- Published on
"Always Trust Your Cape" - mixed media on reclaimed wood, 14" x 24". Ready to hang. Available on ArtFinder.
Each person bears a fear which is special to him...
Thus fear is only a preference.
—Michael Crichton
This quote, posted on Facebook by the incredible Avery Caswell, stopped me in my tracks last week. Whoa. You mean, this fear, and that one, and this other one, specific to me, are each a preference? Wait! Why would I prefer to have any fear at all? Fear as a choice...I guess I knew this, ultimately, but hadn't really owned it before.
Now I want to own it.
Fearlessness as a choice. If you could choose (and, it seems, you CAN choose) to remove one fear from your life, what would it be? Fear of venomous snakes? Fear of being hit by a car? Fear of abandonment? Fear of undercooked chicken? I can't choose just one. I want to be fearless. Not just on the outside, where I am very good at covering my quivering terror with a big smile and a pirate hat, but on the inside, where fears keep me awake at night and sully my thoughts during the day.
Caswell recently wrote a blog post about the very thing which haunts my nocturnal thoughts most - regret. (Read it here.)
"Practicing kindness... is transformative, and at the end of a life of practicing kindness we might be glowing beacons of pure love with barely any room for regrets," she writes after listening to a talk by author George Saunders. Hmmmm, kindness as a cure for regret (and thus a cure for my fear) is incredibly appealing.
Of course, this launched me into the studio to create a caped crusader of fearlessness (my owner inner super heroine) which sent me on an internet treasure hunt for songs about capes, which landed me this gem by Guy Clark:
Each person bears a fear which is special to him...
Thus fear is only a preference.
—Michael Crichton
This quote, posted on Facebook by the incredible Avery Caswell, stopped me in my tracks last week. Whoa. You mean, this fear, and that one, and this other one, specific to me, are each a preference? Wait! Why would I prefer to have any fear at all? Fear as a choice...I guess I knew this, ultimately, but hadn't really owned it before.
Now I want to own it.
Fearlessness as a choice. If you could choose (and, it seems, you CAN choose) to remove one fear from your life, what would it be? Fear of venomous snakes? Fear of being hit by a car? Fear of abandonment? Fear of undercooked chicken? I can't choose just one. I want to be fearless. Not just on the outside, where I am very good at covering my quivering terror with a big smile and a pirate hat, but on the inside, where fears keep me awake at night and sully my thoughts during the day.
Caswell recently wrote a blog post about the very thing which haunts my nocturnal thoughts most - regret. (Read it here.)
"Practicing kindness... is transformative, and at the end of a life of practicing kindness we might be glowing beacons of pure love with barely any room for regrets," she writes after listening to a talk by author George Saunders. Hmmmm, kindness as a cure for regret (and thus a cure for my fear) is incredibly appealing.
Of course, this launched me into the studio to create a caped crusader of fearlessness (my owner inner super heroine) which sent me on an internet treasure hunt for songs about capes, which landed me this gem by Guy Clark:
At the end of the day, any excuse to wear a cape is one I will use. But a cloak of kindness to banish regret seems particularly useful, and is likely to become the very foundation of the wardrobe in my cape closet. Oh yes, everyone needs a special closet for their capes. :)
- Published on
"Sasha in the Cobwebs" - mixed media on aquabord, 11" x 14". Ready to frame. Available on Artfinder.
Does your brain mess up song lyrics?
I have a long history of this. Singing along in the car with my husband, belting out what I think are the words. Then the turn of his head and half smile on his face as he says "what exactly do you think the words are?" and I find out I was waaaaaay off.
She's a brick house.
She's my tomato, just letting it all hang out.
Isn't that the way everyone sings it? Apparently not. :) It happened again in the studio yesterday, as the song "Summer Breeze" was drifting through my thoughts while I painted.
Summer breeze
makes me feel fine
blowing through the chasm in my mind
Hmmmm. I knew "chasm" was the wrong word, but it felt like my brain was stuck on it. Which made me think of how very foggy my thoughts have been recently as I wade out of a landslide of grief. And foggy thinking brought me to the word "cobwebs" which then appeared in the background of this painting as I buffed away layers of really awkward paint. The cobwebs were just right in the painting, so I figured they could jump into the song as well.
