August 2, 2016 – Mindfulness, simplified…

“Just finished this little one (15″ x 15″). My painting to keep my promise to paint every day.”

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Right after sending off last week’s post, Joe, Bo (our puppy dog) and I went on a hike, and the thing that I couldn’t remember, came back to me! A victory of memory recall! Yay! The source of the “wisdom of not knowing”, was a TED talk by Ellen Langer, a social psychologist who is known for her decades-long work on mindfulness. She’s been talking about it for longer than most, and in a way that is simpler, than I’d ever heard described before. My understanding of practicing mindfulness, as Buddhists talk about it, is: sitting in meditation, being present to our minds, our thoughts and practicing letting them go. Ellen Langer describes mindfulness, in contrast to mindlessness – mindfulness is simply “actively noticing new things.” This sounds to me like being awake and aware versus being on auto-pilot. Ellen Langer says we form a point of view, based on our experiences and then we get fixed there. This fixation has us make assumptions and see things from only one perspective – the one based upon our life-so-far. But if we learn to become open, curious, not stuck in our own way of thinking, life is a wide open field of possibility.

Her work, as she talks about it in her videos online, is fascinating. She has learned, that how we think, changes our reality in all kinds of ways – relationships, what becomes possible for our lives, even the state of our physical bodies and our health. I am a naturally inquisitive person, and I realize how this has impacted my capacity to live a life of transformation. My dear friend Stephanie has come to join me in Tahoe for a few days, and as dear girlfriends do, we’ve been talking for hours – about our stories, our lives, our histories. Yesterday I reflected, as we talked on the person I was in my 20’s. Other than my family, there is hardly anything about my life, how I operate, how I see the world, how I see myself and what I hold possible, that is the same as then. “What if….” is a state of being for me. And as I evolve, my curiosity seems to be growing ever larger.

This isn’t to say, that I’m open and curious and in the field of possibility, all the time! Like everyone, I forget thousands of times a day. But, it’s my experience, and thus has become my commitment, that keeping this kind of information coming in on a regular basis, sets me up to return to mindfulness more easily – and progressively more frequently. Interactions – especially with people I am close to – are always a place to practice. Here’s how she says we can shift things: if I realize that someone’s behavior makes sense from their perspective – their world view, (which they may be mindlessly stuck in), it changes my view that they are – from my world view – misbehaving. This then opens me, to see, that there is always the other side of the coin. If I see someone as rigid, I have one experience of them, but if I shift to seeing them as principled and reliable, it’s a whole other. Change a word or two, and we get vastly different effects.

It’s quite evident that our world has become more contentious, more filled with conflict – violence even, than I can ever remember it. We are in an epidemic of edginess and testiness, and just being done with the state of things. This is happening, of course, in all the big ways that make the news, but I’m seeing it also in more local and even personal ways. The festival I did in June, has been a pretty crappy art show for many years, in fact, it was even worse in the midst of the recession, but it was this year that conversation took off like wildfire on the local Nextdoor websites, about how shamefully it reflects upon the Town of San Anselmo, and how something must be done about it. Just on this vacation, someone left a really nasty note, about how we parked our car and a guy gave my husband stink eye, at seeing our dog at the beach. I’ve been watching people around me, including me – reaching the end of our ropes – saying, “I won’t take that from you anymore!” In the midst of this, I’ve decided to take on attempting to not react, not to judge – or at least to not to act upon my judgement. Preventing judgement seems just about impossible to me – most of the time! It is my intention to up my game on remaining open hearted.

“One (22″ x 22″) of a single apple – working on not judging how these leaves are coming out!”

Yesterday, Steff and I were flat on our bellies on our towels at the beach, when Steff asked me what I was going to write about today. A word popped into my head: allowing. Allowing? If we are at the end of our rope, doesn’t it seem that “allowing” is just what we are no longer willing to do? As I started to talk it out with Steff, I started to see how, allowing as a necessary step in being able to really see and even possibly receive, what is happening for someone else – or even in the larger world. Combining “I’m done” with “allowing”, or maybe following “I’m done” with the capacity to allow what is – is a paradox, that feels what’s called for. It ends the tug of war and lands me in that field of possibility, that invites what’s next to emerge. Creative change becomes then possible.

“I need to just allow how long this one is taking – I’ve never taken on one so big (40″ x 40″) with so much details!”

As always, the next question that comes up in my head is: how does this relate to making art, painting, being creative? There’s no shortage of pre-conceived notions in artists – especially when we just start out or are returning to making art. We may have experiences of making art in our past – what has been said to us, or about our art – that forms a world-view, from which we come to our art making. We can practice allowing, being aware and curious – being mindful about ourselves and our perspective. From here, we have more freedom and permission to jump in – plus, it just might open us to something completely new and unexpected.

Ellen Langer offered the idea of noticing something new about our people in our lives every day, as a way to keep our relationships vital. It occurs to me in this moment to ask, what if I do that about my own art making? What is new about my creative impulses, that I can allow to come into my awareness today? I have no idea! Here I am back to the wisdom of “not knowing.” There is a gift, at being at the end of our rope. It is the catalyst for what’s next – which is what propels us along in our evolution – not just each of us individually, but all of humanity. In my life, it is just what has brought me closer and closer to painting my true love, and the capacity to be whole-hearted. I never want to know all there is to know about what I do; I want my last breath to be filled with curiosity.

Thank you for reading – it’s always a gift to me.

With my love,

Cara

July 26, 2016 – The wisdom in not knowing

There’s so much “fuzzy background” in this painting I’m working on!

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My path to being a teacher has been a reluctant one. I’ve come to it haltingly, not easily landing in the authority to share what I know and what I think. The workshop I offer on color, is the only one that has actual curriculum – where I stand and talk (dare I say lecture?) and direct participants to do actual exercises. The rest of my teaching is drawn from me by the student-artists, who are facing challenges in their paintings. You who come paint with me set the agenda, not me. I need for you to tell me what your problem is, how I can provide instruction, guidance, advice. What color should I use? How can I make this leaf look more like it is turning? I can then share what I see and what I’ve learned, that might apply to your situation. But otherwise, who am I to say what someone else’s painting is “supposed” to look like. I don’t know! I also find myself saying “I don’t know” a whole lot – not just in my teaching world, but all over in my life. Even though, I am a pretty capable person (in the ways that I am) I’m still often reluctant to claim it.

And on the other hand, I am a compulsive knower. I am pretty much addicted to looking something up online, when I don’t know. And I really like to know. I always loved raising my hand with the confidence of knowing, I had the right answer in school. And I can get pretty dogmatic about things, even if only in my own head. I can be “right” about recycling and about how something should be cooked. If someone gets something incorrect in what they say, the fact-checker in my head is all over it. There is a sense of power, of solidness in me when I’m sitting in the center of “I know.”

