April 28, 2015 – A home for the unwanted

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I just finished another painting and part of me can barely stand to look at it and call it mine. This part of me worries that I got the shadows on the rose murky, the yellow is too intense and brassy.  It tells me parts of the leaves are clumsily painted and the background is unrefined and messy.  After all these paintings, which have received such generous appreciation, you’d think that I’d be more able to take pleasure in the results of all the work I put into them!  There is a pattern which has revealed itself in my relationship with my work.  As I’m painting and when I first finish it, I have to force myself to not just see all the parts that vex me.  They stick out and grab my attention – though there is another part of me that sees my work more holistically. This part knows when I’m on the right track and finally, when the painting is done. At this point, I take it in to be scanned (for giclee prints) and to be framed.  Framing art always does something. It elevates the art and provides me with just a bit of distance from the hyper-intimacy when I’m in the middle of painting it.

Then it takes sometimes a few months to start to forget all the places in the painting I struggled, making a space in my perception to receive the spirit of it – I can begin to appreciate in it what the rest of you do.  I’ve had the experience of opening some of the high resolution scans on my computer, of paintings I’d done some time before – and zooming way in, where I can see it even more closely than when painting it – and I actually fell in love.  I took joy in the colors, the edges and shapes of the washes and passages and its essential abstract nature.  It’s an entirely different state of mind than the one I had when I put brush to paint to paper to make those shapes.  It’s even hard to fully get that I was the one who made these marks.

I’m fascinated by this whole process. We, the art-makers have this, in some way, unenviable position. To make the art, we must operate close in, right at the point of creation.  This place is messy and uncertain, and the voices in our heads chatter about what we are doing.  I hear them all day long on Thursday and Friday in my painting groups. There is judgment and uncertainty in each of us, to varying degrees, that is absolutely unrelenting.

Maggie, a perceptive and thoughtful woman in my coaching group posted this, written by Matt Licata, in our Facebook space last week:

“You want to share your joy, your happiness, your peace, and your love with others. It is so natural to want to uplift those around you. Perhaps the greatest gift you can give to another, however, is your willingness to provide a home for the unwanted within you.

For when you are in direct contact with your own grief, loneliness, rage, and confusion, an attuned field of love emerges in the space between, granting an ancient permission for the ‘other’ to finally meet these unresolved energies in themselves.

Look carefully and see the subtle burden you have placed on those around you to compensate for the longing of your unlived life. To re-own this burden may be the greatest act of kindness you can offer this weary world.

It is by way of this holy re-embodiment that you will be crafted, cell by cell, as a pure, alchemical vessel in which the wildness of love can emerge here.”

When I read this, I found it so beautiful and consoling.  A home for the unwanted within me – I think this is part of what I was talking about in my post about “home” two weeks ago. It also speaks to what I’m exploring here.  I don’t really want the part of me that picks apart my art in process. I’d rather be free of it, thank you very much!  I’d rather the art making process be blissful, peaceful easy – just the pure joy of playing with colors and making shapes.

And this is just one of the “unwanted” parts of me.  There’s the part that lost her temper on Friday, and did the unthinkable – snapped at one of the painters. I’d much rather have a sweet and even temperament all of the time.  I don’t want the part of me that is so eager to cram all that she can into each minute and doesn’t leave enough time to always be on time. I’d rather be actually early, arriving calm and ready for anything.   I don’t want the part that really, really craves sweets in the evening, which can wreak havoc with my mid-life sleep patterns. I’d rather be happy eating only healthy, good-for me foods, 100% of the time.   My grief at not being a mother, my frustration with the things that bug me about Joe, my unwanted list goes on…

Writing this has me see how silly it is to “unwant” any part of me.  To have a whole range of parts and emotions – wanted and unwanted – is to be human.   So then, what does it actually mean to “make a home” for what is unwanted in me?  What comes to me when I ask myself this question is, practicing noticing these parts when they show themselves, realizing that they are “unwanted” and then practicing letting go of the idea that any of it “should be” any different than it is.  All of which will – hopefully – allow me to soften towards all parts of me and not interact with others when these parts are running the show.  Ultimately, what I’m feeling called to is to be able to claim these unwanted parts as mine.  Open-heartedly including them as me.  Of course I will not do this perfectly, which creates a repeating loop, start again with noticing the unwanted parts…

This is just what I’ve learned to do in painting.  If I took direction from my fear and judgment about how it is going in my paintings, I’d never paint!  I’m determined to paint in spite of this chatter – which is just one way to live my life accompanied by what’s “unwanted within.”  My hope is that as this capacity grows in me, and I can name it for artists who paint with me, it ends up having an impact on others – in the studio – and out. And as each of us does this, the world evolves.  My sense is that it’s slow work and progress isn’t easy to observe. It’s only upon reflecting back in time that it’s revealed how the ability to be with what is has grown, and more and more lightness has settled in – for me, this is what Matt Licata calls the “wildness of love” emerging.

