone. On one level it doesn't make sense to build my largest canvas to date and attempt new subject matter all at once. But I've learned that it doesn't have to always make sense. I still have a lot of work to do on this painting. I've been reflecting on the flow of providence in my life. How even with many rocks and barriers there, I'm being carried along. And I believe you are too.
#workinprogress
***
As I paint, I also have in my awareness the many people impacted by the destructive forces of flooding from Harvey and the many people anticipating Hurricane Irma. Holding space that even in the face of such chaos, the care and support of community can help them hold on to confidence in love working in it all.
Delivery Day
Delivery day! Driving this painting "Stronger Together" to its new joyful family friendly home.
How to Make an Imperfect Offering
How to Make an Imperfect Offering
This week I've had a few chances to get to the canvas. I've started this new hydrangea series. And all the while I've had this aching feeling. Aching and disbelief at the terror and racism that persists in my country. I have felt uncertainty about how to do anything about it. And doubt that painting may be the most irrelevant (and privileged) thing I could possibly do.
And then I realized something. That at the canvas. For the past four years. I've been learning how to make an imperfect offering. How to show up. With my whole heart. Do my very best. And celebrate that.
And I think whether it is at the canvas or speaking out against hatred and racism we need to show up. And make an imperfect offering. Do our very best. Use all the creativity, skill, love, wisdom we have in us. And that as a result there will be a healing and possibility present in us and around us that wasn't there before.
Blank Canvas As My Teacher
Last weekend I gave a talk at a local church. I shared three ideas to keep in mind when you approach a blank canvas. I shared a story of how my experience at the canvas has helped me in my life.
Not shown is how right before I went on stage to share a few prepared reflections the band sang this gorgeous song. I was feeling choked up. And suddenly my feet were heavy and I thought how I'd rather be at the canvas than public speaking. And yet, I went for it anyway. Trusting (and hoping and praying) that sharing this reflection might be useful to others.
You are part of something beautiful.
I'm walking on the beach with my daughter and niece, collecting shells. As the girls delight over intact shells, I'm drawn to the broken ones. There is so much to love about the variety of the broken ones, just the way they are. I hold one in my hand getting to know its sharp points and smooth edges while I keep searching. After recognizing the pattern of how I am in fact seeking out flawed shells, I hold a piece of a whelk and silently acknowledge: "You are part of something beautiful." Hoping this message will sink into my own heart as well.
The sea oats stand by and witness my morning beach reflections. I pause, with the ocean at my back, looking out at the sea oats. I want to capture this moment. I want my art to hold space for the beauty of imperfection.
This accepting attitude is one which continues to breathe energy, courage, trust, freedom and movement into my work. No part of me says, "I will perfectly capture this." or "I know exactly how this will turn out."
My intention in my creativity is to embrace the imperfection and beauty of life. By doing this, repeatedly, I find so much joy. What I hope for you is that you will hold all of the imperfect parts of yourself with compassion and know that you are also part of something beautiful.
Witnessing Beauty I, II, III, IV 24" x 24" , 24" x 24", 24" x24", 24" x24: (Series available to purchase, For sale individually or as a series, contact artist for details.)
Calm a Weary
These peonies can calm a weary soul.
(I know this is true, for they calmed my own.)
They are a source of rest and energy at the same time.
(How can this be? I don't know. Decide for yourself.)
You might wonder,
"Is there more color there than I thought?"
You look deeper, and ponder,
"How is it I can feel calm and a sense of possibility at the same time?"
There is a burst of color that can't be held back.
(This canvas dances, like that penguin in Happy Feet.)
Doing its own thing.
Moving to its own rhythm.
There is gentleness right there with the boldness.
Undemanding. Still the color bursts forth.
Brighter than you first thought.
Dancing without hesitation.
These peonies didn't open because of pressure or policy.
They didn't reveal their beauty after intensive research.
They bloomed when they were ready and with abandon.
They were made to bloom. (And so are you.)
***
Left to right:
"Made to Bloom" (48" x 36") (Acrylic on Canvas)
(c) Bronwen Mayer Henry SOLD
"Calm the Weary" (48" x 36") (Acrylic on Canvas)
(c) Bronwen Mayer Henry
(These paintings are available for purchase. Shipping options and payment plans available. Please contact me directly for details.)
Only Love
What does it look like to invite gentleness in? What does it look like to open to being as kind as possible with yourself? What does it look like to offer a prayer to the Divine nurturing force you long for? For me, this week, this is how it looks.
I created this piece, just because my heart wanted to. Double late tulips are a new favorite of mine. They feel like a sibling to peonies, my most beloved. Painting white flowers is a joy because every spark of color feels like a surprise and a gift.