In the past few weeks, I read or heard something that has pointed me to the wisdom of not knowing. I’ve been cruising in my memory banks to remember exactly where – still to no avail. So, I’m sorry I can’t provide proper credit. But the idea is this: knowing is a fixed place. There’s no place to go, no room for new insight, for discovery. This idea brought with it a big sense of relief and even freedom. As long as the “I don’t know” is held without shame or inadequacy, it is a really wonderful place to be. It has me recall and connect to other bits of wisdom, I’ve encountered along my way.

First it is aligned with the left and right brain modes, that Iain McGilchrist lays out in “The Master and His Emissary” – a book that captured my thoughts towards the beginning of the year. It is our left-brain way of being that sees in discrete facts; this mode is attached to knowing. Whereas when we are in our right-brain mode, we are curious and interested in what has yet to be revealed to us. The wisdom of “I don’t know” also brings me to something that I heard Henry Kimsey-House say, during the leadership program I was in the middle of a decade ago. He suggested that we have “no expectations and abundant expectancy.” If I know it causes me to expect things to be a certain way, but expectancy is a place of wonder. Benjamin and Rosamund (Roz) Zander wrote a wonderful book called the “Art of Possibility”, that I read a bit before leadership – when I was in coach training. At the start of the book, they invite the reader to distinguish between “possibilities” and “possibility.” It seems subtle – and it is enormous. Possibilities are distinct outcomes that can be described, predicted. But possibility is a space, a potential that can’t be described – it can’t be known.

Joe and I are in Tahoe – our late-summer trip here with Bo, enjoying the beauty of the lake and the Sierras. I paint a lot when we are here. Yesterday I was on Audible.com looking for something to listen to as I painted, and the title of a talk by Adyashanti called to me: Healing the Core Wound of Unworthiness. I’m not a follower of his, but I’d heard of him. This past week life has handed me a cluster of situations, that have me tapping into this part of me. And in this life, I’m committed to transformation – which means tending to my pain. So I dove in. He explained that what heals our unworthiness, is the redemptive love that the whole universe has for us – regardless of what we’ve done and what we believe about ourselves. And, towards the end of the two-hour program, there it was again. Our unworthiness is fed by stories that we believe to be true – stories seem like our reality. One antidote to this, is to sit in the place of not knowing – to disconnect from what we believe to be true about our lives – past and present.

As I was listening, I was painting the “fuzzy background” of this big painting of apple blossoms and bees. If there’s one kind of painting that takes me out of certainty – regardless of how much time I’ve spent doing it – it is attempting to recreate the out-of-focus shapes, that I see in my reference image – with watercolor! Too much water it goes everywhere, too dry and I have a hard edge that’s a challenge to soften. I have to say that it’s never, ever satisfying in the moment – up close, zeroed in – it all looks a mess to some part of me. I can see that this part of me wants to know, wants for painting this way to become predictable and easy.

Taking a broader view, painting in-focus can also trigger this desire to know – how to have painting be entirely predictable. But this just isn’t how painting is for me. I am almost always adrift, when I’m actually doing the painting – which makes it uncomfortable. The thing that has developed, that I do rely upon, is the “container” I create for myself in which the painting happens. The container is my past experience – all the paintings I have finished, that have turned out ok; it’s the trust that, I have based on all the problems I’ve fixed – problems that at the time were so, bad I feared the painting was ruined. And it’s the reminder that this is just a piece of paper, and not my self-worth.

As I was listening to Adyashanti, it occurred to me that painting – especially in unpredictable watercolor – is a perfect way to practice. I can exercise my right-brain mode and sit in the wonder, the expectancy, the possibility, the not-knowing of the process of painting. Even just this thought, flipped my experience. I’m sure the “I want to know” part of me isn’t going away anytime soon – nor do I want it to, entirely. But I felt a space opening for simply observing my painting process, with a sense of appreciation, for the act of creation happening before me. I can feel how this way of being is just what can heal our sense (that we all have in some form) of unworthiness. As I develop my capacity to observe my paintings unfolding, without so much attachment, I become more free and it becomes more fun. Expanding this to my whole life, brings me the freedom and contentment, I’ve been seeking.

What seemed to me to be simply a lack of confidence in myself as I’ve developed as a teacher, now appears to have served those who have come to paint with me. There is wisdom in not knowing – being open to what might come through – to what is coming through. I’ve said many times, that I am not the authority on anyone’s painting except my own – and now I see how it’s helpful to loosen my authority on my own paintings too. Not knowing opens me to the redemptive love, that mends my sense of myself – and thus my life, which allows me to more and more, be a source of redemptive love to everyone around me. I’m taking on a new practice of this, by letting go of knowing and expecting and allowing redemptive love to flow through me into my paintings, as I paint them. This brings a whole new meaning to me, of what it means to paint our love. Won’t you join me?

With my (redemptive) love,

Cara

July 19, 2016 – Holly

Holly’s bright smile – last summer when painted out at Susie’s in Inverness.

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In the fall of 2011, when I first tiptoed out through my fears to lead watercolor groups, Holly was one of the early joiners. She wasn’t there the very first Tuesday, but within the first few. We were still meeting at the Fairfax church when she came. She brought an in-progress painting of a branch of a pink magnolia tree, with a house in the background. We talked about the composition – the part of it that she was unsure about. It’s funny how largely unremarkable moments can come back to us so clearly. By the time the weather had cooled and the big space in the church was too big to heat for just our little group, we moved to my house not far away. Holly’s dear, dear friend Marilee, then came along with her. By the end of the year the original group had formed – all of whom still come to paint nearly every week.

Holly was tall and carried herself with a gentle ease. She wore lovely scarves and interesting jewelry. One of the loveliest people I’ve ever known – she radiated such warmth. Holly hardly ever asked much of me, in the way of guidance or help with her paintings. It seemed to me she was with us to share in the love and companionship of the group, as much as anything. And though quiet, her loving presence was always felt. She never showed an edge – I experienced her essence as grace in human form.

A gorgeous and luscious hibiscus Holly painted. I just love the frilly petals she painted.

Based on the subjects she painted, she was interested in all kinds of things: Portofino and Roman ruins, her loved ones, pumpkins, tropical foliage, tropical fish, a local historic building and of course – like most of us in our groups – flowers. In between working on paintings some weeks, Holly took a pause to just play with paint. She would noodle/doodle around with an idea – leaves, tulips. I admired how much enjoying herself was a priority – I have a streak that almost always needs to be so purposeful! And her palettes were often so beautiful, I just had to take pictures of them. And when I did, she always thought it was silly.

Holly’s fused glass bead necklaces had us enchanted!

