October 20, 2015 – Mama

Mama was a cute baby and she loves this picture of herself at age 4.

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On this day in 1938, Dragica Nizetich had her third baby – the first one to be born in a hospital – her first two were born at home. They named her Amelia Carla Nizetich and called her “Melia,” (pronounced “MAIL-ya”). The world knows this woman as the one-and-only Niz, I know her as Mama. We all have the life-force animating our bodies, but my mom got an extra dose – she came into this world a force of nature. She was driving (without a license) at 14, had a fake ID at 16, graduated from Long Beach State University in the first class to graduate female Chemistry majors – but she added a Math major to that – and finished up in three and a half years. You see, she had fallen head over heels in love with this handsome guy, Jim Brown, and she was anxious to be done with college, so she could move to northern California to marry him and start having his babies!

The handsome bride and groom.

They married in January and my brother Joe was born before the end of the year, and I came 11 months later, all while she worked full time to help support us, while my dad finished his degree and got his teaching credential. She had all 4 of us by the time she was 25, and had three in diapers at a time – without a diaper service and this was before disposables! She helped my dad build a stone retaining wall in the backyard, taking breaks to breastfeed my younger brother Matt. She marched against the war in Vietnam, was active in school board politics, she made dozens of loaves of bread to sell at the holiday fairs in the Valley. She taught me to sew my own clothes and make jam and apple strudel – including the stretch dough from scratch – as well as how to hang wallpaper and set tile. After dinner she never joined us all to watch “Sonny and Cher” or “The Carol Burnett Show,” she had to be doing something. She made these incredible macramé sculptures with glass fishing floats and driftwood (yes this was the 60’s and 70’s!). Then, she went back to work! She became a successful real estate agent, at the same time she established and ran a carpet business called “A Design Affaire.” It seems she’s always had the capacity for more than one job at a time.

One of the things she’s proud of: she read to us every night before bed.

When most people her age have been long retired, she is still a full-time realtor. She has run an independent brokerage – NIZ Realty – in downtown Larkspur for decades. She’s got to be the best residential real estate broker in Marin. ( And no, I’m not at all biased!) Truly, she knows the business inside and out, she’s a strong advocate, but also a solutions-oriented deal maker. And, she does everything in her capacity (which is considerable) to help her clients – far further than any other realtor I know. I’ve even watched her go to bat for the other agent’s clients, if they aren’t. Over her many years in the business she’s cleaned up many, many properties that have been run-down and filled with the discarded remains of people’s lives. She’s turned them into beautiful places that someone new will make a home. We’re talking paint, refinishing floors, carpet, yard cleanup, new lawns. Some of these have been actual remodel projects, that she has managed for her clients. I can’t think of one time she has turned someone away, telling them their property was too overwhelming to take on. There’s really no one who works harder for her clients.

I never played any sports, or was involved in any performing arts when I was growing up. So, I didn’t have my family come to my games or performances. I waited until mid-life, with my art events, to engender that kind of support. Besides my sweetheart providing the support so I could answer the call to make art central to my life, my Mama has been the single biggest contributor to my life as an artist and teacher. She has been my crew – lifting panels, setting up the booth with me, schlepping paintings and boxes of greeting cards, being there to spell me when I need a break. She drove all the way to southern California with me – twice – each time giving up 5 days of her busy life so I could sell art in La Jolla. She flew to New York when I did Art Expo. I think if I did an art show on the moon, she’d be there.

Now that leading art groups has become such an important part of my life and work, she contributes even more. (Yes, it seems there is no end to the extent she will go.) Twice a week and on some weekends, she makes her real estate offices in Larkspur available to me and to those who come to paint with me – as her gift. It has become our art home, we are calling ourselves the 537 Magnolia Artists – and she puts the roof over our heads.

With all she does and all she gives, what’s most precious to me now, though, is that she and I have become true friends. Her mother died when she was 19 and I have no daughters, so having this mother/adult-daughter friendship is an enormous blessing for both of us. And it is an example of how real transformation does happen in life. As her only girl, all the mother-daughter “stuff” was centered on our relationship. She’s always had my best interest in mind, but being a force of nature, has meant that she’s attempted to wield that force in my life (my brothers’ lives too) in ways that I often didn’t find helpful in the moment.

We each have the privilege to live our own lives, make our own mistakes and then grow because of them. I’ve never had kids, so I don’t know how this actually feels, but I can imagine that it’s incredibly hard to let these beings you brought into this world, who you love more than life itself, to stumble and fall. I imagine that it would go against all instinct to do this. And Mama’s capacity to step in and help people when they look like they need it is – as you can see – enormous. But I didn’t appreciate where this was coming from, and it caused a lot of friction between us. At one point, we spent 6 months without seeing each other or speaking to each other, which, though incredibly hard, was a necessary step in our process.

My favorite picture of us – the Sausalito Art Festival Gala in 2012.

On top of this, I look a lot like her – we’ve been called sisters many times, which makes me feel weird, but of course she loves it! And, as much as I am blessed to have – almost – as much energy as she has, I am a very different person in many ways. It’s felt like I’ve had to wrestle my way from being seen as “Little Niz.” And I have. I am fully separate and distinct. I am so very “Cara.”

It took me over 40 years to really figure out how to let this amazing woman mother me. And like the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening, I cannot imagine life without her. Fortunately, she’s blessed with fantastically good health and has longevity in her genes, so it is very likely we won’t have to know what that will be like for a long, long time.

I love you my Mama! Happy Birthday and Cent’anni!

October 13, 2015 – All the Light We Cannot See

Sunset from Pont Neuf our last night as a group in Paris

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When I left you it was last Monday, I was writing last week’s post in bed in the apartment in Paris, where I stayed for a week and a half. A Monday later and I’m writing in a plane somewhere over the ice sheets at the top of our planet, coming home. I wrote that I’d hoped I’d be sick for only one day, but I’m still coughing. This isn’t the story I’d hoped to be writing you after my/our first “Pilgrimage in Paris.”

Denying I was as sick as I was, I spent Tuesday out and about with some of the group and then ended up in bed again all day Wednesday. I even ended up going to the doctor Wednesday evening. I was wheezing so badly that the effort of a one-block walk to the taxi, meant I had to wait a few seconds to catch my breath, in order to tell the driver the doctor’s office address. The kind French doctor prescribed an antibiotic, an oral steroid to calm the inflammation in my lungs and an inhaler. Oy! Getting this sick was so not in the plan.

I awoke to the idea of this Pilgrimage a year ago and have been holding it with such a rosy glow in my imagination ever since. The disappointment that this is how it turned out has brought me to tears. I envisioned a group of artists – or people with artist’s souls – experiencing Paris separately and together, meeting up over a meal each day to share inspirations and discoveries. I imagined that I’d participate in the experiences and that I’d be leader and guide – not just travel-guide, language-guide, but the holder of the deeper experience. As it went, my being taken out of commission meant that each person rose to find their way without me – giving them a more direct experience – finding their own way. But my having spent the better part of three days, towards the start of our trip, out of the group dynamic meant that the group cohesion I’d imagined didn’t really happen.