This painting is a prayer for each of us softening and opening to love.
"Only love, with no thought of return can soften the point of suffering." Mark Nepo
"Only Love" 70" x 38" (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry SOLD
What Selling 100 Paintings Has Taught Me
Today I'm bursting with gratitude. I am celebrating a tremendous milestone of selling 100 paintings, and I'm stunned by the love and joy that has poured into my life along the way. Four years ago I was in the middle of treating Thyroid Cancer, I didn't have a daily creative practice, and I was quite anxious about the impact of this illness on my life.
If you had told me four years ago that I'd be painting daily and have the chance to share my art with so many amazing people, I'm not sure I could believe you. And yet, here I am.
Stepping into a daily practice of compassion for myself and others through painting has taught me the beauty that is possible in life. That the hard things that befall us may have un-transformable physical consequences and yet the spirit has every possibility to open, grow, heal, and awaken to love.
Based on this tremendous opening in my life, and marking this milestone, this is the message I want to share with you, especially if you are going through challenges and can't imagine transformation ahead:
Dear friend in your darkest hour,
Here with you friend. You aren't alone. It hurts. A lot. You are sad. Afraid. Lonely. Unsure. Part of you wants to talk and part of you can't find words.
What I'm going to tell you is going to be hard to believe. it might even feel confrontational. It may very well be too soon for you to fully hear it. And I'm telling you anyway.
This moment right here. It is dark. And this darkness may feel like the end. It might feel like despair. And in many ways it is. And the story isn't over friend.
Stay the course. Take a bath. Talk to a friend. Sit quietly with a cup of tea. Keep going. Do your best. Show up. Cry. Shout. Dance. Move. Be Still. Breathe. Think less. Expand your awareness to others suffering with you. And also contract your awareness down to the inhale, the exhale, the space in between. Be gentle, always gentle with yourself.
Your story is still unfolding in ways you can't prepare for and in ways more beautiful (yes, beautiful) than you can imagine. This diagnosis does not define you. And yet this moment, your response to it, this is shaping you. It is helping you to access something within you, something in the community around you, that you didn't realize was there all along.
You will find a new level of compassion that will change you and change your life. You will crack open in a way that will refuse to be ignored again. You will be able to understand and be present with others suffering more fully. Your heartache is because your heart is opening. Trust it. Know that it won't be your last heartache, and yet you will remember this one, this first big opening. And one day, you will be counting this moment in your blessings. And you will be sharing a message of hope with others.
"What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb." Valarie Kaur
***
Postscript: To my surprise and delight my 100th original sold has found its new home with a hero of mine, Dr. Dan Gottlieb . And today before delivering this painting I opened up my sketchbook to write a note to Dr. Dan describing my inspiration and reflections in the development of this painting. And to my astonishment I found that Dan's very words were part of the inspiration of this painting. I had created it inspired by his words, not knowing it would end up in his home.
If I could sum up my learning from these 100 paintings
it would be that there is stunning love and joy available to us if we can breathe and be present and courageous enough to accept it.
"We cannot survive without hope. But sometimes hope can keep us stuck waiting or wishing for something to change before we can find well-being. Hopelessness can help us release our grasp on unwinnable battles opening the door to living the lives we have with gratitude."
Painting pictured: "Release Our Grasp" 48" x 48" (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry
Open to Freedom
You can see the canvas. Here I also speak to what you can't see. (or read the description below): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NIcA6IXRfFs
I've been working on this yellow rose for a few days now. And I love how unexpected the color is. I haven't painted a yellow rose before, and there is a level of concentration and freedom that happens for me at the canvas of a new experience. I don't know what will happen. I'm witnessing it as much as anyone else.
More than the subject of the canvas, I'm interested in the experience of the heart in the creative process. A heart free from the burden of thought, fear, worry. Fully present.
I am so thankful that I've developed some muscle in unlocking the barriers that held me back. I continue to smile at my former self who would think "I can't paint. Others are better." I can hardly believe that I permitted those thoughts to hold me back from feeling the peace and joy I do at the canvas today.
Maybe all this canvas talk is too distracting for you. Let me illustrate it in another way. Imagine walking along the beach. The air is warm and full, the waves of the ocean are calming. The sand is grounding and reminds you to be playful, interactive, fully present. And you feel so peaceful.
This is how I feel at the canvas.
Can you imagine NOT walking on the beach because someone else was walking? Or someone else walked better or faster? Or looked better while walking?
I hope we can all see this thread of thought as ludicrous. And yet at the canvas, at the piano, at the microphone, at the race we sometimes hold ourselves back. We focus on other people and what they think or how we compare to them. Rather than focusing on the joy that unfolds when we paint, practice our instrument, sing at an open mic, or run in a race.