Summer breeze
makes me feel fine
blowing through the cobwebs in my mind
As I write this, dear reader, I realize you've just had a firsthand look at the family circus comic orientation of my brain, it's circuitous paths and nonsensical connections. But I figure if you're still reading, maybe you can relate. You are not alone! Let's celebrate the ever fascinating, quirky human brain. And maybe sing lyrics a little more quietly, just in case we're not exactly getting them right.
Does your brain mess up song lyrics?
I have a long history of this. Singing along in the car with my husband, belting out what I think are the words. Then the turn of his head and half smile on his face as he says "what exactly do you think the words are?" and I find out I was waaaaaay off.
She's a brick house.
She's my tomato, just letting it all hang out.
Isn't that the way everyone sings it? Apparently not. :) It happened again in the studio yesterday, as the song "Summer Breeze" was drifting through my thoughts while I painted.
Summer breeze
makes me feel fine
blowing through the chasm in my mind
Hmmmm. I knew "chasm" was the wrong word, but it felt like my brain was stuck on it. Which made me think of how very foggy my thoughts have been recently as I wade out of a landslide of grief. And foggy thinking brought me to the word "cobwebs" which then appeared in the background of this painting as I buffed away layers of really awkward paint. The cobwebs were just right in the painting, so I figured they could jump into the song as well.
Summer breeze
makes me feel fine
blowing through the cobwebs in my mind
As I write this, dear reader, I realize you've just had a firsthand look at the family circus comic orientation of my brain, it's circuitous paths and nonsensical connections. But I figure if you're still reading, maybe you can relate. You are not alone! Let's celebrate the ever fascinating, quirky human brain. And maybe sing lyrics a little more quietly, just in case we're not exactly getting them right.
- Published on
"Norbert Left No Stone Unturned" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to frame. Available on Artfinder.
Excavating.
It's what I do sometimes to be truly present. I dig in the soil, turn it over, plant something and dig again. The terrain is altered - improved for drainage, made more visually satisfying. I get lost in the physicality of digging - sun scorching my arms and sweat dripping down. It is hard to be mentally stressed when my body is physically exhausted.
We're reclaiming some of the lawn along the lake in our backyard. Adding trees, flowering plants, rocks and mulch. It is a much slower process than in prior years, when my back was strong and resilient. Sometimes I can work only a five foot stretch before I have to call it quits.
Yesterday I unearthed a large rock (not quite a boulder) and got help to drag it to the surface and place it amongst the plants. It is covered in fossils and old shells. Not uncommon here in Florida, but still a delightful surprise treasure for me. The hidden past brought into the light and exposed for the first time in decades. It will sit there nestled in the lantana until some time in the distant future when weeds will cover it, soil will accumulate around it and the earth will swallow it once more. I felt the vastness of time, the smallness of humans in the universe, and the cycle of the earth over centuries. Whoa. All that from digging in the yard.
Which brings me to penguins. What better way to mentally chill than to immerse oneself in the frosty world of tuxedoed birds and snow? Norbert loves mystery novels and intellectual conversation. Quite a change from the usual menagerie in the studio.
Excavating.
It's what I do sometimes to be truly present. I dig in the soil, turn it over, plant something and dig again. The terrain is altered - improved for drainage, made more visually satisfying. I get lost in the physicality of digging - sun scorching my arms and sweat dripping down. It is hard to be mentally stressed when my body is physically exhausted.
We're reclaiming some of the lawn along the lake in our backyard. Adding trees, flowering plants, rocks and mulch. It is a much slower process than in prior years, when my back was strong and resilient. Sometimes I can work only a five foot stretch before I have to call it quits.
Yesterday I unearthed a large rock (not quite a boulder) and got help to drag it to the surface and place it amongst the plants. It is covered in fossils and old shells. Not uncommon here in Florida, but still a delightful surprise treasure for me. The hidden past brought into the light and exposed for the first time in decades. It will sit there nestled in the lantana until some time in the distant future when weeds will cover it, soil will accumulate around it and the earth will swallow it once more. I felt the vastness of time, the smallness of humans in the universe, and the cycle of the earth over centuries. Whoa. All that from digging in the yard.