On top of this, there were other challenges. We had concert tickets at Sainte Chapelle on Monday night. Though I’d been in bed all day, I was determined not to miss it. Just as I was getting up to get ready, I got a call that the key for one of the other apartments wouldn’t turn the lock. Unable to get ahold of the apartment owner, I called a locksmith myself to get it open. He told me it was full of dust – the stairwell was in the process of being re-painted. All this happened within the nick of time to get a taxi in the rain and make the concert before it started. Then, one other person (so sorry, my dear Ellen) ended up getting the bug too, and her apartment mates were called upon to tend to her needs as well. Then, heading home on Saturday, four of the pilgrims had one of those flight-days-from-hell. They were supposed to take off at 10:00am, but with one glitch after the next, the flight ended up being cancelled. It wasn’t until well into the evening, that they had new reservations to get home and a voucher for a hotel to sleep in.

Despite all of this, I heard from just about everyone that it was a good trip. Either, they saw all that they came to see, or they were filled with inspirations to paint from for a long while, or they made new dear friends, or they found an expanded sense of themselves, in their capacity to communicate with people without a common language, or that they gained the freedom by learning to take the Paris Metro, or that they felt the triumph of having given themselves the trip in the first place.

And of course mixed in with all of this was Paris: Notre Dame, that gorgeous concert in Sainte Chappelle, the islands, the Seine, the museums chocked full of treasures of art (we sought out mostly the Impressionists’ art), the cafes, the parks, the Marais, Montmartre, the gorgeous Mosque right in the neighborhood we stayed in and the buttery breakfast pastries! Plus two day trips – to Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh spent his last 70 days and to Giverny – a pilgrimage in itself.

Giverny

As for me, I have an even deeper relationship with Paris – a more real one. For some un-explained reason, my capacity to speak French is as good or better than it has ever been. I hired and dealt with a locksmith, saw a doctor and a pharmacist, sent numerous text messages to apartment coordinators, shuttle drivers – all in French! The big test was a little dinner party I went to on Saturday night – 4 native French speakers and me. The vast majority of the conversation was in French and I followed a good 80% of it. This is huge! It’s been 19 years since I came home from my six month stay in Paris. Since 1999, I’ve been back for only a week or so every few years. By all rights, I should be very rusty – I hardly ever speak French at home – really, almost never – and there it was, all there for me. No stumbling, no hesitation – it’s not perfect, but I am completely functional. I was blown away by how easy it was for me. I’ve also not forgotten one bit of the map of the streets that I learned when I lived here. I know my away around like it’s home. And then there was being sick in Paris – in some odd way, it had me feel like being there was less a dreamy fairytale, than it was a place for me where real life happens too.

I interloped over the barriers to take pictures of this dahlia in Monet’s garden! My French-Canadian accomplice took this of me.

I knew that the trip would be transformational – travel always is, but I resisted the kind of transformation that this one held for me. I shared what was going on with my friend Vicki. Here’s what she said:

“Not what you’d hoped for, a different kind of transformation, deeper, more personal. Ride the darkness and disappointment and look for ‘all the light we cannot see.’ It’s there but not what your conscious mind had planned.

Roll with the fear, roll in the darkness–it will not hurt you, and then you will heal… Let this experience transform you by letting go of your expectations of wanting the present to be like the past. The past was marvelous, but that was then, this is now. Who are you now? Where is the light? There’s gold in them thar hills, so you may as well embrace what is and let yourself be sick in Paris.”

The ironic thing is that I’m listening to that exact audiobook right now – still only about half way through – “All the Light We Cannot See.” The Paris part of it takes place right in the neighborhood where I lived 20 years ago and where we stayed this past week, very near the Jardin de Plantes. It’s not WWII and I’m not a blind girl, but that Vicki used that phrase, that my mind is wrapped in that story right now, and that all this is centered on that very spot on the planet – is stunning synchronicity to me.’

The last night of our Pilgrimage, everyone had the experience of seeing Paris at night from a Bateau Mouche on the river – the Seine. As beautiful as Paris is in the day, it is magnificent at night. From Notre Dame west to the Eiffel Tower, the contrast of the darkness surrounding these amazing landmarks that captivate the world’s imagination, makes them all the more astonishingly beautiful.

Pilgrimages are faith journeys. They are not a promise for a blissful walk in a flower garden (though, those walks were part of ours!). I’m certain that there are more gifts that will come of this trip. I’m going to keep asking that “all the light we cannot – yet – see” continue to be revealed, in order to illuminate our way forward.
With my gratitude to the Paris Pilgrims, to Paris and to you for holding us all while we were there.

Love,

Cara

October 6, 2015 – Timeless time in Paris

I’ll resume recording posts when I return from Paris. Thanks.

It’s Monday (yesterday) afternoon and I’m sitting on my bed in an apartment in Paris. I’ve just woken from a nap and as I look out the bedroom window, the rainwater is running down the grey slate on the sides of the Mansard roofs across the street. After several really beautiful days, we’re having some rain. I’ve traipsed around the streets of Paris in the rain before – grey skies seem more “normal” to me here than sun, really. But I’m inside today, not taking in any sights, just herbal tea with honey, lemon and ginger and chicken broth – I’ve come down with a cold – not exactly on my agenda for our Pilgrimage! After lashing about inside myself about it all, I’ve surrendered to having a new experience – a sick day (hopefully not more than one!) in Paris. I’ve never spent a day here, cozied up inside tending to myself, while all of Paris is out and about – including my Paris Pilgrims. They were sweet this morning, getting me citrus fruit and bringing over from the other apartment (we’ve rented 3 apartments in one neighborhood, living like “real” French people for a week), the starting of the soup I’d started after last night’s roast chicken dinner. My throat was scratchy last night, so I had an inkling this was coming.

One of the pictures I had for our time here was to have a dinner in. Yesterday we shopped in the Sunday morning market a block away: rotisserie chickens (French chickens just taste better), buttery yellow potatoes (ditto) cooked in a gratin with crème fraiche (the French have incredible dairy products), tiny haricot verts (green beans) and a big green salad of butter lettuce and French radishes with a shallot-Dijon red wine vinaigrette. And of course a Bordeaux from the wine shop and baguette, and we had a Sunday dinnertime feast! Two of the Pilgrims, Tania and Karen added to it, with the most exquisite looking cupcakes I’d ever seen, like gorgeous French roses.

They’re spending the day out and about without me and it’s just fine. We’ve had two days together so far, giving everyone their bearings. I don’t think that I’d have just chosen to stay in and let them all venture out if I’d not gotten sick. I’m imagining that they will come back with great tales of their adventures today. They were starting on the Batobus – a water “bus” that cruises up the Seine, making regular stops along the way. Fun! As much as I’d really rather not be sick and would love to be out with them, I’m wondering if my getting a cold isn’t really offering us all an experience that otherwise wouldn’t have happened. There is a gentle sweetness to my being inside listening to the rain, writing and resting. And they’ll spend time without my translating or speaking or navigating for them, allowing them a closer relationship with Paris without my being “in the middle.”