The creative force burned brightly in her. In addition to painting weekly with us, she made fused glass beads and ceramics, with Marty and Bud Meade out in the San Geronimo Valley, every week too. She brought in a collection of her necklaces one day, to share with us some of her other creations. She made every single one of the fused glass beads! I just had to capture these too – and I’m so glad I did. On a personal note, Marty and Bud have been in my life, since I was very little. When I was in the fifth grade, Marty helped me sew a period costume to make a doll into Martha Washington, our first First Lady. And Bud took my dad’s job, as ceramics teacher at Drake High. Sharing Holly, formed yet another connection between us. I have one other connection to Holly – Charlie, Holly’s husband, and my dad taught high school together for a while. I loved seeing Charlie and Holly together – it was so evident how he was both devoted to and smitten by his beautiful wife – and he always supported her artistic pursuits.

It wasn’t until towards the end of Holly’s life, that we learned the extent of her health problems. For a number of years, her heart hadn’t been strong, which meant that a cold took her out for longer than it did others. Marilee told us that in recent months, she came to paint and then went home to nap in the afternoon, because she used her energy to paint and be with us. But she never let on – she just came in with her warm smile, a cup of coffee and a pastry from Rulli down the street, ready to paint. When I heard this it, dawned on me – she didn’t want to waste precious time complaining about her health. She wanted to live – she created, she sang and danced and spent time with those she loved – to the extent that she could – and then she rested in hopes to be able to enjoy her life as much as possible tomorrow.

Now that she’s left us, I see even more clearly how Holly was such an example of how to live: focus on what matters with our time, and do it with good cheer and with grace. It is so easy to get wrapped up in our troubles. Health troubles are the hardest – there’s no escaping them – we take our aching bodies with us wherever we go. But when we complain, we don’t just impact those around us with negativity. I know that when I find myself complaining, I’m not happy, my experience – my life in that moment – is unpleasant for me too. We do need to pay attention to all parts of us, including those parts that are not happy – denial is unhealthy. But we have a choice, as to how we then show up and how we interact with people in our lives. It seems to me that Holly must have really accepted, even surrendered to, the realities of her health – which then allowed her to choose how to spend the time she did have. She spent it in beauty – both what she did and how she did it.

It’s hard to believe that she’s not coming back. She painted with us on June 23rd, just two and a half weeks before she died. She’s still very present to me. I can picture her face, hear the sound of her voice, so clearly. Those of us who knew her well – particularly the Thursday regulars – will miss her terribly. Since she’s left us, we have been circling each other in our love. This little community of artists is such blessing. We came together to paint, to learn more about watercolor, to have the structure in our lives of regular painting. Out of this has formed a web of connection, linking our lives, our paths and our hearts together.

Holly, wherever you are, know that you are with us still. Who you were to us is who you are to us – and will be as far into the future as we can imagine. We see you in your paintings, we feel you when we share with each other, our experiences of you. Your physical presence isn’t here anymore, but your radiant spirit and sweet soul shine on in our hearts.

With my love always,

Cara

July 12, 2016 – Our immortal creations

“Holly’s hand working on a painting of her son, Toby”

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Our hearts are full and heavy, as we mourn the loss of one of us. Yesterday morning our sweet, kind, gentle, beautiful and courageous Holly passed on – as her best friend Marilee said – to be with the angels. It’s too tender today to share about her, her art, and the friendship we shared, I’ll save that for next week. What is in my heart today, is gratitude for the creative work that we all do, that touches lives beyond our reach and beyond our time on Earth. I was looking through the photos of Holly’s work on Tuesdays – and then Thursdays – over the past nearly five years. I was touched to see some that included her hand holding a brush, actively painting her paintings.

Last night after spending a lot of the evening on email communicating with members of our community, I went into the little room in our house, that is my studio to paint for just a bit before bed. I watched my own hand touch into the water, the paint, the paper towel and the watercolor paper. I realized how my mind was sending it signals: which colors, how much paint, how much pressure, which way to drag the brush. All these tiny decisions – starting with the one to actually sit down and paint – eventually become a finished painting, and then another and another after that. The aliveness that animates our bodies, which are the containers of our consciousness, is how the life force uses us to bring new creations into existence.

When we then hang our paintings somewhere – a café, an office, a gallery space – they are seen by and likely touch people who we don’t know. Since our big floral show last year, I heard from many people – who I didn’t know before – share with me how much they appreciated it. One woman, told me how she went back several times to take in all the beauty again – she was so taken by it. Three of the artists in our groups had paintings sell at our annual county fair, a week ago. One of them was Susie’s painting of a bowl of candies – the one she called “Temptation.” I happened to be at the fair on the last day and talked to the person, who had handled the sale that morning. She told me the woman who bought it was thrilled to get to buy the painting – she was surprised it hadn’t already sold. On Thursday, I was talking to Susie about it and she shared the strange feeling of having her creation – the thing she conceived of and painstakingly painted – being in a place she’d likely never be. It will be viewed and appreciated by someone who is (at least for now) a complete stranger.

“Susie’s Temptation”

Yesterday was my Donna’s birthday. I called her to wish her a happy birthday, and she told me of her celebration with her family on Sunday. She has a collection of Life in Full Color coffee and latte mugs. She told me how pretty they looked on the table outside – each one different – spawning a conversation about which mug each person chose. I’m told fairly frequently, how people enjoy their morning coffee or tea in a mug, with one of these paintings on them. It’s a strange and wonderful experience, to realize how all these brush strokes that have become paintings, have ended up wrapped around ceramic and in people’s lives. I know many of the mugs that have gone into the world have been gifts – so there are people having a cup of something with me, who I will never know.

Years ago I read something about imperfections in workmanship, that has stuck with me. I can’t remember the context, but it was pointed out that a brick slightly out of alignment in a brick wall, is a mark of humanity. It brings us to a moment in time. All the perfectly lined up bricks were also each placed in a particular moment, but they all run together in our awareness. It’s the imperfect one that has us realize that this was a living, breathing person, who made a zillion little decisions as he (likely it was a man) placed the bricks. Maybe he was distracted, allowing him to leave one out of place. This has me looking at and holding differently stains on cookbook pages and dents in cars – as well as washes, brush strokes and spatterings of paint in paintings. They all say “someone was here.” That someone was living a real life. And that particular life is often no more. However humble or sublime, they’ve left their mark.

“The handiwork of my grandmothers – keeps their spirits alive for me”

In my pink room, I have a piece of embroidery that my Grandma Brown did. It was a little kit, not her design, but that makes it no less precious to me. It was her hands, that pulled the threads through the fabric putting flowers around the little house. I also have a piece of linen that my other grandmother – my Mama’s Mama – made. She did exquisite Venetian cutwork. Some of it is too fragile to have out all the time, it’s falling apart. Though I never knew her, having her painstaking work in my midst, connects me to her life when she was alive. Each of us must have similar things that were made by those we loved and who loved us.