Which brings me to penguins. What better way to mentally chill than to immerse oneself in the frosty world of tuxedoed birds and snow? Norbert loves mystery novels and intellectual conversation. Quite a change from the usual menagerie in the studio.
- Published on
"Mr. T" - mixed media on aquabord, 11" x 14". Ready to frame. Available on Artfinder.
I'm back
I'm back in the saddle again
I'm back
I'm back in the saddle again
Aerosmith
After a long hiatus, a full day in the studio and the wonderful, incredible, exhilarating feel of playing with paint. There is nothing quite like it to soothe what ails you. This piece, inspired by the luxurious Toby Jon (my niece's rabbit), is the result of a half million layers (a slight exaggeration), wiping the board nearly clean, starting again, embracing the mess and going with the flow. The beauty of aquabord. Paint, rinse, repeat.
We had a pet rabbit (briefly) when I was a kid. "Kelly" never did like me, so I wan't sorry when my mom found a new home for him. In all fairness to the rabbit, we really didn't know what we were doing with him, and we didn't take the time to understand what rabbits really wanted. After spending nearly two weeks with Toby, a thoroughly civilized bunnykins, I now know how delightful and therapeutic these fuzzy love bundles can be.
Toby is box trained, and has the run of the house most of the day. You will find him perched on a kitchen chair, whiskers a-twitching after breakfast. And perhaps underneath the chair you're sitting in at lunch. And during dinner he might be loping around the house in a half-fast pace, sneaking through the barriers set up to keep him safe from electrical cords (a favorite snack, apparently). But mostly, what Toby wants is a good snuggle. He gets snuggled in the morning, snuggled at night, and snuggled whenever he misses his humans. You can feel his little breathing quicken when he is happy in your arms, and sometimes he even makes a sort of contented groan (rabbits are generally voiceless).
So what happens to people when they stop throughout the day to cuddle a luxurious rabbit? Instant de-stressing, that's what. As wonderful as all this is for Toby, I get the feeling it is even better for the humans, who don't normally stop for these things unless something cute and cuddly forces them to. It got me to thinking...how would world rulers rule if they were required to snuggle a rabbit during business hours? Perhaps there would be a lot of folks with hair-covered suits, but there might also be a calmer, sweeter approach to world domination.
I'm back
I'm back in the saddle again
I'm back
I'm back in the saddle again
Aerosmith
After a long hiatus, a full day in the studio and the wonderful, incredible, exhilarating feel of playing with paint. There is nothing quite like it to soothe what ails you. This piece, inspired by the luxurious Toby Jon (my niece's rabbit), is the result of a half million layers (a slight exaggeration), wiping the board nearly clean, starting again, embracing the mess and going with the flow. The beauty of aquabord. Paint, rinse, repeat.
We had a pet rabbit (briefly) when I was a kid. "Kelly" never did like me, so I wan't sorry when my mom found a new home for him. In all fairness to the rabbit, we really didn't know what we were doing with him, and we didn't take the time to understand what rabbits really wanted. After spending nearly two weeks with Toby, a thoroughly civilized bunnykins, I now know how delightful and therapeutic these fuzzy love bundles can be.
Toby is box trained, and has the run of the house most of the day. You will find him perched on a kitchen chair, whiskers a-twitching after breakfast. And perhaps underneath the chair you're sitting in at lunch. And during dinner he might be loping around the house in a half-fast pace, sneaking through the barriers set up to keep him safe from electrical cords (a favorite snack, apparently). But mostly, what Toby wants is a good snuggle. He gets snuggled in the morning, snuggled at night, and snuggled whenever he misses his humans. You can feel his little breathing quicken when he is happy in your arms, and sometimes he even makes a sort of contented groan (rabbits are generally voiceless).
So what happens to people when they stop throughout the day to cuddle a luxurious rabbit? Instant de-stressing, that's what. As wonderful as all this is for Toby, I get the feeling it is even better for the humans, who don't normally stop for these things unless something cute and cuddly forces them to. It got me to thinking...how would world rulers rule if they were required to snuggle a rabbit during business hours? Perhaps there would be a lot of folks with hair-covered suits, but there might also be a calmer, sweeter approach to world domination.