Before I left last week, I had a very strong feeling that I was going to miss Joe and Bo so much, I’d just ache for them. I cuddled with Joe the morning of my flight, my physical being connecting with his, wondering how I could leave? It was a new thing. I was actually worried that I’d not want to be here when I arrived! I was telling myself I’d been here lots before, was Paris all that special, really? Then we landed Thursday morning to blue skies. Riding in the shuttle into the center of Paris, bright with the sunlight, I remembered. I was tingly. Paris. I was here, really here.

As I thought about this when I was taking a hot bath earlier this morning, other timeless moments I’ve had here in Paris floated by in my mind:

• The first was when I walked out of the Gare du Nord in 1984, my first time ever here. I remember looking around and, though I did not know my way, I had the clear sense that I’d been here before. I must have lived here in an earlier lifetime, because this city has never felt foreign to me.
• Then soon after arriving for my half year in 1996, my boss, the zany Dominique, took me on a private night-time tour of all of the major monuments in the center of the city. We careened around, as he drove like a true mad Frenchman, excitedly telling me about all that I was seeing. He was so proud to show me his city.
• Returning from a long weekend in the Loire Valley that same year. It was a really warm August night and time stopped, when I was on the bridge that connects the Left Bank to the Ile de la Cité, at the back of Notre Dame. I was struck by the fact that I’d been away and had come back “home” to this.

The same view captured this past Saturday night.

• My first trip back after my 6 months, was 8 or 9 months later. It was May 1997 – I was here for meetings at my company’s headquarters. I’d arrived in late the afternoon and took a walk from my hotel along the Seine, across the Pont des Arts to the Louvre, and as I walked around the pyramid and out towards the Place de la Concorde, the high sprinklers were going in the Tuileries gardens and were caught by the setting sun. It was magic.
• A misty grey afternoon when I was here with my brother Matt – we met my friend Bruno and shopped and made a weekend lunch in Bruno’s apartment. It was a cold, cold November day and there wasn’t anything more perfect than to be warm inside cooking, eating all afternoon.
• A kir in the lounge of a posh little place in the 6th, called L’Hotel with my friend Julia. The hotel is in the building where Oscar Wilde last lived and where he died. We swear his ghost was with us.
• My last trip here with my Mama, it was a January evening and below freezing. We’d just seen something like 180 paintings by Monet at the Grand Palais. (This was while the Musee d’Orsay was being remodeled – also how we got the two big Impressionist exhibits at the De Young in San Francisco in 2010). We were wrapped up from one end to the other, our toes numb in our boots as we walked across one bridge up from the Pont Alexandre III – the most lavishly ornate bridge in Paris, the moon was full and shining on the water. It was hard to believe it was real.

That cold night in January

These “pinch me, am I really having this experience?” moments like I have here can’t be planned, but they keep happening, it seems, every time I’m here. And it is this that has inspired the “Pilgrimage to Paris” that we are on. There is a spirit of place that draws us and meets us – some of us, anyway – and it is as real as any relationship. The invitation to this Pilgrimage was “does Paris call your name?” She has been calling mine for a long time – and has inspired quite a bit of artwork to come from me. This is my hope for the six Pilgrims here with me now.

Paris may very well be the most charismatic city in the world. I’m sure there are millions, if not billions of people who, when they think of Paris, are enchanted – whether they’ve been here or not. And yet, I think it’s possible for each of us to have a relationship with her as our very own – her spirit is timeless and boundless, there’s enough for each of us to claim her as ours.

Paris, je t’aime.

Cara

September 29, 2015 – Taking Stock

Yesterday morning’s “super moon” shining brightly at the start of the day – and my “new year”

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One of the songs in the “My Favorites” playlist in my iTunes, is “Seasons of Love” from the Broadway musical “Rent.” It starts out “five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear, five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes, how do you measure, measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights and cups of coffee, in inches, in miles, in laughter and strife.” It’s a great song and it’s been running in my head.

This week I’m measuring a year in posts. Last week was my 52nd weekly post in this space. I wrote about our old oak tree on October 1, 2014. A full year of Tuesdays and I’ve found something to write about – or like last week, it found me – and I’ve posted it here to my online journal. Vacations, travel, festivals, teaching, being exhausted (like last week!) did not get in the way. I didn’t miss a one!

It’s been a big year, since the start of October 2014, a lot has come through in my world! Here’s what’s coming to mind:

• 52 posts is – I added it up – 59,338 words – almost 60,000 words. I looked up how many words are in an average book – 80,000. So, I have actually written a small book!
• The creating and leading of my first weekend workshop in Healdsburg last October. It was really a retreat, actually.
• The conceiving of, planning and organizing my first “Pilgrimage to Paris” – I’m getting on a plane TOMORROW! It’s really here – my dream realized. I’ll be writing posts from Paris the next two weeks. I’m filled with great expectancy for this pilgrimage – and what I will find to write of it to share with you.
• I flew to Santa Fe – my first private art retreat as a teacher/guide.
• The weekly groups – the mainstay of my weeks are even more solid – Thursdays are full nearly every week and Fridays have a core of 6-8 artists.
• The Special Saturdays workshop series really got going this year. So far we’ve looked at and painted: Light and Shadow, Working with a Limited Palette, Luminous Petals, Glass, Creating Volume, and Grapes and Grape Leaves. Coming up is: Painting your Travels, Water and Leaves and Greens in December. Along the way, a group of artists have been coming regularly, and a bond has formed between them just like the weekly groups.
• Which has led to the 537 Magnolia Artists – The regulars from Thursday, Friday and Saturday, have become a community and we have had our first TWO group shows.
• I created and published my first calendar for 2015. Over 200 of them are out in your lives. And I’ve already created, doing all the graphic design from scratch – myself, the 2016 calendar. It’s ready to be sent off to the printer for proofing when I’m back from Paris.
• AND… I painted! I was worried that my own painting time and energy would wane with all of this happening, but I managed 7 full-sized paintings, including “Eternal,” my big clock painting, plus two sweet doggy portraits.
• And, I kept up with selling my art at Open Studios plus two art festivals.

“Eternal”

A big year and yet, what I’m most impressed with myself, is that I’ve posted every week. I have always thought of myself as a non-writer – and now I have become one. It’s both strange to think of me as a writer, and a wonderful celebration to know that I am. Several times over the year I’ve heard from people that I ought to write a book, or that I am writing my book. I have had the thought over the years that there’s a book in me. “My book” would be a combination, beautiful coffee table book, art instruction and creative journey memoir. I’d take the reader/watercolor student/fellow creative along, painting by painting, sharing what I learned through each one, both about working with watercolor and about myself and life. Now I see that it’s really possible – and that between the stories I write for each painting and this year’s posts, it may be already largely written!