Love,

Cara

April 21, 2015 – Digging for treasure

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In the past week I’ve been clearing out.  Yesterday I went through the drawers at my husband’s contracting office of “my” files that were stored there.  I went through all the colored (!) folders and tossed two drawers-full of paper I’ll never need or use again.  This was after last Wednesday, when I went through every shelf and drawer in my office/studio here at home.  I’ve been hearing repeatedly how beneficial it is to de-clutter – not just for the aesthetic and practical reasons, but also for making space for whatever new life is awaiting me.   And the result has been exhilarating.  Standing here typing on my laptop, I can see in my peripheral vision, empty spaces on the desk and in the bay window that were covered with “stuff” a week ago.  It’s like a crisp breeze blew through here, taking away all that wasn’t anchored down by my need for it or my love of it.  Ahhh.

Some things were hard to toss.  I’d been collecting all of the return address stickers that came with requests for donations from charitable organizations – for years.  It irked me that I could never possibly use all these “gifted” stickers and they are not recyclable because they have a coated paper backing. The burden I felt in them, gave me the idea to do some kind of statement-collage-art with them.  They all have some kind of color to them after all!  The stack filled a file folder top to bottom, an inch thick, at least, and it’s now in the trash headed for the landfill :-(.  I told myself I can’t save the planet all on my own. The good news is, I’ve gotten off all of their lists and we don’t get them nearly as often anymore!

Then there were stacks and stacks of old postcards from past events with my art on them. I’d ordered more than were mailed out or given out at shows.  I tossed them into the paper recycle bin and with a tinge of sadness, I watched all these colorful images of my work cascading down – yes, I can be a bit sappy.   And I’m appreciating another kind of beauty – the empty space on the shelf where they were!  I just ordered half the amount, so they won’t stack up in the future.

I went through photos, cards, magazine and newspaper articles I’d saved. There were documents I’d saved from my years in the tech world, much of which I realized I don’t even understand anymore.  Out it went!  In the end I filled up our entire paper recycle bin at home and a good half of the huge one at the office.  The back of my car has stuff for the Good Will – and I did have to grit my teeth and put some stuff in the trash to be landfilled.  But, oh, what a difference!  This detritus that collects and fills the spaces around us carries weight.  For me it has made an actual physical difference to be free of it.

Years and years ago, I read Sarah Ban Breathnach’s books  Simple Abundance and Something More.  In one of them she talks about being an archaeologist, excavating for clues in your own life.  This is also what this clearing out has been.  I came across “artifacts” from my life-so-far that have me reflecting and appreciating where I’ve traveled.  I found the calendar where I’d penciled in my first date with Joe.  Yesterday I ran across the Polaroid photo the fertility center took of our 4-celled embryo – the one that was implanted in me and didn’t take.  And there was the tab from that wonderful evening at a restaurant called Othello in Rome that Joe and I talk about all the time.  Who knew that a simple meal of spaghetti with tomato, basil and garlic could be that remarkable?   But it was!  I saw my evolution as I went through my artwork going all the way back. There were menus, recipes, shopping lists and to-do lists from the retreats I’d catered – and files of notes from the various personal growth programs I was either a participant in or that I’d been part of creating and leading.

This “primary material” of our lives is quite compelling.  But, for me the most captivating was finding something I’d written in my own hand.  These bits of writing are views into my former selves.  And they are priceless – especially so because of one really great regret.  Several years ago, a feng shui person recommended I – ceremonially – burn all my old Artist Way Morning Pages journals, as they were filled with negative emotion from the time before, during and after my divorce.  And if I were to do this before the upcoming Sausalito Art Festival, I’d have a more prosperous show.  In pre-festival mode, I hardly found time for ceremony!  Since we only have a gas fireplace, I went to my parents’ and ripped chunks of pages off and shoved them in the side of their wood burning stove, giving my right arm a “sunburn” from the heat.  I saved (thank God) a few key pages that happened to catch my eye when I was tearing through to get it all done!  I’m so sorry I took her advice. It’s completely undo-able. This was my life, poured out into the page – including my time in Paris!  And from this vantage point, I have no idea if it resulted in my art selling well at that festival or not!  So, now when I discover things I’d written, especially if they are like journal entries, they are gemstones in the dirt.