If you look at it, you can see how our lives are touched in many ways by all kinds of creations. People have composed pieces of music and dance, written books and poetry, designed and engineered the structures of our world, planted trees and built gardens, invented gadgets, started social movements, taught students (special teachers of mine live on in me, you too?), and even the ordinary/extraordinary creativity that goes into raising children.

Thinking of the force, that generates the myriad creations that bring beauty and meaning into my life – I feel… well, the right words escape me… but it’s somewhere around humility, awe and wonder. I don’t know about you, but when I’m sitting to paint, I’m not thinking of those that this painting may touch – during my lifetime or beyond. I’m just painting – I’m an instrument of this creative force. It’s like we all live, breathe and swim in this infinite creative soup.

One day we will all leave our bodies, making way for new generations of people to further the course of humanity. Most of us won’t be in the history books, but we will all have those who will treasure our creations, bringing our lives and the love we painted into moments beyond our lifetime. Of the gifts found in Holly’s passing, as with any loss, one is the reminder of the preciousness of this moment. Hold tight those you love.

With my love and appreciation for the hearts in this community, with their great capacity to hold each other so, so dearly,

Cara

June 28, 2016 – Destruction before Creation

“I finished the eggplant. I called it “Global”. During the festival I started a new one – of one big apple.”

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The week before last, I went to see my dear friend Julia and to meet her brand new son. Julia and I have a magical connection. Though there is a pretty big gap in our ages – I’m much closer to her mother’s age – we have a powerful bond that feels older than this lifetime. We met nine years ago, when I was just starting this odyssey of becoming a full-time artist – she worked at Light Rain and did the first reproductions of my paintings. When she told me that she was leaving her job to move to Paris to teach English to French school children, I told her how great that was for her – and then I asked if I could have her job! This began a connection that has involved being together in Paris and in New York, sharing the job at Light Rain, sharing the artist’s journey and a passion for sorting out how partnership works between the masculine and the feminine. It’s a very special friendship.

During our visit, she offered me to choose from a deck of inspiration cards written by Danielle LaPorte, a teacher/coach who offers white-hot truth in service of people living, no-kidding lives of their own creation. I love oracle cards and believe the cards we choose are not just happenstance, but have real messages for us. My card said “Destruction before Creation.” Really? This one? No perky platitude from Danielle LaPorte! But I really didn’t want that card. I’d rather have a “nice” card – not one that tells me to destroy – it sounds so violent. Julia said the card was mine to take with me. It’s not an accident I forgot it when I left. And – even without the card in-hand, the message has not left me. I’ve been asking myself: what needs to be destroyed?

I hike with Bo most mornings up a fire road that takes off from the other side of our little neighborhood. It is on private property and the owner has been pursuing developing the land. Last week, he had a bulldozer up there clearing away a whole lot of poison oak, and invasive, non-native scotch broom from the fire roads. Some of my fellow hikers are having a hard time with it. The heavy equipment scraping away the brush, has made an immediate, drastic change. I get where they are coming from and I would think that I’d be there too, but I’m actually loving it. The road had originally been carved into the hill 40 or 50 years ago, so this isn’t pristine un-touched nature – and it is now wide open again. It’s as if all the cobwebs have been cleared away. We can now see the live oak trees and the views of the hills beyond. To me it’s refreshing – even exciting. On yesterday’s hike, as I was feeling the excitement, it occurred to me that this may be the energy that can come from destruction – the wisdom in that card.

I did the San Anselmo Art and Wine festival this past weekend. Looking back to the post I wrote a year ago, the Tuesday after the same festival, I read that I was questioning whether I should still do this festival or not. Last year’s Sunday brought sweet moments of grace, including someone falling in love with “August Bounty” and taking it home, which left me thinking it was still a good thing to show up again. But this year has been altogether different – starting with the producer giving me a crappy spot, and then being downright rude to me, when I inquired about being moved to where I’d requested. I stood in the baking heat for two days, which wiped me out. On top of this, the caliber of the festival itself – so many booths of imported junk and hardly any other art – was depressing. For the first time in 10 years of doing this show, there was a lot of conversation amongst people about it. “They call it an ‘art festival’ – so, where is the actual art?” It is now really a “street fair” and my work doesn’t belong there anymore.

I’m guessing I’m not alone in this, but I need a negative experience, to realize that I’m done with something. This weekend was that for me. There have been years that I’ve done as many as seven art festivals. This year it’s just two. Next year the only thing on my radar will be the Sausalito Art Festival. But, this is how most of the people in my groups have found me, and most of those who have ended up with my art in their homes as well. So, if I don’t show my paintings at all these shows, how will we find each other? I don’t know. And I do know there will be a way.

Sometimes we just know things. After healing from the initial raw emotion of the ending of my first marriage, I don’t know why, but I knew I’d be married again. Because I knew that the kind of man I’d end up with would be a guy’s-guy, I made myself a “girl house” with white carpet and white furniture – expecting that he would likely not feel at home with this feminine décor. I have this same knowing about my art, finding its way into the world.

And in order to find this way, I see I have to stop putting energy into things that are no longer “mine” to do – such as outdoor art festivals like this one. I must destroy this part of what I do. There is a ton of energy – psychic and physical – that it takes to do these events. And what’s next won’t come through, if I’m squandering my energy where it no longer serves me. The thing is, this artwork has been put in me for what feels like a purpose. I don’t make these paintings for my own private enjoyment – these paintings are for people in the world who want and even need them. That purpose has a will, an energy, a drive, that will find a way.

It feels strange that I won’t be doing these events – there’s a voice telling me I’m slacking. What else will I do? Plus, it’s hard – most of us are wired to preserve, not destroy. But nature has her own cycles of destruction – like wild fires. A century of suppressing nature’s destructive fires, has created forests that are out of balance and when they do catch fire, the result is catastrophic.

It is just occurring to me what to do – and I’m not even sure what this means yet; but I need to create a haven, like I did with my little “girl house,” for my art life – a way station, until the next thing that I will put my bigger energies into shows up. The sound of this brings me a sweet peace. I can lead my art groups, care for my body and paint my love. Then we’ll see what arises in the space created.

The best thing about this past weekend, was talking to people who came by about their beginning or returning to paint and how I might help them. A common theme, is having the desire to paint and not doing so, because other things get in the way. With this insight, when I hear this again, I’ll offer the suggestion to see what might need to be destroyed first. There are seeds in the forest floor that need the heat of fire, in order for them to germinate. Plus, it’s a law of nature, when we make space, something comes in. But first, we do need to make space.

It is high fire season here in the west and this is a tricky metaphor right now. But, maturing and becoming more conscious, allows us to work with powerful forces in skillful ways. Seems I’m learning to embrace destruction. So, will you join me? We have our love to paint.

With my love,

Cara

June 21, 2016 – Modern art – is it love?

My painting in-progress. Funny how the under painting of the big eggplant is quite abstract. Reminds me what my artist friend Julia told me: it’s ALL abstract.