- Published on
"Rebecca was Brave" - mixed media on aquabord, 16" x 20". Ready to be framed, or can be leaned upon a shelf. Available on Artfinder.
Slowly, slowly making my way back into the studio, Cleaning up the piles of art supplies and ephemera and art books I dragged home from my dad's house. Finding the perfect spot for each one. The studio becomes a treasure trove of goodies to be explored in the future, including a gold mine of romance magazines from the 1930's, ready to become something groovy in a new piece of art.
Slowly, slowly making my way back into the studio, Cleaning up the piles of art supplies and ephemera and art books I dragged home from my dad's house. Finding the perfect spot for each one. The studio becomes a treasure trove of goodies to be explored in the future, including a gold mine of romance magazines from the 1930's, ready to become something groovy in a new piece of art.
Let's talk about courage. It's a topic we've visited here before, you and me, but I recently experienced an act SO BRAVE that I am still inspired. Now maybe this won't seem like much because you are already fearless, dear reader! Yet I am compelled to explore it further.
In a workshop I held two weeks ago, a student showed up with new paints, brushes and a bright smile. She had never (and I mean NEVER) painted before in her entire life. And here she was, ready to try, excited and enthusiastic (and maybe just a little nervous). We were painting pretty large, and on a new type of surface, and completing an entire piece in four hours at a fierce pace. With each step, she persisted. With each new instruction, she didn't hesitate. With quiet, steely determination, she hung in there until the very end of the class.
And she created a beautiful, personal, emotional piece of art.
She didn't know until we were done. Until she stood back, took a breath and paused. And then, like the happily ever after moment of the most exquisitely charming fairytale movie ever created, her face broke out in a huge, heartfelt smile. "I did that!" she said. And so she had.
There is something about just showing up - just saying YES - that ropes the universe into conspiring with us. Rebecca lassoed the moon that day. I want to be like her when I grow up. :)
In a workshop I held two weeks ago, a student showed up with new paints, brushes and a bright smile. She had never (and I mean NEVER) painted before in her entire life. And here she was, ready to try, excited and enthusiastic (and maybe just a little nervous). We were painting pretty large, and on a new type of surface, and completing an entire piece in four hours at a fierce pace. With each step, she persisted. With each new instruction, she didn't hesitate. With quiet, steely determination, she hung in there until the very end of the class.
And she created a beautiful, personal, emotional piece of art.
She didn't know until we were done. Until she stood back, took a breath and paused. And then, like the happily ever after moment of the most exquisitely charming fairytale movie ever created, her face broke out in a huge, heartfelt smile. "I did that!" she said. And so she had.
There is something about just showing up - just saying YES - that ropes the universe into conspiring with us. Rebecca lassoed the moon that day. I want to be like her when I grow up. :)
- Published on
"Summer Storm" - water-based ink on aquabord, 6" x 6". Ready to frame. Available on Artfinder.
I fell off the earth for two weeks. Tumbling and falling, feet seeking ground. With all that acceleration and gravity, I anticipated a hard impact - my support structure all busted and fractured. Instead, there was a soft thud, a couple of stumble steps and a sigh.
I've been "living at the edge of my eyeballs" (a phrase spoken by one of my wise sisters). Completely present, thoughts left in a silent place, experiencing every moment without distraction. Conversations sans electronics, schedules changing day to day, collaborating on the largest project I've ever been part of - the disassembling of parental lives and assets. After two weeks of task lists, learning curves, triumphs and tears, this collaborative team is seasoned. We are glued together in ways that make us each individually stronger. We have become formidable.
The soft landing at the end of my free falling is an unanticipated benefit of our collaboration. Instead of feeling like the rug was pulled out from under me, I feel firmly planted and supported. Sisters and husband and brother-in-law, son and daughter and niece and friends. Each stepped in to fill the empty shoes of a paterfamilias, and now those large shoes are fully occupied and solid. In death there is rebirth. And our family is made new again.
The piece above was created shortly before my free fall was inspired by the incredible photography of Steve L. Romero, a local photographer and capturer of beautiful moments. Check out Steve's work here.