Reflecting on the writing I discovered this week, over and over, I see the strength of my “want-er” muscle.  I’ve wanted so much, so deeply.  I wanted peace with my body and food.  I wanted to be free of my stage fright. I wanted to know my own loveliness. I wanted clothes that I felt good in. I wanted to feed people.  I wanted to have my voice.  I wanted my life to make a difference.  I wanted to help people live lives that mattered to them – starting with my own.   I saw how this wanting has power.

There are spiritual teachings that link desire with suffering.  Though I see the truth in this, I find it more useful – for my life – to actually cultivate my desires.  Desire is fuel and, if what I desire is aligned with life, it is a cause for good and can be trusted.  In the metamorphoses that my life has undergone in the past twenty years, the impetus for change has been in the twin forces of pain and desire. Pain is an inevitable facet of human life and some say is the prime force for transformation.  It certainly has been in my life.  But with just pain alone, I’d have been left despondent.

One of the heroes in my life is Father Richard Rohr.  He’s a Catholic priest unlike any other.  Earlier this year he was on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday.  I heard him say “pain must be transformed or it will be transmitted.”  How the world would be different if we all got this one!  What I want has given me a way to hold the pain, allowing it to change me.  This has kept me from transmitting the pain – or kept me from transmitting it as much as I would have!

Digging out this past week has created fresh, clear space to work in – and I’ve discovered/re-discovered all kinds of treasures – reminding me of the richness of life and the path it takes us on.  I heartily recommend it!

Love,

Cara

April 14, 2015 – Home *is* where the heart is

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I’ve been following Kelly Flanagan’s weekly posts. He’s a dad, husband and therapist in the Midwest and he writes insightfully and inspiringly about marriage, family and life in general in his blog:  Untangled:  tell a redemptive story of your life. now.  Last Wednesday’s post was:  Home is where the grace is.  He told of an experience with his young son in a homeless shelter and how “house” and “home” are not the same thing.  This struck me as, for a long time, I’ve had this sense too.

When I was learning French it bothered me that there is no real translation for the word “home.”  “House” is directly translated to “maison” but the closest translation of “home” is “chez____.”  For example, “chez nous” means “our place” in English.  It indicates the place where we live.  But home is not just the place where we return to each day.  As Kelly Flanagan says it’s not so much a place as an experience and that there are many ways to be “homeless.”

There is so much to the word “home” that is hard to put words to.  More than 10 years ago, when I was first working with my mom in real estate, I helped set up NIZ Realty’s first website.  For the home (!) page I wrote something about us and our brokerage that began with this sentence:  We come into this place we cannot name, we grow here, set roots here, love others here, we leave it and miss it, always to come back to it… home is one of the most important values in our lives. I was attempting to describe (with my writing skills at that time and with as much depth as was appropriate on a real estate website!) the something else that is home to us. Most commonly we think of home as something that is created in our house – the structure that provides our physical shelter. But in looking at it this past week, I’ve found home all over my life.

One of the great blessings in my life is that I was born into a profound sense of home.  The family that my mom and dad created held a deep place of belonging for all of us.  Family – my dad, mom and brothers – was home.  I was part of something, in an unspoken, even unconscious way. It just was. It’s beyond being welcomed, or being valued.  We were and are each part of – family and home was made up of all of us.

For me, one important way this was lived and fostered was that we ate around a table every evening, no matter what else was going on. (Well, except the one night a year when The Wizard of Oz was on TV – we got to eat with our plates in our laps, sitting on the living room floor – but only then.)

Another accident of birth that has blessed me enormously was to have been born here – in Marin County.  Roaming the hills around Woodacre, in the San Geronimo Valley as a kid, I had no idea how spectacular this place is.  It took becoming an adult and returning after being away, to see the beauty of these hills and valleys. I feel very fortunate to have been able to return to Marin after my divorce and buy myself a little house – before it became too expensive to do so.  It’s wonderful to still have home be where home has always been – and to have it be such a special place.

Yes, I know Marin has changed.  In the 60’s and 70’s it was largely middle class. It has become quite affluent, which has changed the make-up of its residents – their attitudes and expectations.  Regardless, there are many kind and good people – people who care about others and our planet – who live here, making it what it is.

I’ve always been a home-maker.  I hung a sheet that had sea shells all over it on the concrete wall of my room the year I lived in a dorm in college – to give it some life and softness.  Though just up for a couple of weeks, I had a five foot Christmas tree that holiday season, lights, ornaments and all.  Our room became a gathering place because if it.  My Paris apartment and a little place sub-let when I left my first husband – regardless how temporary, I need to claim the spaces I live in as mine. Flowers, candles, something familiar to hang on the walls – makes me home.  It’s also instinctive to invite people over – welcome them as if they live here – cook for them, feed them.  There’s something about hospitality that creates home for me.