It’s funny to be taking stock of a year at this point in the calendar. But this is a milestone I’m celebrating with myself, and I wanted to share it with you who have been following me this past year. I’m so deeply grateful for your input, reflections, comments, appreciations. This has encouraged me in ways you may not know. I started out needing to know you were there reading – like a life-line – to keep me going. Now I hold you in my mind and heart as I write, almost as if we are having a regular chat that I look forward to each week. I heard an interview of an author on the radio a few months ago, where the interviewer noted that the author (uncommonly) wrote in the second person. I was unclear exactly what that meant. First person and third person are easy for me to grasp, but what exactly is second person as a writing style? I looked it up – It’s when the author uses “you,” “your” and “yours” in the narrative. It’s used a lot in advertising, songs and speeches. I see that how I write isn’t exactly in the second person – I mostly write in the first person, because I do use “I” all the time in these posts. But you are always present with me as I write. These posts wouldn’t be what they are without you. I need you!

Taking stock has me also looking forward to what will come in the next trip we take around the sun. October 1, 2015 will begin with landing at Charles De Gaulle airport, and making my way into Paris!!! It has worked out that I’ll be there on my own 2 days before and after our official pilgrimage. This will be the first time since 1999 that I’ve had any time in Paris all alone. Apart from a few meals with old friends, I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself. Not having plans is its own kind of gift – and it’s a lovely way to start the next “year.”

Gros Bisous – (big kisses)

Cara

September 22, 2015 – Lying down with the shadow

Our “baby dog” loves to rest on his mom’s bed

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I’ve hit another patch where I’m not sleeping through the night, which has me so appreciate how important it is to sleep well. I woke up groggy, and instead of getting up to write as I do on Tuesday mornings, I have been walking around the house in a fog. For the first time since I’ve started posting every week – almost a year ago – I’m at a total loss as to what to share with you today. I am sitting down and writing, and I have no idea what’s going to come out of my fingers. So, I’m starting with right where I am. I took 2mg of melatonin last night. I’ve never taken more than 1mg at a time. I have an extremely sensitive system, I guess, because I learned first-hand that one of the side-effects of taking too much is nightmares. After lying awake for what felt like a couple of hours, I got back to sleep and I had two very short, terrible dreams – they were short because they shook me awake!

The first one was the strangest experience. I was with Joe in our kitchen and (in my dream), realized I was having an out of body experience – I was watching myself as I was talking to him. Then, the strange part: what I can only describe as “dark energy” overtook me. It was as if I was being taken away – like I was being sucked into a black hole. I wanted to scream but couldn’t. It was fear more intense and powerful than I’d felt in a long time, if ever. I woke startled, but less than I’d expected I would. My heart was barely beating any faster than normal. What I was most struck by, was how not upset I was. I was aware of how consumed by fear I was in my dream, but also how totally safe and ok I felt lying in my bed warm and cozy, Bo’s fuzzy doggy-body lying up against mine on top of the covers. I was really fine. I had the thought to go crawl in bed with Joe for comfort, but I really wanted him to sleep.

The next thing that came to me was – that what I experienced was “the shadow.” Shadow exists in me, in my consciousness, in its most intense form and I fell into it, right in my own bed. And the next thought was of ISIS in the Middle East, (I know! But it’s where I went.) which to me is the most intense expression of the shadow these days. But it’s not isolated there – it’s in everything and everyone – violence, illness, disaster, fear. I’m still on the email prayer chain from the church I used to go to. In the past few days, the number of emails asking for prayers has surged – most of them are for people with terrible health problems. There are the fires in Lake County – I hear every day of someone who knows someone who lost everything. My uncle just asked me if I was concerned about the Syrian refugees, that are pouring into Europe during my upcoming trip to Paris. Everywhere we turn, there is suffering.

In the midst of all of this, I’m preparing to leave a week from tomorrow for our Pilgrimage to Paris. I bought a new raincoat, some new, stylish low-heeled booties and a whole bunch of new clothes yesterday – my wardrobe needed French-ifying! I’m going a couple days ahead of everyone else, so I can get things ready for them. I’m emailing with my old friends I used to work with there. We’re going to get together and catch up on each other’s lives. It’s all so wonderful. This trip is dream of mine realized. And the group of people going are all SO excited too, so looking forward to an incredible trip – “the trip of a lifetime” a few are calling it.

My painting, “Douce”

And there’s the art that’s coming through me. Somehow it seems to me that it’s becoming more luminous. It feels funny to be saying this to you, but I am. I look at “Douce” the painting I most recently finished – hanging on the wall in my mom’s office – our studio for part of the week. I see the space that the glass and flowers occupy. I see the light gleaming through – all in a way that doesn’t exist in my earlier work. Or at least, not as much. I had a conversation last week with my friend Vicki about all of this. I have this nagging sense that what I do is trivial in the light of all this suffering. She said, “oh, if we all stop making beautiful things because life is too hard, then we are lost! We need you.” I’m so grateful for my friend.

Vicki left on Saturday for the Democratic Republic of the Congo. She’s there to teach trauma healing, to the survivors of the worst sexual violence on the planet. Suffering in the Congo really is everywhere. Before she left, she was very anxious about her role, comparing herself to others who are great at fundraising and making logistical stuff happen. I told her she will be bringing a kind of light with her that is priceless. She woke her first morning and sent me this via email:

“I was lying awake this morning (it’s morning here) in rapture. I know I am divinely led, not by anything I understand or want to name, but my being here and whatever comes out of it, is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing…I know my words, and know they guide me: Transcendent, joyous, joyful, happy, excited, connected, wisdom, knowing–is there a word for being one with the universe, being in sync with all that is, in the flow? I think it’s GRACE. Because that’s where I am. And I remembered what Manuel Rodriquez encourages, that when you feel this grace, this wonderful affirmation of who you are, and all that is good in you and in the world, you spend time letting it sink in, really experiencing the physicality of it, the juice of it in your veins.”

I think we spend a lot more time paying attention to our experience of suffering. It’s natural to do this. Our suffering has a place – that is to get our attention – something needs attending to! And if we don’t there can be dire consequences. But where I’m looking now after sharing all of this with you, is that the idea is to contain the suffering in a larger space, a larger consciousness. What Vicki is talking about, letting grace seep in, experiencing the “juice of it in our veins,” grows in us the capacity to hold it all – the beauty and the suffering. I recall having bad dreams in the past, not even as intense as this morning’s – and having been shaken, so much that I felt outside myself. I see my own evolution, in how right-in-my-center I felt as I was jolted awake this morning.

There is a part of me that is protesting posting this for you – and anyone on the internet – to read. One could say it doesn’t seem quite aligned with “life in full color.” But, it actually is – full color is all color – life as it is. To me it’s the only “right” way to respond to all the suffering that happens around me, and in me – to share it as I experience it, not to avoid the truth of it. And then keep making beauty as if life depends upon it.

Love,

Cara

September 15, 2015 – I am a journalist!

A photo I bought because it, in a small way, evokes my waking dream.