This painting offered me a reminder of the familiar and transformative message. When I show up to my restorative practice something unexpected happens on the outside, and something beautiful--and if I'm still enough to remember it familiar--happens in my heart. A comfort, a freedom, an opening.
A Prayer for When We Feel Stuck
Dear God of possibility, God of presence, God of joy,
Thank you for this chance to be alive. To inhabit this body and this life. God, you know how we walk through the mud, you know that terrible voice in our heads that holds us back, you know our fear of failure, you know our hesitation. God help us to be gentle with that part of us. To acknowledge it. And to step into freedom from it. God of open spaces, God of wind, God of hope, God of freedom and movement and dance and laughter and music and joy. May we step into our freedom, may we step into spaces where we can remember our connection with you, our sense of belonging in our lives, our sense of freedom and possibility. God, may we remember how you are walking with us, guiding us through the barriers, opening the doors, inviting us into more freedom and joy than we thought possible. Amen.
"Open to Freedom" 36" x 36" (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry (Acrylic on Canvas) [Available for Sale-Contact artist for details]
Finding Courage
The other day I put on mascara and thought "This is an act of faith. An act of courage." The chances it would stay put and not be washed away by tears were slim. And yet I carried on. Carrying on. That is what we do. This poem (below) came to me recently in the morning hours. Honoring the courageous people in my life. Some navigating the loss of a loved one. One saying goodbye to a pregnancy. One facing the end of their life. And so many others paths. I hold hope for each of us, for courage to hold on, to carry on, and to let go as needed.
This painting is a small act of courage. A return to the daily rhythms and life after a devastating loss. Even the simple movements of the brush were grounding for me. The willingness to show up to offer an ounce of beauty in a world filled with suffering. Be gentle with your courageous self. And keep going.
*****
"Everything Feels Courageous to Me"
Poem by Bronwen Mayer Henry
Everything feels courageous to me.
It is courageous to live.
it is courageous to die.
It is courageous to give love.
It is courageous to accept love.
It is courageous to say goodbye.
It is courageous to keep going when you didn't get a chance to say goodbye.
It is courageous to show our joy.
It is courageous to show our pain.
Everything feels courageous to me.
It is courageous to plant a garden and think you'll see it bloom.
it is courageous to buy green bananas. (An octogenarian once said that to me.)
It is courageous to invest in a dream.
it is courageous to sell. To let that dream go.
It is courageous to get pregnant.
it is courageous to accept a lost pregnancy.
It is courageous to walk a new path.
It is courageous to walk an old path again.
Everything feels courageous to me.
It is courageous to speak up.
It is courageous to keep quiet.
It is courageous to dance, run, move.
it is courageous to be still.
it is courageous to get medical interventions.
It is courageous to remove medical interventions.
It is courageous to breathe in.
it is courageous to breathe out.
Everything feels courageous to me.
*****
“Courage is only possible in community. When you find yourself afraid and you don’t know if you can survive it: Close your eyes and breathe and remember the one who loves you. Love will make you brave.” Valarie Kaur
Painting: "Love Makes You Brave" 48" w x 36" h (Acrylic on Canvas) (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry (SOLD)
The Story of a Gingko Commission
Gingko Reflections
There is a deep longing in each of us for our love to continue. A longing that our love might be felt beyond the constraints of distance physical or otherwise.
Life is complicated. The gingko is a reminder of the unity opposites. Gingkoes are bearers of hope and symbols of love and longevity.
As I created this painting I held the practical request for a fall gingko tree, with the suggested idea that one leaf look like a butterfly (a shout out to the thyroid). And I held in my heart prayers for courage to embrace change, to step into new beginnings with a sense of hope and possibility. I held space for being gentle with sorrow and heartache.
As this painting arrived each leaf was filled with movement, each leaf reminding me of a butterfly. There wasn't one leaf that was going to look like a butterfly, but a sense that each leaf could take flight. Each one holding energy and movement and possibility. I found myself reflecting on the winter Gingko, when the leaves have fallen. This swarm of butterflies taking flight. And yet there is something about a butterfly that never departs.
And instead of focusing on loss. I found myself focusing on transformation. The butterfly is the ultimate reminder of transformation.
It is the same with the leaves falling. They aren't leaving. They are transformed, nurturing the root of the tree.
I see this whole tree holding space for transformation. For new beginnings. For hope in the darkest of times. There is a sense of the rootedness, the foundation, the "I'll always be with you" (the eternal love) in the trunk. So strong and stable and steady. And the leaves are alive and dancing and moving and beautiful.