I fell off the earth for two weeks. Tumbling and falling, feet seeking ground. With all that acceleration and gravity, I anticipated a hard impact - my support structure all busted and fractured. Instead, there was a soft thud, a couple of stumble steps and a sigh.
I've been "living at the edge of my eyeballs" (a phrase spoken by one of my wise sisters). Completely present, thoughts left in a silent place, experiencing every moment without distraction. Conversations sans electronics, schedules changing day to day, collaborating on the largest project I've ever been part of - the disassembling of parental lives and assets. After two weeks of task lists, learning curves, triumphs and tears, this collaborative team is seasoned. We are glued together in ways that make us each individually stronger. We have become formidable.
The soft landing at the end of my free falling is an unanticipated benefit of our collaboration. Instead of feeling like the rug was pulled out from under me, I feel firmly planted and supported. Sisters and husband and brother-in-law, son and daughter and niece and friends. Each stepped in to fill the empty shoes of a paterfamilias, and now those large shoes are fully occupied and solid. In death there is rebirth. And our family is made new again.
The piece above was created shortly before my free fall was inspired by the incredible photography of Steve L. Romero, a local photographer and capturer of beautiful moments. Check out Steve's work here.
- Published on
"The Beautiful Spaces Between" - ink on aquabord, 7" x 5". Framed in matte black. Available on Artfinder.
There are spaces between words. Pauses and stops. In the past, those spaces made me uncomfortable. Now they seem like an opportunity to reflect, process, contemplate and feel. Life seems to come at us a million miles an hour. A little space can be a delicious moment to slow down.
After a week or two of working BIG, I returned to the tiny world of water-based inks and aquabord. The beauty of this medium is the complete lack of control. I can push it, nudge it, encourage it, but ultimately it goes where it wants to, leaving speckles and unevenness that imply things off in the distance. It is simple and organic and surprising.
There are spaces between words. Pauses and stops. In the past, those spaces made me uncomfortable. Now they seem like an opportunity to reflect, process, contemplate and feel. Life seems to come at us a million miles an hour. A little space can be a delicious moment to slow down.
After a week or two of working BIG, I returned to the tiny world of water-based inks and aquabord. The beauty of this medium is the complete lack of control. I can push it, nudge it, encourage it, but ultimately it goes where it wants to, leaving speckles and unevenness that imply things off in the distance. It is simple and organic and surprising.
Instead of a process pic (as these little ones unfold rather quickly and without even a squiggle to start with), here is an "after" pic of this piece framed, standing on my counter. It invites me to daydream, gaze at the horizon and imagine far off lands and adventures yet to come. Or to listen closely for the sound of waves.
Oh, and that pineapple in the fruit bowl? Freshly picked from our own backyard. The first ever harvest in our new home!
Oh, and that pineapple in the fruit bowl? Freshly picked from our own backyard. The first ever harvest in our new home!
- Published on
"Eye of the Blackbird" - mixed media on paper, 22" x 30". Ready to frame. Available on Artfinder.
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird
from "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens.
Palliative care...hospice. Three little words. Just three words in an entire language of words. Yet hearing them from a doctor causes a warp in the space-time continuum where the whole world seems to stop inside your head for a moment, like a movie reel slowed down, garbling all the words that come after. Then the reel speeds up to double time, you're trying to catch up and keep up all at once, while somewhere in the back of your head a voice is saying "hey, THAT just happened."
Our family is still processing, each in their own way. Dad is most incredible, leading the charge like a general in battle and beginning lists, setting meetings and surging forward with surety. The paterfamilias in action, even when the outcome of the battle is a foregone conclusion. We draw strength from him, even as he prepares for his grand exit.
Modern medicine allows us this...something generations past did not have. A forewarning, an estimate of time, a chance to tie up loose ends. It gets me thinking. What would I do? What would I say? How present would I be for each conversation knowing it may be the last one? How lovely, even in the midst of all the misery that surrounds this process, to have the time and the knowledge to make choices, to choose words and parcel them out, to say the things we need to say.
In truth, no one knows the exact timing of these things. Every day is a precious gift, and any one of us could be gone in a moment given the right (or wrong) series of unfortunate events. But on this day, I am extremely grateful to compassionate doctors who took the time to use their words and let us know their read on the situation, who gave us time to weigh our own words with love and tenderness.