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I have a recurring waking dream, a fantasy, I guess. It came to me in a contemplative moment, something like 10 or 15 years ago. It downloaded as a fully formed experience in my mind and even in my body. In my “dream”, I wake to the sunlight coming through soft, gauzy curtains covering the windows in my room. I’m in fresh, white sheets and am wearing a simple white cotton short, sleeveless nightie. I get out of bed, onto the tile floor and go through French doors, outside to a large patio. The patio has terra cotta pavers and a wrought iron railing. On the patio are big terra cotta and glazed blue pots of lemon and orange trees, and orange and pink bougainvillea and – of course – climbing roses in bloom. The house, this place I’m in, is up on a hillside above the blue sea – somehow I know it’s the Mediterranean, though I don’t know if it’s France or Italy or Spain, or Greece even. The air is scented with the orange and lemon blossoms, and the roses and the fresh sea air. I can hear birds fluttering around and birdsong; other than that, it’s very quiet and the air is still. I’m fit and tan and comfortable in my own skin. I’m alone and completely content.

The experience of this waking dream has been so compelling to me, that I’ve attempted to find movies that evoke this sense of place and mood. “Enchanted April” for a long time, was closer than anything else I’d seen, but it’s not quite right. I came across the description of a film online years ago, about a woman who returns to Greece after a divorce to find herself. I think it had “Mediterranean” in the title and was filmed on an island, and I had hopes that it might be like my waking dream. I was never able to find out how to get a hold of this film to watch it, and have even lost touch with what it’s called at this point.

The more recent movie, “Mamma Mia,” the Meryl Streep adaptation of the stage musical, comes closer – it has the colors, the Mediterranean setting with the views of the sea and the light spirit. The year it came out, Joe gave the DVD to me for Christmas. One morning, in that special time out-of-time between Christmas and New Year’s, I watched it in my PJ’s, wrapped in a blanket, with my morning tea. Watching a movie in the morning before even getting dressed, is just the most decadent thing for me to do! I remember actually having tears at the sweetness of both the movie, and the experience of watching it in my pajamas.

I’ve described my dream to a few people, some of whom have suggested I paint it. The idea of this completely stymies me. I have no idea where to even start. It doesn’t occur for me to make paintings out of my imagination. There has been a part of me that has felt not like a “real” artist because of this. If I were, I’d know how to paint from my mind’s eye. I was relieved of this when I heard an interview on the radio of two writers. They were brother and sister – he a poet and short story writer, and she a journalist. They spoke of their process. For him, it had to come from within him. She said that she must witness, that she couldn’t make it up for the life of her. Hearing this I had a forehead slapping moment: “Oh, I get it. I am a journalist!” I must witness what it is I paint! I can’t make it up for the life of me, either! It has been incredibly freeing to know this about myself. Just as journalists are business writers, political writers, food writers, sports writers, I have a “beat” too. Mine is beauty – in the form of flowers, fruit, food (mostly sweets) and a few dogs. At least, so far.

Orchids in Balboa Park

I’m convinced we are born with our art in us. I’ve been taking photos of flowers, since I was in college in San Diego. In my old photo albums, there are pictures of orchids I took in Balboa Park, when I was still a teenager! I continue to be compelled to capture flowers, but my vision has evolved. As I’ve become more enlightened, my journalist filter has too. These orchid photos and even some of the early references for my paintings, lacked the light that so compels me now.

I was lying in bed this morning, before even opening my eyes, thinking about all of this. I was categorizing (another of my compulsions) my paintings, according to how I witnessed their subjects.

• There are those that absolutely struck me – that stopped me in my tracks to get a camera and capture them – Fauchon Eclairs, Honey Bee and Rugosa Roses, Family of Lemons, Jubilee.
• There are those I set up and played around with – what we’d call floral “still life” paintings – Full Circle, Grace, Blush, Summertime, Lustina and my new one, Douce.
• There are those where I went in search of one thing and found another – Blossoming Hope and A Celebration of Pink.
• Some I had to climb up a ladder to get into a tree to witness more closely – Tropical Peaches, Apricots in the Sun, Queen Anne Cherries. For Manualoha I risked life and limb by putting a patio chair on a outdoor table to get close enough to the plumeria flowers – I was determined!
• And, some came from images I took even before I was really painting, and had no inkling when I captured them they’d become a painting – Blue Door, Reach, Twin Dahlias, Lunch on the Terrace.

However they come to me, I witnessed. The thing that captured me was outside of me. And my camera is an integral part of my process. It records the visual part of the moment I experienced. This is why it’s really important to me to paint only from my own images. I’ve been tempted a few times by other’s images, but so far, I’ve not. I have this sense that my having been there, my having had the lived experience, really does translate to the “realness” of my paintings. This may be something that I’m making up, but it’s something that I feel pretty strongly about.

So, as much as I have this desire to see – in photos, in film, in some form – my waking dream, maybe that’s not the point of it. Maybe whether or not I ever paint it isn’t important. Maybe it’s meant to be a sensual experience, that I can conjure for myself to take me to that special place, where I am peaceful and safe and content – and immersed in loveliness. Maybe it’s a mythical, mystical place in my imagination that is just for me.

And maybe I’m only meant to paint what I witness. I paint to convey how I see this world, our world. I can’t tell you how many people share with me their photos of beautiful flowers. They say that when they saw this flower, they thought of me. Me. They see beautiful flowers and I come to mind. Hearing this breaks me open. It’s a remarkable experience to know that my witnessing and sharing the beauty I see in the world, has brought some amongst you to do that too. This affirms that I’m doing what I’m meant to – that how I witness and paint is actually my mission.

Something about this makes me think of the end of Desiderata, Max Ehrmann’s poem that so inspires me: “With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

With my love and gratitude,

Cara

September 8, 2015 – Scattering seeds

The painting “Still” that found its home this weekend.

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I have just spent three days at the Sausalito Art Festival, showing and selling my artwork. This is the eighth year in a row that I’ve been invited to show at this festival – one of the top outdoor art shows in west, if not in the whole country. Thousands of people see my artwork over the three days. Because of the caliber of the event, there is the expectation that I would sell lots of art. And the booth fee is commensurate with that expectation! Aye yai yai!

Yesterday was hot, which generally makes for slow sales. We all spend energy coping with the heat, that would otherwise be available to paying attention to the festival go-ers and they to the artwork. Yesterday I had just one sale all day. “Still”- the original painting – sold. It’s always exciting to sell an original and doing so, planted in me magical-thinking, “maybe today will be a banner day” kind of expectation. But…and…that’s not the way it went. Please don’t read me wrong – I’m very grateful for that one sale and that it was a good sized one! But, my expectation of land office business didn’t pan out.

I had several print sales over the previous two days and in the end, I did just fine this weekend. The bills will be paid plus some. But I remind myself, that filling the financial coffers is so not the only reason I do these events. The Sausalito Art Festival offers me the opportunity to share my work in all its forms, with more new people than in anything else I do. My weekend was filled with one encounter after the next, that made the weekend an incredible success, whether art and money changed hands or not.