It is the same with our love. Though physical distance may grow our love isn't lost, it takes flight.
***
Creating these gingko trees was a total honor. 15 people got together to give this painting as a gift to their friend going through a health crisis and a move. The recipient is a fellow thyroid cancer warrior that I haven't met personally, yet through the creation of this piece I have gotten to know her and care for her deeply.
Though I do not long for anyone to face health challenges, this opportunity to get to be part of offering care, comfort, joy and breath is such a massive honor. This is exactly at the heart of what I want to be doing with my life. I'm so grateful.
****
"Love Transformed" 38"w x 28" h (Acrylic on Canvas) (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry SOLD
Prints and products available: https://society6.com/product/love-transformed_print…
SOLO SHOW at BEWell Bakery and Cafe in Huntingdon Valley, PA
I currently have 12 pieces on display at BeWell Bakery and Cafe in Huntingdon Valley. This is a precious coffee shop. Stop by for lunch, dinner, or a sweet treat. I had my first show ever at BeWell and I appreciate how they continue to welcome me and help share my art.
(BeWell Bakery and Cafe | 2651 Huntingdon Pike, Huntingdon Valley, PA 19006 | www.bewellbakery.com)
Taking My Distress to the Canvas
I began this canvas irritated. I don't know why. I couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe my fear, anger, or distress about the election. Maybe not getting enough sleep. Maybe some frustrations at the work place. Maybe feeling disconnected in key relationships. Whatever was the cause, I wasn't in an inspired place. And I thought, this is it, this is the moment to practice what I preach, to show up at the canvas anyway. To see what can happen at the canvas. I've articulated my confidence and transformation at the canvas for my heartache and sorrow. Can the canvas handle my anger? Hopefully I don't ruin this canvas with anger and pain, but show up anyway, not ready, not centered, not joyful.
Day One
The first day working at the canvas. Not much happened, no big insight or transformation on the inside. I carried on. Painting. With this sense of agitation and irritability. Finished painting for the day. No clear insights. No uplifting feeling.
Day Two
On my morning walk before I returned to the canvas I thought, maybe the lesson is just showing up. Maybe it is just the loyalty, the devotion, the commitment to this canvas, to relationships, to this country. Maybe that is the message this canvas wants to give me.
Day Three
Then day three, I paint a bit more. Mid morning, I take a break and I'm visiting with a friend in my living room. She sees the incomplete canvas and says. "It is moving." I look at it again. Yes it is.
It is moving. Maybe there is something there about our unrest, our pain, our anger, our discontent that is moving. Maybe the salve is in the movement. I don't feel exactly the same way today I did when I started the canvas. There is a shift. It is subtle. It isn't a new start or a clean slate. But there is a hint of inner movement. I'm reminded that movement is the Divine. The ever changing nature of life, though it terrifies us, it also carries us. Life marches on. And with repetition and showing up repeatedly to love, there is a movement that carries whatever we feel toward that love.
Day Eight
I've been away from the canvas for a few days for the holidays. I'm feeling agitated about a conflict in a relationship. And with the canvas ahead of me this morning I'm reminded, it will change. The relationship won't always feel just like this. I continue working, trusting in this change.
As I review the canvas, my eye catches on patches that are solitary colors. Over simplified shadows. I make sure to blend in a little more color. Life isn't simple. Even the shadows have texture and movement. So do the highlights. Moving.
Day Nine
Today I put the finishing touches on this painting. I make sure I've touched each side. I put in a few final highlights. And I'm so thankful for the lessons that arrived for me in the process.
I hold this prayer in my heart and for others.
A Prayer for Movement
God of the river, God of the stream, God of the warm Spring breeze, God that moves within and around us, thank you. Thank you for this movement. Thank you for the passing of seasons. Thank you for the passing of anger and heartache. May we step into a river of love, may we step into a stream of providence, may we be comforted by the wind, and may we trust in the path of the seasons. May we keep showing up to our lives breathing through the difficulty, breathing through the pain, breathing through the anger, breathing in the joy as well. Trusting that we too are being moved. We are being carried. God, gently help us to open our tight grip, that we might be open to being carried. Help us let go of the need to understand or solve every moment. Help us to be courageous and show up. To use our voice. To give our best. To forgive. To try again.
“We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. ” ― Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heartfelt Advice for Hard Times
"Come Together Again Fall Apart Again" 40" x 30" (C) Bronwen Mayer Henry [Available for purchase. Contact Artist for details.]
Solo Show at Elcy's Cafe in Glenside
I am so proud to have my pieces up at Elcy's Cafe in Glenside. What a great local business. Please come check it out. Now through end of November! (www.elcys.com)