Listen to this post:

Just after finishing last week’s post, I met my mom, my niece and her partner and went to the newly opened SF MOMA – the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Leigh and Lena were here from Brooklyn, and visiting our MOMA was on their not-to be missed list. So off to the city we went.

The space holding the art is wonderful: staircases that narrow (or widen, depending upon your direction) are made of beautiful blonde wood. Mid-way there is an open area with a see-through catwalk that, if you look down, would give anybody with a fear of heights, the willies. And the restrooms are an all-out, full-color experience – especially on the 2nd and 7th floors. The new museum offers plenty to captivate. Except, for me, the art collection.

We saw just about all there was to see on 6 floors of galleries. And with very few exceptions, none of it – particularly the 2D art, the paintings – inspired me. There was nothing that evoked awe or wonder, nothing I’d call luminous or particularly beautiful. Nothing that brought me into the experience of being in a body, or caused me to feel much emotion. It all brought me right into my head (huh…that’s curious… really?) and left me there.

Georgia O’Keeffe – “Black Place” – 26″ x 30″ and “Jay Defeo – “The Veronica” – 132″ x 42″ (it’s huge)

There was one Georgia O’Keeffe abstract painting, that felt like rolling hills and – as Leigh pointed out – the webs between our fingers and toes – and another by an an artist new to me, Jay Defeo, that had me think of wings and feathers. Apart from these, I can’t recall anything that seemed to be inspired by organic shapes or patterns. My experience, was there was a near dearth of gentleness, of loveliness. There was one stiff sculpture of flowers up on the top floor – but they were sort of cartoonish and odd. Besides two blow-up plastic flowers – think pool toys – there were no other flowers in the whole place. Outside the 4th or 5th floor, however, there was a beautiful living wall of various green plants.

Modern art is described with terms such as abstract and conceptual – ideas that reside in the head – in the mind. And it includes movements such as surrealist, minimalist, cubist – in which the artist has taken leave of the world as it is. So what was I expecting?

Leigh went to art school in New York for a time and Lena’s father is a modern artist – she cut her teeth on it. They seemed to love the museum. They were completely absorbed in the artwork, knew many of the artists and were happy to see their favorites. On the way home in the car, we had a discussion about modern art, abstract art, my art. Leigh offered, that my art may head in that direction as it (and I) evolve. Many artists – iconic artists like Picasso, as well as artists I’ve encountered who are close to home, have taken this journey – from representational to abstract. Is it a given? I’m not at all sure. Our discussion brought me to a familiar place, whereby those who “get” and appreciate modern art have a point of view, that those who don’t, are missing something. Leigh and Lena weren’t dismissive of me or my experience, but others are – of this response to modern art.

I went searching online and found nothing substantive in the way of a discussion, that aligned with my experience. I did find plenty of what seemed to be thoughtless dismissal of modern art, by those who say something like “I could have done that” or “a little kid could do that.” These people are called ignorant. This seems to be the extent of the conversation.

Those of us who don’t get modern art, are told we lack context and history. We must know what was happening in the world at the time. We need to understand how these artists pushed out the edge of what is considered art, from the perspective of their time. I can and do appreciate all of this. But it’s still an intellectual exercise. Chuck Close’s monumental portraits are amazing to see, but I’m not moved by them.

I met an artist when I did Art Expo in New York. She was there on her own and we were staying in the same hotel. She joined my mom and I for dinner one night. We stayed in touch for a while afterwards. She paints abstract oils and was getting quite a bit of attention and having success with her art – at the time, we last talked several years ago. We talked on about abstract vs representational art. Seems I’ve been wanting to understand the draw to abstract art for a while. What she said was “it’s about impact.” Which, I took to mean that abstract art has more impact than what I do. I didn’t get it then and I still don’t.

The painting I dove into Tuesday last evening.

Last Tuesday I came home to work on my own art – painting a fuzzy background of an apple orchard – as I listened to opera – specifically, the melodrama of Puccini’s music. I wanted to be brought back into my heart, to feel. I was actually hungry for it. The point of art – for me – is to delight, to inspire, to console. I’m here to express the feminine, to make a case for beauty, to bring the viewers of my art, to a precious part of themselves that they either weren’t aware of or had lost contact with. And I’m compelled to show how what is here, right now, is worth capturing and elevating by painting it. This planet and our embodied experience of being alive, is what I mean to celebrate and uphold. I do this with light and color and with objects that we are familiar with. I have had more than one person – a stranger to me – at an art festival, be brought to tears when experiencing my art. There is emotion in it.

I did find affirmation in “The Master and His Emissary – The Divided Brain and the Making of the Western World.” In his book, Iain McGilchrist talks at length about modern art. He ties modernism to the left brain and its narrow focus and tendency to disconnect and see in parts, rather than holistically. It follows then, that our left-brain dominated culture would put a high value on it.

I am not arguing against modern art or with its being highly valued. There are certainly plenty of people who appreciate it. We are a culture that reveres progress, what’s new, what’s next and it seems that this is what is, so highly valued in the serious art world. Plus, if it’s startling or even shocking, all the better. To me, it at least almost always fails to connect me to my aliveness – even more, I can find it cold and disconnected. And this is what troubles me. I believe the larger problems of our time are all related to disconnection, from the planet, from each other, from parts of ourselves.

Iain McGilchrist says this: “We confuse novelty with newness. No one ever decided not to fall in love because it’s been done before, or because its expressions are banal. They are both as old as the hills and completely fresh in every case of genuine love.” Flowers, fruit, things we love, have been painted millions of times before, but never by this artist, who is living – who is alive – in this moment. Like falling in love, painting what we love is also as old as the hills – and I say, when it is genuine, it is just as fresh.

I’m compelled to paint what I love – it’s what fuels my work, my life. I’ve recently come to know that by doing that, it goes further, by painting what I love, I paint my love. Since my sense is we all need to be surrounded by a whole lot of art-love, I’m here to support you doing so too.

So, now, go – paint your love.

Love,

Cara

June 14, 2016 – I missed a day…

“The finished painting – I’m calling it “Offering”. Its story will appear soon in the gallery.”

Listen to this post:

I woke up very early, it was still dark. Lying there awake and alert, it dawned on me that I didn’t paint yesterday. Oh, no… I checked the time – 4:04 am. My heart sunk. It was way past midnight. I couldn’t leap out of bed to paint for a few minutes, so that I could say that I did. The day was over and my streak is broken – almost 5 and a half months of painting daily, and now I won’t be able to say at the end of the year, that I painted every single day in 2016. The day went by, busied with the rest of my life and I didn’t ever make it to my paints.