And as with all things, for me they are best processed in the studio, letting the paint guide my thoughts.
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird
from "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens.
Palliative care...hospice. Three little words. Just three words in an entire language of words. Yet hearing them from a doctor causes a warp in the space-time continuum where the whole world seems to stop inside your head for a moment, like a movie reel slowed down, garbling all the words that come after. Then the reel speeds up to double time, you're trying to catch up and keep up all at once, while somewhere in the back of your head a voice is saying "hey, THAT just happened."
Our family is still processing, each in their own way. Dad is most incredible, leading the charge like a general in battle and beginning lists, setting meetings and surging forward with surety. The paterfamilias in action, even when the outcome of the battle is a foregone conclusion. We draw strength from him, even as he prepares for his grand exit.
Modern medicine allows us this...something generations past did not have. A forewarning, an estimate of time, a chance to tie up loose ends. It gets me thinking. What would I do? What would I say? How present would I be for each conversation knowing it may be the last one? How lovely, even in the midst of all the misery that surrounds this process, to have the time and the knowledge to make choices, to choose words and parcel them out, to say the things we need to say.
In truth, no one knows the exact timing of these things. Every day is a precious gift, and any one of us could be gone in a moment given the right (or wrong) series of unfortunate events. But on this day, I am extremely grateful to compassionate doctors who took the time to use their words and let us know their read on the situation, who gave us time to weigh our own words with love and tenderness.
And as with all things, for me they are best processed in the studio, letting the paint guide my thoughts.
The blackbird piece above began as these scribbles...loosely inspired by a Dali piece with amorphous floating blobs. Twenty layers later, the bird appeared. And then a link to the poem, referencing the twenty snowy mountains. I like to think the universe had a hand in creating this one. Crow is a messenger of foretelling. It is perfect for this day.
- Published on
"A Meeting of the Minds " - mixed media on paper, 22" x 30". Ready to frame. Available on ArtFinder.
God willing and the creek don't rise
Come hell or high water
A rising tide lifts all boats
There are a whole lot of watery sayings floating about here in Florida. We had five consecutive days of rain, about fifteen inches in our town alone. The first six feet of our back yard are now in the lake. The mall is closed because the parking lot is flooded. Highway exit ramps are closed due to standing water. The only folks enjoying this watery mess are the ducks. Oh, and anyone who fancies a reason to build an ark.
But here in my little studio, the sound of rain on the skylights and the occasional thunder boomer overhead create the perfect ambiance for a week of play. And for me, play means a return to experimental abstraction and the push and pull of resolving a painting. I am completely lost in the process - in flow. No thoughts of deadlines, task lists or errands to be done. No worries about shows or marketing or bookkeeping. Just one layer after another, teasing me and drawing me down the rabbit hole. My mind, blissfully, closes the door to the outside and just is.
Here is a little process peek at the first three layers:
God willing and the creek don't rise
Come hell or high water
A rising tide lifts all boats
There are a whole lot of watery sayings floating about here in Florida. We had five consecutive days of rain, about fifteen inches in our town alone. The first six feet of our back yard are now in the lake. The mall is closed because the parking lot is flooded. Highway exit ramps are closed due to standing water. The only folks enjoying this watery mess are the ducks. Oh, and anyone who fancies a reason to build an ark.
But here in my little studio, the sound of rain on the skylights and the occasional thunder boomer overhead create the perfect ambiance for a week of play. And for me, play means a return to experimental abstraction and the push and pull of resolving a painting. I am completely lost in the process - in flow. No thoughts of deadlines, task lists or errands to be done. No worries about shows or marketing or bookkeeping. Just one layer after another, teasing me and drawing me down the rabbit hole. My mind, blissfully, closes the door to the outside and just is.
Here is a little process peek at the first three layers:
I'm not certain where these beaky beings came from, but I am quite enamored with them. I want to know what they're saying in this little meeting, and keep listening outside the studio door in hopes of hearing them whisper.
And speaking of listening, I am reading Mark Nepo's Seven Thousand Ways to Listen. There is a juicy paragraph at the end of this morning's reading which is perfect for this rainy week:
So if you're willing, I may turn to you when stuck or sputtering, to see if I've retreated into that stubborn belief that we're the sole authors of what we need. If you're willing, we can slap each other's sandals till they become dogs that will retrieve the sweetness we've misplaced. If you're willing, we can help each other put the sun back into the sky.