Here are a few that stand out to me:

• A young woman (seemed she was in her 20’s, but I could be way off!) came into my booth and her eyes spontaneously brimmed with tears – she didn’t exactly know why, but she just couldn’t keep them from coming. She kept saying “I’m sorry” as she wiped her eyes. As I handed her a tissue, I gently said that she so did not need to apologize. I told her she made my day. Who doesn’t want to have someone moved to tears when just looking at her art?
• Two women who live in Austin, Texas, took the time to read every one of my story cards and my artist statement. They told me how my writing impressed – and moved – them. I told them how grateful I was to be so received and gotten by them. Who doesn’t want to have strangers be able to see into her soul and see beauty there?
• A young woman read the story I wrote, about why I gave the name “Blush” to the painting of the peonies in the cut glass vase – it’s related to my history with stage fright. She shared with me that she suffers terribly with it as I have. We swapped stories of the agony we’ve experienced, because of our minds’ and bodies’ reaction to speaking in front of a group of people. I told her that it’s absolutely possible to heal it – that I am completely on the other side of it and so can she be. I passed along to her information about Lee Glickstein and www.speakingcircles.com. Who doesn’t want to be able to offer real hope to someone whose suffering she knows intimately?
• I spent a long time talking to a guy a little older than I, who had recently lost his wife and is now making a new life for himself. He was really taken by “Pomegranates, Jacinta’s Garden” and was blown away by the fact that that tree was growing on an island in Croatia – a place he has a strong pull for and is headed to visit soon. We talked about the places he was going and where I’d been there. He’s considering how he can swing it to buy the painting. I told I’d work with him. This one has been around since my first year and has been waiting for its home. Who doesn’t want to have the inkling her art may end up in a place, where it’s deeply appreciated and meaningful?
• And, there were too many to count who asked about workshops and classes. After telling them about what my groups are like, they left excited that they were going to come learn with me. Who doesn’t want to know that what she has to offer, is just what someone has been looking for?
• On top of all of this, were the hugs from lots of loved ones, for whom the fullness of our lives, means we don’t meet up any other place but at these shows. I’m so grateful they put in the effort to deal with the parking and crowds to come to the festival – meaning I get to see them. One of them was Lorraine, who I met years ago in Healdsburg. She lives in New Jersey and comes out to this festival every year. She closed down my booth for me so I could make my papa’s birthday dinner. Who doesn’t want to know that people will go out of their way – at least in part – to come see and support her?

My festival booth this past weekend.

Doing these events requires energy – physical, mental, and even emotional. I want to be welcoming and engage with anyone who comes through and expresses interest. Encounters like these put the energy back in me, to keep me going hour after hour. In retrospect, I see they also affirm that I’m doing what I’m meant to do – that what I do has impact and resonance with people.

Sometimes I dream of not having to schlep all the stuff, and spend all the hours in the vulnerable place of waiting for the sales to come in – (or not). But when I consider not doing these events, I realize that I’d terribly miss being there with people, who are encountering my art. If I were just represented by galleries and in other shows where I wasn’t present, I’d miss out on these experiences – which fuel me to keep going. As artists we each have our path, we each have our way. This way fits for me – at least for now. It is in line with the emotional quality of my artwork and who I am as a person. I’m all about intimacy – it’s all over my art – it’s all over my encounters with people. And this means experiencing it – even in brief moments – is fulfilling to me.

Having a few years in with this festival, I see the overall impact – all the artists who are now in my groups – in my life – every week because of this festival. And I see those who return year after year, who eventually invest in a piece of artwork that inspires them, and those who circle back to connect, and tell me how much they love my art in their home. I’m scattering seeds without knowing how or even if they will germinate. My spiritual director, Sister Mary keeps reminding me that I’m in this for the infinite game. There is calling and mission in why I do this.

I also see all the support that has made my doing this possible – my husband for supporting my life, my incredible mama for always doing all she can to support me. This year my nephew Brad, Tom O’Neil, Carla and Alicia came out to help with the setup. Jeffrey was my support angel on Sunday, and Mama spent the day with me yesterday – beaming her love and pride all over me and my booth. After writing this, I’m headed down with Brad to go take it all down and put it all away until next year. I’m hoping there will be a next year – we never know who the jury will select. And in the meantime, I have faith that the seeds – at least some of them – that were scattered over the past three days, will sprout and flower in ways I cannot know in this moment.

With my love and gratitude,

Cara

September 1, 2015 – My Donna

Donna and me at my 50th birthday.

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When I was 25 and making plans to marry my first husband, my mom asked me to go see a therapist named Donna. She wanted Donna to talk me out of marrying him. I was marrying an alcoholic and my mom was – understandably – pretty much beside herself, that I was choosing to spend the rest of my life like this. I don’t remember anything about that session, except that she ended up connecting me to the musicians, who played at our wedding ceremony and for the dancing later – and she sang a torch song at our reception. So much for changing my mind! I’m forever grateful to my Mama for bringing her into my life. I just talked to Donna on the phone yesterday, which has me reflecting who we are to each other and what she has meant in my life. I can’t imagine how things would have turned out without my Donna.

After the wedding it took me about seven years to circle back. Life had become unbearable and I needed help. It was an hour’s drive to come see Donna, so I thought I’d see if I could find someone close to home down near the San Francisco Airport. I was so alone in my emotional pain living there – and everyone around me was so asleep in their lives, there wasn’t anyone to ask about a therapist, so I got this guy’s name from the phonebook. One session, I did almost all the talking. I paid him $85 – a LOT of money back then – to have him tell me that he’d see me again. Wait, what? No reflection, no encouragement, no nothing. So I made the drive to Marin to see Donna. She helped me find my way through the irrational, but very real fear that if I left my marriage I’d die. It was she who helped me see that my panic attacks had a message for me. It was she who asked that day, 20 years ago in August, if I needed a break – which was the invitation to step through that door to leave. It was she who then told me after I did leave, not to take life one day at a time, but one hour at a time. It was she who helped me see my way through the loneliness, when I was single (I love being married.) Then later, it was she who first said I am a teacher.

It’s impossible to know how many hours I spent, on the salmon-pink velveteen couch in the little partially -underground room behind and beneath a house in Kentfield. I’m so grateful it was that kind of space, rather than a generic office, with a doubled door and a waiting room filled with magazines outside. All those sessions, walking in knowing relief was on its way. All the time I spent in that room – the glimpses out the window through the wooden shutters at the “First Prize” rosebush, and the blue agapanthus, her fluid, lyrical watercolors on the walls, the candle flickering on the corner of the old oak desk. I was safe in that cocoon as I awoke, bit by loving bit, with her guidance and cut-through-the-murk clarity. I learned about the process of transformation in that room, by watching myself, my consciousness, grow and expand. Donna has always seen who I am to become – or who I have always been, but not had access to – before I could. She’s held that vision of me, for me until I grew able to step up to claim and embody it.