To be honest, what I called painting on Sunday, was hardly worth counting either. I’d spent the day working hard out in the yard and by the time we got home from my folks for Sunday Dinner, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I painted for two or three minutes on the rain rose and crawled to bed. We had spent the day re-staining the front walk, and then I had fun painting impressions of leaves in the concrete different colors. So, though I didn’t work much on a watercolor painting (which – specifically – is my commitment), I did paint something. I had a great time using my color-mixing abilities to tint the stain intense colors of greens, golds and rusts, using watercolor pigments. But yesterday, I didn’t touch a brush for any reason. There’s no rationalizing it, I just didn’t do it.

“Some of the leaves I painted in the front patio and walk.”

The other part of it is, that after about 9 or 10 in the morning, I didn’t even think of it! To me, this is what my commitment is really about, being faithful to what is important to me – and it’s the part that has me the most disappointed. Don’t get me wrong. Action matters. Nothing happens, no paintings get painted, if we don’t actually do the work. But this commitment to paint every day, is a devotion. Painting is how I connect to myself – who I am, what I’m here to do. It is how I love, how I show my love, how I live my love. And I forgot. The sinking feeling – which is still here as I write this – shows me how connected to my heart this is.

Walking is good for sorting things out, so I did my walk with Bo, first today. As I walked, it occurred to me that my heart feels just like it does when I let Joe down. My connection to my creative life is a relationship, just as my marriage is. And then, I reminded myself that being human means not being perfect. Like some of us, I have a lot of attachment to perfection – which is often, not pretty. I recall writing to you in several posts so far this year that “I’ve not missed a day yet.” I now see the pride in making the statement. It’s tricky. It is my intention to keep my commitment, but I want to keep it for what’s behind my making it, not so that I can say I did and look good for keeping it. To be really transparent, there have been several – maybe a dozen or more days – that what I did hardly counted for much. I painted so that I could “get it in” rather than to express my devotion.

The commitment is here and it’s still having its impact. Without it, this would be a non-event. On my walk, I also reflected on the countless days before the end of 2015 that went by, when I didn’t paint and never gave it another thought. This seems to happen especially just after a big push, to get a painting done for a deadline. I had just finished “Offering” (the painting above) on Saturday morning – I guess that sometimes I just need a break. This points to another tricky part: my profession is my devotion. Sometimes it’s necessary to get into production mode – like I was last week – especially Monday and Tuesday – forcing myself to get ‘er done. Technically, that qualifies for “painting every day” but the promise to myself, is to make it devotional. During these times, it’s hard to combine the two.

I am sorry I missed a day, and I appreciate what’s come of it for me – how it has impacted me. I’m not beating myself up, but I am taking note of how readily we (at least some of us) are pulled away from what matters to us. Today, I’m recommitting anew, to paint every day the rest of the year, and I’m grateful for the way that letting something down – something that really matters – can bring me, bring us, to make a stronger, deeper commitment.

I wrote a post a couple of months ago, about fine-tuning my commitment, by actually scheduling time every day to paint – thereby protecting my devotion from being crowded out – like it was yesterday. I want to report, that I’ve done absolutely nothing towards that promise to you. In my corporate days, I was a devotee of the Franklin planner and spent every work day laying out my day. After several years of buying paper planners/calendars and using them for three or four days all year, I’ve stopped buying them. I use the calendar on my computer and phone to manage appointments, but scheduling how I spend my time around appointments, is done completely by the seat of my pants. I don’t impose structure on myself easily.

It is my desire, my intention, to head in this direction. I don’t have the answer as to how. The resistance I wrote about in that post, still lives in me. But right along side it is, my promise to honor my love – to live my devotion. I’ve heard that tension – creative tension – is how life is worked out. This, today, is mine.

In this moment, I’m also very aware of my relationship with you and how it serves me in my life and process.

With my gratitude and love,

Cara

June 7, 2016 – 10,000 Hours – Sticking with it

Here’s where I left it today. I’m so glad to have more time to get it done.

[Note:  I will return to recording next week – I promise!]

It’s late. I’ve not started a post this late on a Tuesday since I started writing every week.  I’m working against a deadline on this painting and last night I got the somewhat crazy idea that I might be able to finish it by late this afternoon- when I had an opportunity to have it captured for my reproductions.  I painted until about 10:45 – which may not be all that late for some, but I’m a morning person and when I noticed I was, as I call it, “stupid painting” I knew it was time to get to bed. I was back at it at 6 this morning and painted until about 2:00 at which point I was able to make other arrangements for it to be scanned this weekend instead today.  Whew!

The good news is that I made serious progress on the painting and I watched myself focus in a way that I’m not sure I have on a painting before. Not that I can remember anyway.  I did stop for some exercise with Bo and to feed my brain healthy food, but I stayed with my painting like it was a patient that needed my care.  I avoided putting away the dishes, I didn’t check email, I didn’t play spider solitaire like I do some evenings before painting (did I really write that!?).  I painted:  this petal, then one two over, then another layer on that one, soften edges on that one there.  More quinacridone rose on one I painted last night – darker on the nooks and crannies on those lower blue ones. I just kept going.

After I realized I was given a reprieve on getting it done today, I picked up other balls I’d dropped (including getting to the polls to vote!).  I’ve just returned from the reception for a show of Paulette Engler’s beautiful watercolors. (Check out her gorgeous website.)  Paulette is a steadfast member of our Thursday group and is a prolific and dedicated painter. She calls herself addicted.  When I’m going to be away she makes sure to have plenty of work drawn and ready to paint, for fear of being without.  She paints just about daily at home in between Thursday sessions. And it shows. Paulette’s work has evolved markedly in the 4 ½ years she’s been painting with us.  There is no substitute for time in. But, in addition to the time, she also is very intent on growing as an artist – in skill and expression.

Happy evening – celebrating Paulette and her work.

Last night while I was painting I listened to an interesting interview – no, not more Krista Tippet – this time it was  Jonathan Fields the host of the Good Life Project podcast.  Jonathan Fields is also a wonderful collector of amazing people.  This one was a conversation with Anders Ericsson, the researcher who is the source of the 10,000 hours to mastery that Malcolm Gladwell made into conventional thinking in his book “The Outliers.”  It turns out that it takes more than spending a whole lot of hours to get really good at something. It matters how we spend those hours.

Anders Ericsson illuminated this by comparing playing tennis doubles for enjoyment and exercise vs. playing tennis and practicing to become a great tennis player with a coach.  If we hit or serve the ball unskillfully, a coach will take us through it and point out how to do it better.  But if we are playing for fun, we likely will not pay as close attention to what we did and won’t learn as quickly.  If we practice our 10,000 hours with this level attention and intention we progress much more rapidly.  I can’t help but think about this when looking at Paulette’s body of work, her dedication to Thursdays and the questions she asks – she doesn’t just want praise, she wants pointed feedback.