And speaking of listening, I am reading Mark Nepo's Seven Thousand Ways to Listen. There is a juicy paragraph at the end of this morning's reading which is perfect for this rainy week:
So if you're willing, I may turn to you when stuck or sputtering, to see if I've retreated into that stubborn belief that we're the sole authors of what we need. If you're willing, we can slap each other's sandals till they become dogs that will retrieve the sweetness we've misplaced. If you're willing, we can help each other put the sun back into the sky.
- Published on
"Brigitte" - mixed media on reclaimed wood. 16" x 50", ready to hang.
It's early on a Tuesday morning. The house is quiet, the rain falls gently on skylights above me. My car has been emptied after the return trip from Charlotte, the studio put back together and the mounds of laundry done. I feel like Cinderella after the ball. :)
There is a scene from my whirlwind trip that replays in my mind on a loop - six women gathered around a table eating homemade watermelon popsicles. Six intensely creative spirits: a printmaker, a soul collage facilitator, a spiritual director, a jewelry designer and daughter of a shaman and sister to a lama, a new gallery owner and photographer...each of these multi-talented women oozing good mojo and wildly creative energy.
It's early on a Tuesday morning. The house is quiet, the rain falls gently on skylights above me. My car has been emptied after the return trip from Charlotte, the studio put back together and the mounds of laundry done. I feel like Cinderella after the ball. :)
There is a scene from my whirlwind trip that replays in my mind on a loop - six women gathered around a table eating homemade watermelon popsicles. Six intensely creative spirits: a printmaker, a soul collage facilitator, a spiritual director, a jewelry designer and daughter of a shaman and sister to a lama, a new gallery owner and photographer...each of these multi-talented women oozing good mojo and wildly creative energy.
For several hours that evening, time was suspended. Ideas flowed, questions were asked, topics debated and the jokes! The jokes had me in tears. The chandelier sparkled with bobbles like fairy lights. The evening felt magical and timeless and halcyon. Six creative spirits jumping from the topic of loose meat to shamans to celebrity boyfriends to creative bravery. Six artists alternately crying and laughing, unfiltered, unashamed, unbound.
It was an unexpected gathering - the kind that just comes together when someone says "hey, let's..." and everyone does. Our lives are busy, overly scheduled, hectic, fast-paced. So when an evening like this falls into place, it feels enchanted somehow. And this on the heels of a magical art opening, a fearless and wildly creative workshop and a handful of small gatherings and intensely delightful connections. I am bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and long travels...my words feel muddy. But underneath the exhaustion is a simmering cauldron of bubbling magic and inspiration fueled by these sparkling moments of connection. I am deeply grateful.
These moments don't happen unless we say yes. Yes to meeting for breakfast, yes to meeting for lunch. Yes to an evening of soul collage, yes to a spontaneous gathering with watermelon popsicles. Yes to a wild stretch of the imagination, and yes to a little more than we thought maybe we could actually do. Forgive my clumsy writing this morning, sweet reader...my challenge to you on this day is to say yes to someone or something, then let me know how the magic unfolds.
It was an unexpected gathering - the kind that just comes together when someone says "hey, let's..." and everyone does. Our lives are busy, overly scheduled, hectic, fast-paced. So when an evening like this falls into place, it feels enchanted somehow. And this on the heels of a magical art opening, a fearless and wildly creative workshop and a handful of small gatherings and intensely delightful connections. I am bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and long travels...my words feel muddy. But underneath the exhaustion is a simmering cauldron of bubbling magic and inspiration fueled by these sparkling moments of connection. I am deeply grateful.
These moments don't happen unless we say yes. Yes to meeting for breakfast, yes to meeting for lunch. Yes to an evening of soul collage, yes to a spontaneous gathering with watermelon popsicles. Yes to a wild stretch of the imagination, and yes to a little more than we thought maybe we could actually do. Forgive my clumsy writing this morning, sweet reader...my challenge to you on this day is to say yes to someone or something, then let me know how the magic unfolds.