This past weekend, I had some emotional turmoil come up – relationship challenges. And my first impulse is still to call Donna. If I call her I know that I’ll be heard and gotten, and will see how the situation ultimately serves me. She’s done her work with me, such that I already know what she’ll say and I can mostly conjure it up for myself. This weekend I was able to sit with the pit in my belly and my tears, witness myself and my pain much in the way she has for me over and over, for 28 years.

Donna and I have spent wonderful times together, apart from that sweet space in Kentfield too: we share the watercolor journey and have taken a class or two together; my parents and I prepared all the food for when she and her sweet, funny Allan got married; she did my makeup and put gardenias in my hair when Joe and I got married. And we’ve been to each other’s milestone birthdays and many other family celebrations.

My family is culturally Catholic and as such, I have Godparents who held me as a baby at my baptism. And I have a Goddaughter. When my brother and sister-in-law, Joe and Vernona, asked me to be their daughter Amanda’s Godmother, I said of course, I’d be honored. But then there was a real church ceremony! At her baptism, I was asked to promise that I’d help them raise her as a Christian. Said like this, it seems like I’m agreeing to make sure she’s indoctrinated with the teachings of the church, which felt inauthentic and incomplete. I’d not choose these words, so I consciously translated this promise for myself, privately, in my heart. In being Amanda’s Godmother, I was agreeing to look after her spiritual well-being. I was going to care for her heart, her spirit, her inner-self. I’d be a receptive place for her questioning and struggling – when she wanted and needed it.

I appreciate this opportunity to re-define for myself, what being a Godmother means to me, because it’s given me a way to hold who Donna is to me. It seems so inadequate to call her my “therapist” after all this time – and for her to call me a “client.” We call each other Spiritual Godmother, Spiritual Goddaughter. Though she didn’t hold me as a baby at my baptism, I have in her what I hold as what a Godmother really is, in the most important and valuable way.

She has two sons, but no daughters, so it’s sweet to think that she holds me in a special way as I do her. I’m certain that she has other long-time clients for whom she is their Donna. Remarkable people like Donna, are gifts to the world, to so many of us. I’d never selfishly claim her as my very own! But I can claim who she is to me, and in my life as special and unique. She’s my teacher and guide, my Spiritual Godmother, my sister Enneagram type-two; she’s bawdy and lusty and girly-girl, just like me!

Getting to mid-life gives us the opportunity to reflect on what has made up our life-so-far. There’s still promise of more to come, but also enough traveled through to have collected treasures. Shining brightly in my collection is my Donna.

My Donna, I thank you, I cherish you, I love you.

Cara

August 25, 2015 – It all works out in the end

I worked my way through the hydrangea last night – on to the rose! I need to finish soon!

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I subscribe to a magazine called “The Intelligent Optimist.” It’s filled with all kinds of good news, that fuels my hope for the future of the planet and humanity. They are not just heartwarming human interest stories, but innovations and shifts in consciousness, that foretell a bright future for us all. Most other “news” is filled with examples of how the shadow is alive and well, and at work in our midst. I’m such a sponge, and susceptible to soaking up all that is around me. Even if I work to avoid it, it’s there anyway – the newspaper shows up every morning and I see headlines. This makes it vital to my life and capacity to do what I do, and even be who I am, that I balance all of that with another point of view.

With my latest renewal came a gift of a skinny little paperback, called “The Intelligent Optimist’s Guide to Life.” It’s been sitting around all summer niggling me to read it. In the past week, I’ve been feeling like my nervous system is hyperventilating with all the – amazingly wonderful – things going on in my life – Paris planning, two group art shows and a reception, the upcoming Sausalito Art Festival, ongoing teaching (the biggest Saturday class yet was this past weekend), working on my own paintings and then the rest of my life! I’ve been having a hard time sleeping deeply, with all the details that have been buzzing in my head, and all the time on the computer doing email. I decided I needed an intervention and picked up the book.

The author (the magazine’s publisher, Jurriaan Kamp) starts by citing the beginning of M. Scott Peck’s book “The Road Less Travelled:” Life is difficult. And only when we fully accept this, such that where we start is from that place of acceptance of life’s difficulty, that life becomes no longer difficult. Optimism starting from this place is another breed – so not Pollyanna. Like what I shared last week, about feeling trivialized by being so “sweet” I’ve felt trivialized by being such an optimist. Like being an optimist means not being a realist. So I fuel myself with the reality as reported in this magazine and this book. I’m compelled to share with you some of what I’m learning. Did you know that…?

• We live in the most peaceful era ever – humans are killing each other, as a percentage of population, in far lower numbers than ever – and are on a downward trend. Really. Human life is becoming more valued.
• Overpopulation is a myth – I was blown away by this: if we lived in families of 4 in a house on a 1/10th of an acre, all 7 billion of us could fit within the state of Texas. We’d need another state of Texas to work and move around, but then the rest of the land on the planet could be used for growing food and wild lands.
• We can feed everyone too – because of better technology, agricultural yields per acre are increasing and we are actually taking land out of farm production because of it. GMO’s are not needed for this to happen either. And we need to stop wasting food. We produce enough food; it needs to be better distributed.
• Natural resources are still abundant – we are getting better at how we use them, and re-use them – and we are constantly innovating. There will be technologies in the future that we can’t even imagine now. In 1973 the Saudi Arabian oil minister said “The Stone Age did not end for lack of stone and The Oil Age will end before we run out of oil.” There’s a hopeful thought from 40 years ago!

We can see all of this only by taking the long, historical view. Yes, there are challenges before us, and still much work to do on each of these fronts. But there have always been challenges – life is difficult! It seems the whole point, in a way. My friend Vicki told me yesterday of someone she knew, who happily went off to work looking for problems to solve.

It’s so often reported, the terrible cost of human impact on the planet – and fears that life could get really hard for people in the future because of it. But what about all the beauty that we’ve created? What about music, and art (!) and all the ways our souls express and touch other souls? And the way we understand the cosmos, and can contemplate things like infinity and eternity? I just refuse to believe that we evolved to have the consciousness we do, to have it all go to hell in a handbasket.

Creativity is spurred by challenge, by restriction and by necessity. My deep belief is that we are headed for a surge of creative innovation and re-invention, because of the coming crisis – or even just the fear of its possibility. And reading this magazine, I see it already happening – all over the place in all kinds of ways.

Being me, I’m always looking at what I learn through the lens of art-making. So then, starting with what M. Scott Peck wrote – making art is difficult. And accepting that it is, beginning from there, it is no longer so hard. It doesn’t go as well if I start from the illusion that I will sit down to paint, and it will all just flow effortlessly out of me. I find myself saying to myself, and those who paint with me, that we call it art work for a reason. I do find myself sometimes getting into “the zone” when I paint. But mostly not. Mostly it’s quite an effort – evaluating shapes and colors, and what is needed for what I’m painting to become more alive – is work.
Just as taking the long view of human history provides another more hopeful point of view, taking the long view of my art keeps me going. Since 2005 or so, I’ve painted over 75 detailed, good-sized paintings. Maybe not as prolific as some artists, but based on the time each one takes and all else I do, this is an impressive body of work – one that amazes me! I put down each one of those brushstrokes!