Anders Ericsson said something else that caught my ear:  he sees college students, in order to decide what path to take, seeking out what their gifts might be – as if we are born with all our abilities.  (I remind people I have a computer science degree and had no idea this art was in me until I started really painting.)  He went so far as to say the only qualities from birth we should concern ourselves with are our physical size and shape.  Regardless of how much focused practice, a short person wouldn’t make a good forward in the NBA, and a big person doesn’t make a good jockey in horse racing.  Instead, he suggested we look for what we are interested in, what we want to do – and I’d say what we love.  It is this desire that naturally springs from the center of us that gives us the fuel to keep going for all those hours of focused practice.

Jonathan Fields asked him what helps people keep going through what can be grueling work – all those hours of practice.  His answer was: progress.  We are motivated by marking our improvements over time.  I so appreciate discovering information like this interview that supports what I see every week.  Some might think I gush a lot over my artists’ work.  But I firmly believe that every effort is worth celebrating.  I’ve seen enough budding artists arrive with nearly paralyzing fear at just putting paint onto paper.  And I’ve talked to others who haven’t yet made it through the door.

Intimidation is a serious hurdle.  We all have a hope, if not a fully-formed vision of how we want our artwork to come out. My experience is that we are never further from that hope or vision than when we first start.  There are all levels of artist in our groups, so it’s easy for a brand new painter to compare her work to that of more experienced artists and note how far she has to go. But when compared to someone who has never painted anything at all, making a whole painting, based upon an image she’s chosen, maybe even one she captured herself – of something she loves – is an enormous accomplishment. It is big progress, right from the start.  And it’s also encouraging for new artists to see the early work of other artists (including me) and the progress that we’ve made in our work by putting in the time. We all start at the beginning.

This brings me to how much a supportive environment matters.  To grow we have to try new things, let ourselves have new experiences. To let in what’s new we need to open ourselves – and we open much more readily when we feel safe. Then, as time goes on, we keep growing when our achievements are celebrated and our progress is noted – at least by ourselves. But, it’s my experience that the impact is considerably greater when we have a tribe to cheer us on.  There were eight other artists from our groups – plus a few husbands – who were there for Paulette this evening – appreciating her accomplishment, her beautiful work and cheering her on.  There is no way she’s going to stop painting anytime soon.

Whether or not any of us will spend our 10,000 hours or reach anything near mastery, all effort is worthy. Progress builds upon itself.  We have paintings to show for it – our gift to the world.  Plus we end up changed along the way.

Here’s to all of our creative unfolding. Now, go.  Paint your love.

Cara

May 31, 2016 – Love what you love

The soft animal of MY body is in plumeria heaven on Kauai.

[Note: I’ll resume recording when I’m back home from vacation.]

When I was four years old, my older brother Joe (who was 5 at the time) and I were on the Bay Area Romper Room TV show.  We rode in the car over to KTVU studios in Oakland to be with Miss Nancy and the other girls and boys for our turn on the show.  I don’t remember much about it, except for one somewhat traumatic experience of being re-directed – on camera – when I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to.  At one point in the show we were each assigned solo activities; I was given some kind of a matching-card game. I’ve always been such a girl, and I wanted to play with the dolls that had been assigned to another little girl.  She got to put on their pretty clothes and arrange them, have them talk to each other. I wanted to do that.  So, being just 4 and not realizing that I really had to stay where I was, I went over to join her and play with the dolls.  A camera-man then pulled me by the back of my dress back over to the cards.  Oh, I was mortified!  And so disappointed! I didn’t want to play with the stupid cards when there were dolls to play with!

This memory came back to me in a recent conversation pointing to me something that has always been in me.  Since I was very young I have clearly known what I like – what I love – and what I don’t – and that this matters.  Another bit from my past aligns with this realization. When I was planning to get married in my mid-twenties one of the things that brides did (do they still?) is register for fine china, silver flatware and crystal wine glass patterns.  I went to all the department stores, including Gumps in San Francisco, searching for exactly what I wanted.  If a store didn’t have anything that I wanted to set my table with for the rest of my life, I moved on.  I didn’t accept their selection of patterns as all my options.  I liked what I liked and wasn’t willing to settle!

As I looked at this, I remarked at the line from Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese” (hear her read her poem here) that is on the front page of my website and in my artist statement:  You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.  Yes.  This.  It is what I believe, deeply, fully, completely.  And I’m realizing this is what I’m here to teach and even – dare I say? – preach.   Mary Oliver’s inspired words – the soft animal of your body – make it visceral and intimate.  Coming to know what the soft animal of our bodies love isn’t an intellectual exercise – it’s not something we figure out.  Either we experience it in the moment or when we don’t, it’s something to discover, or rather uncover.

What allures us, what we love, is intertwined with who we are at the deepest levels.  And the increasing permission, the expanding freedom to live accordingly is aligned with evolution – both in each of our lives and in our culture.  I have far more permission to love what I love in my middle age than I did, say when I was a teenager and was so concerned about being accepted and included.  The recent expansion of the law to include same-sex marriage – granting the freedom to openly love and build a life with the person who we love, regardless of their gender and ours – shows how our culture is evolving in this direction too.

We don’t consciously choose who and what we love.  Who and what we love is a given. I believe it is given to us.  I’d go so far as to say that what we love chooses us.  And when we live with loving what we love at the center of our lives, making it visible, loving what we love becomes who we are to others.   Quite often I get messages or Facebook posts from people with pictures of beautiful flowers along with messages telling me that when they saw that flower they thought of me.  Me!  By loving what I love (painting flowers illuminated in sunlight that I’m so drawn to) I’ve become a “beautiful flower” person to them.  The same goes for Paris.  I am a “Paris person” to those around me.   My hubby is a pilot, so he’s an “aviation person.”  My brother Joe is a “tropical fish” person – he has an eight foot long salt-water tropical reef tank in his living room that he tends to.  There are several people in my life who are “dog people.”  When we love what we love, whatever is our “thing” becomes who we are.

I don’t mean to imply that we should love everything.  If we were drawn to everything equally, we’d not have the contrast we need to see what we do love.  And – there are things we are ambivalent about too – I sure don’t have strong preferences for every aspect of my existence.  But knowing what we love and letting ourselves love it where it matters most to us makes the difference between a life worth living – and not.

I’m painting these eggplants for our “shiny things” Special Saturday this weekend. But somehow, it’s not doing it for me in Kauai.

I’ve been here on Kauai for two weeks.  The paintings I brought along with me on this trip have just not grabbed me.  I so love to paint here in the soft, moist air and several of the days here I’ve had to make myself sit down to paint – to keep my commitment to paint every day.  The experience of painting something that does “do it” for me, is altogether different.  I can’t wait to get back to it, I have energy for it.  I’ll get there with the painting I have underway, but in the moment it’s hard to be excited about it.  The good thing about this experience is that I’m living right now the not-loving what I’m doing – the contrast is striking.

All of this shows me why I was reluctant to teach at first – my fear and reluctance served me.  I didn’t know how to teach in a way that would honor my desire to have people love what they love. The only workshop and class formats that I knew of were those where the teacher assigned something to paint – either everyone painted the same image or a subject chosen by the teacher – including a dead fish sitting in the middle of the table.   I think this is why I’m largely self-taught – life didn’t put a teacher in front of me that provided exactly the kind of instruction and environment that supported me to paint what I loved.  I needed to figure it out for myself, so I could offer it to others.

I’m glad to have this little painting with me – at least I have flowers to paint here.

Because of this I am not the teacher for everyone.  When a new artist/student comes to paint in one of my groups, if they don’t know what they want to paint, I ask questions, I offer a computer to look through photos, but I don’t give any assignments. That doesn’t work for everyone, so it’s really good there are teachers who offer more structure.  For me, it’s worth waiting for a flicker of inspiration to emerge.  In doing so, it invites the soft animal of your body to share what it loves.  The art that then comes of you is personal, it’s yours. My hope is that the flicker will become a flame of inspiration, a hunger even, to share with the world what you love.

There is a genius in you – something you that said “I want to learn to paint” that is connected to something deeper than acquiring paint-handling skills.  I’ve never been more clear or more certain that I’m here to create the environment and provide the support and encouragement for you to paint what you love, live what you love, love what you love.  I love the book “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield.  The last section of this book is laced with this very message.  These are the last lines from the book:  “Creative work is not a selfish act or a bid for attention on the part of the actor. It’s a gift to the world and every being in it. Don’t cheat us of your contribution. Give us what you’ve got.”

It’s worth repeating:  let yourself love what you love – and then, give us what you’ve got.

Love,

Cara

May 24, 2016 – Healing places, healing spaces

“A glimpse from the plumeria tree that I see when I’m painting here.

[Note: I’ll resume recording when I’m back home from vacation – at the latest.]

Joe and I are over on the island of Kauai. This year I’m here for 15 days – a good long time (by most of our standards). Even though we are here to rest, and painting is work for me, I always paint quite a bit over here. It’s a real treat to paint in the moist air – it just works differently. Though the paper feels dry to the touch, there is a softness about it that makes for easier blending. And because it’s so warm, it dries pretty quickly too. A couple of days ago, as I started to paint on the covered front porch, of the little place we are staying in, I had an inkling to look for something to listen to, as I did. I took a peek at the On Being site, and stumbled upon an episode that seemed perfect. Krista Tippet interviewed Esther Sternberg, an immunologist, who is looking at the impact that our physical surroundings have, on healing our bodies and has written a book called, “The Science of Healing Places.”

“My painting of big, shiny eggplants beginning to come through.

If ever there is an environment that I experience as healing, it’s this beautiful island. The first thing we hear every morning, when opening the French doors, is the sound of the all the birds – many of them quite distinct – Hawaii bird sounds. There’s almost always a breeze moving the soft, balmy air over our skin. Plants seem to grow before our eyes, the life-force is so unleashed here. The owners of the little house where we are staying, have some tomato plants, in some big pots along the driveway. Joe swears they’ve grown a foot since he arrived (a week before me). The smells and tastes are amazing too – the fruit and the flowers are exotic and intoxicating even, so not like home.

And then don’t get me started on the colors! There are, of course, all the greens and the vibrant colors of the flowers, but even just the ocean here is more colorful than at home, it reflects so many hues of blue and turquoise. Floating around in it, as we are every day, is its own kind of heaven. It’s just the right temperature and so salty, that we stay afloat without a lot of effort. We also seem more connected to the rhythms of nature. We hardly ever talk about going to see a sunset at home. But here, every evening we are tuned in to when the sun is going down, often making a trip just to go watch it, as it descends below the horizon. This is an amazing place, that brings us to a whole other experience of being.

“Kauai color…”

Krista Tippet asked Esther Sternberg, about her definition of the word “healing.” Calling it a verb, she described healing as a movement that takes us from illness to health, restoring us to balance. Life is a constant barrage of injury, illness, cell oxidation that would quickly lead us to our death without healing, to return the cells of our bodies to their proper function. When Joe was having chemotherapy for lymphoma, the drugs zapped his immune system so badly, that a tiny little red spot around a hair follicle on his thigh the next day, became a red infection the size of a silver dollar. It was scary to see how fast bacteria can eat at us, without our capacity to heal ourselves.

Intuitively, it seems obvious that being surrounded by beauty and nature, seeing color and light, being inspired by what we see and hear, would aid in our healing. It’s well known, well studied, and well documented how stress causes disease and inhibits healing. But Esther Sternberg is pointing to her findings – scientific studies – of the opposite – how certain physical surroundings, cause measureable differences in recovery from surgery and illness, and how architects and planners are focusing on building hospitals, work places, urban development even, that support our healing.

There is another aspect of what I heard, that I’m tuning into. The conversation touched a couple of times, upon how cathedrals, with their soaring spaces that are often filled with the spectacle of sunlight, shining through colorful stained-glass and how they inspire and uplift us, causing a healing effect. Not only are we artists appreciators of color and light, but we create these experiences for others. Hearing this was a welcome affirmation of the impact of our work. So often, people evaluate artwork for how it works in their décor – which I completely understand. But it’s not nearly as meaningful as the idea, that we are potentially aiding in someone’s healing with our creations. Looking at what I paint, anyone can see how drawn I am, in particular, to color and light. I’ve said that if I didn’t paint watercolor, I’d want to work in stained glass. Color and light are the whole point for me.

I’m so very grateful that I have the great fortune, to be able to come visit this particular piece of paradise quite often – we come here pretty much once a year, sometimes twice. And a week from tomorrow, we’ll be on a plane to come home. Though where we live is a pretty nice place, it’s not Kauai and the experience of being here, will be in our memories. Esther Sternberg ends her book, by talking about how we can create healing places, through our minds and our memories. Though the places humans build – healing-oriented hospitals, public gardens, beautiful spaces in our homes, when we recall experiences of being in places like where I am now, our brains are flooded with positive emotions, which support our healing.

I have to wonder if this isn’t, in part, what we are up to with the art we make. My sense is that beauty, flowers, the color and light that many of us are drawn to paint, are in partnership with us, to create and spread healing experiences for others. Last summer, we had an exhibit of 99 watercolors of flowers in the corridors of the exhibit hall, at the Marin Civic Center. The staff that worked in the offices adjacent, said that the whole building felt different with our art there; they said it was both calming and inspiring. Seems like healing energy to me.

There is another healing going on here too. Having art become central to our lives, heals us. I’ve seen this in my own life, as well as some who have come to paint with me. Not only are we healing ourselves, but with our use of color and light, we create vignettes that spread healing into the world. How great is that?

With my wish, that this helps bring a bit of the healing I’m experiencing to you.

Aloha,
Cara