It’s even helpful to take the long view within the life of a single painting – to step back, away from that little part that was vexing me – to see the whole thing taking shape. It encourages me to keep going. I often paint after dinner until bedtime. Then lean my painting up against the wall next to the bed. I look at it just before turning out the soft light on the nightstand. And just take it in. I’m not so much evaluating it for what’s needed, but just gaze at it. Watching it take shape is always a marvel. As if I am a bystander.
I love the Geoffrey Rush character in the movie “Shakespeare in Love”, who goes around saying to everyone “you know, it all works out in the end.” When asked how that is, he replies “don’t know, it’s a mystery.” I’m all for being an intelligent optimist – and living in that mystery.

With my love,

Cara

August 18, 2015 – Coming home to sweetness

My painting on the deck in Tahoe – on my morning of joy.

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One of my childhood friends was Jeanine, and her dad played John Denver’s music a lot. I’m remembering being in their high-ceilinged living room hearing all those songs – Sunshine on my Shoulders, Thank God I’m a Country Boy, Rocky Mountain High. My mom and dad weren’t into his music. The popular music they listened to was Simon and Garfunkel, Carly Simon, The Beatles’ Abbey Road – and my dad really liked Donna Summer! Isn’t it remarkable how the music we listen to when we are young, holds a place that new music can’t reach? It’s “our” music. I’m thankful to my friend’s dad for making John Denver part of my music.

There are songs that when I hear them, bring me right back to where I was and what was happening in my life. John Denver’s Take me Home Country Roads is one of them. It brings me to a few places. The earliest is the summer the song came out. I was swimming and jumping off the high-dive – with Jeannine – at the pool at the College of Marin athletic center, where her dad was a teacher. Paul Revere and the Raiders’ Cherokee Nation was also played that summer at the pool. Another time was 1984, I was with my college boyfriend, my brother Joe and his then girlfriend Kim, on a bus on the island of Brac in Croatia. We were going from the village Su Petar (St. Peter), where we got off the ferry, to Selca, the village where our grandparents were born and married. There we were, on this old bus, in our Vuarnet sunglasses and Swatch watches – with many women dressed all in black – and crates of live chickens. The PA on the bus was playing, Take me Home, Country Roads. I’m pretty certain we were the only four on the bus who understood the words!

Top: Joe and me in 1984 with two of our Croatian relatives.
Bottom: me in 1996, with the village of Selca in the distance.

Then, more than a decade later, in 1996 while I was living my half-year in Paris, I was in the Loire Valley in France. It was mid-August, and I’d taken a solo long-weekend to visit the castles that I did a report on when I was taking French in college. I’d been on a late afternoon hot air balloon ride that ended just at sunset, followed by a dinner with a Belgian/Danish couple, about my age, I’d met on the balloon. As I was driving myself back to the Chambre d’Hote (the French term for B&B) where I was staying, it was dark – no street lights along these tiny roads. I’d had a glass of wine with dinner, and I was all by myself. I would have been anxious and frightened in my recent past – at the end of my first marriage, when panic attacks were the order of the day. Yet, I was not one bit fearful. I knew exactly where I was going. It was a warm evening and I had the sunroof open, and the windows down in my little rental car. Nothing but starlight all around me. I was 5,500 miles away from everyone who loves me, all alone in another country – and I was peaceful and content. I felt completely safe and whole, and was right where I belonged. In that moment, it was just me and God – and it was perfect. If anyone I’d known had been there with me, this experience would not have been possible. I’ll never forget how incredible moment felt in my body. In retrospect, I see that this was why I needed to go to France, at that point in my life. And, as I was driving along, playing on the local radio station was, Take me Home Country Roads. “Almost heaven, West Virginia…”.

Me, in 1996 in front of the Chateau Chambord in the Loire Valley the day after.

When we were just in Tahoe, one morning early in the vacation, I was painting and listening to John Denver in my ear buds. Sweet Surrender was the song. I found myself almost giddy with joy – I was SO happy. Happy for the morning sunlight, happy to be painting these vibrant colors, just happy to be happy. And the song was a big part of my buoyant mood. For whatever reason, this kicked off a curiosity about John Denver and his life. I read some online – there were tabloid-esque references to his troubled personal life, and I read his music being called saccharine. I just finished listening to an abridged version of his autobiography – “Take Me Home” – narrated by him. He wrote and spoke his story, not long before he died (at 53). He did the EST training early on, and worked to understand himself and life. His story revealed that he had a perspective on his shadow side – he even poked a bit of fun at himself. He was human and flawed, and also was immensely talented and creative and deeply thoughtful.  He cared a lot about what I care about – our Earth-home, and that people are touched by what he created. Saccharine or not, his music has touched millions and millions of us.

This has me thinking about sweetness. I’ve been called “sweet” a lot in my life. And I’ve been teased about it. A college roommate called me “Corny Cara.” Sweet, sentimental and sensitive – it’s felt like a bad thing. Then there’s that term saccharine. What makes something good-sweet or overly-sweet-saccharine? For one thing, it’s completely subjective. Some of us naturally live, centered in our hearts, in our emotions. For those of us, sweetness is the water we swim in. But for those who don’t, their tolerance for emotionality is much lower. These are the people we get the eye-rolls from. And besides all of this, if sweetness is expressed through a consciousness, that can also hold and experience suffering, loss and pain, it’s an entirely different sweetness. There is a maturity to it – an expression of joy, without denying that there is bitterness too. Bittersweet – like the best chocolate!

I love the scene at the end of “Steel Magnolias,” after the funeral when M’Lynne (Sally Fields) loses it in her grief that she could “jog all the way to Texas,” but Shelby (Julia Roberts) – her diabetic daughter who just died – never could. And then Claree (Olympia Dukakis) pushes Ouiser (Shirley McLain), offering her for M’Lynne to beat on, to take out her grief and anger. It’s completely heart breaking and then hysterically funny. As much as it’s unthinkable to joke about a mother losing her daughter, the heavy emotion all on its own is too much. Laughing through tears is good medicine.

I cannot imagine a world without sweetness. I’d whither and implode in despair. I keep coming back, over and over to balance, we need it all – us all. What I bring is like Truvvy – the Dolly Parton character in Steel Magnolias, kind-hearted and warm, with my own brand of folksy wisdom. I’m pretty much over feeling the need to apologize for being sweet – in a world that gives a lot of attention to snarkiness and sarcasm. And, like John Denver, it’s good for me to poke fun at my inclination to be so serious and literal at times. The people in my life I most want to be with, are those who are really at home in their own skin, who have come to own and accept their foibles and their gifts. Their genuine self-acceptance brings an ease and – yes, a sweetness – that is the invitation to have more of it myself. Take me home, country roads — to the home that is me.

Love,

Cara