In looking at this, I see now these other ways and places I’m home too:

• My emotional and spiritual path has been largely one of finding a sense of home inside myself.
• The ongoing transformation of my relationship with my body has allowed me to experience home in my physical being.
• I lived in Paris for six months where I first experienced my feminine self. I’ve traveled back many times since and it’s become a familiar place, where I feel at home – thousands of miles away.
• When I was part of the Fairfax Community Church, I felt a deep sense of spiritual home in community – something I’d never known before.
• Joe and I connected with Kauai in 1999 and have visited there pretty much every year since. Now, just getting off the plane at the Lihue airport and a feeling of home washes over us.

My experience is that it can take familiarity with a place or with a group of people for the sense of belonging to settle in.  Welcoming and acceptance are part of the mix too. But it also takes claiming.  We must show up and be a part of in order to feel a part of.  I’d like to think that home can happen quickly too, if we are willing to open to it.

I realize that this is what has happened in the on-going art groups that I lead each week.  It’s even started to develop with the Special Saturdays series started this year.  It is home – for me and for those who come regularly.  My mom has opened her office, her space, welcoming my groups to claim it as ours on Thursdays, Fridays and some Saturdays.  Like the theme song for Cheers it’s Where Everybody Knows Your Name.  We do know each other’s name – of course – but also each other’s art and stories and lives.  Everyone is missed when they are away.  It’s safe, we’re all accepted and everyone belongs. I’m certain that having an art-home makes a difference in the art that comes from us.

It is my intention that as each new person joins us, they feel this welcome and that, if we are theirs, they claim us and call us home – regardless of how long everyone else has been coming to the group.  Though history, shared experience brings depth and richness, it’s not most important.  What matters more is that the environment supports us to open and connect with each other.  The connection between human hearts is where I am most home.  I invite you to join in.

Love,

Cara

April 7, 2015 – Twenty seconds of insane courage

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Yesterday morning, on the way to my in-laws to take them some Easter dinner leftovers, I was listening to KQED, San Francisco’s NPR radio station.  Weekday mornings they broadcast Forum, a locally produced interview/call-in show. The guests are always interesting, which keeps my curious brain engaged, so I often listen when I’m driving between 9 and 11am.  Yesterday they had Bay Area-based poet Jane Hirshfield on talking about her two new books.  Just as I was getting off the freeway, the host, Michael Krasney, invited callers to share poems that have been transformational to them. One came right to mind and I had this crazy impulse to call in.  At a stop light I quickly tapped in the number in my cell phone (I know, I know… but once talking I am hands-free). It rang and was answered! I told the screener the poem I wanted to talk about. He said, great, that I’d be on very soon.  Yikes!

Sitting in my car outside my in-law’s house, with my heart pounding, on live radio I shared how Galway Kinnell’s “Saint Francis and the Sow” (above over a piece of my painting “Moonstone Rose”) had transformed my perspective on being in a body, especially a female body.  Part way through the short interchange I stumbled looking for the right words and wasn’t as articulate as I wanted to be, especially as I was being broadcast to millions of listeners!  When I got off the phone, I had this awful feeling, a self-expression hangover. Oh, God, what did I just do?!

Last night I made myself listen to the recording on the Forum website (if you want to hear, start a bit before halfway – I’m the first caller.) Yes, I stumbled, but I wasn’t as terrible as I’d remembered. I don’t think I made a complete fool of myself.  And I’m very grateful to Jane Hirshfield. She knew the poem, related to what I was saying and used beautiful words to describe just why the poem is so powerful.

This is actually the third time I’ve called into this radio program in the past several years. Once I called in when Anne Lamott was on and another time when they were talking to a pastor who was part of a group updating the Bible.  I don’t know what gets into me!

This is so not me – at least not historically.  I have a history of crippling stage fright.  For at least the first 35 years of my life, I made decisions based upon how to minimize my visibility, sometimes with consequences – like taking a lower grade. I’d do all I could to avoid the pain of the spotlight.  This fear carried into my first career in the tech world. I remember one time giving a presentation to a group of customers.   My face turned deep red, was even swollen, I sweated from every pore in my body and the inside of my business suit was soaked.  What’s worse is that I went blank – I know well the feeling of “deer in the headlights!”  My boss, Jim Chen, was in the back of the room watching me flounder. It was just excruciating – and embarrassing to have such a visible reaction to being visible.  It seemed completely uncontrollable. I certainly wasn’t choosing to have all these awful symptoms!

But there was something in me that sought help with this fear.   I went to Speaking Circles in my late thirties, early forties. Here I experienced the safety that can be found, in – of all places – intimacy, in connecting, in making eye contact for a few seconds with one human being at a time. This allowed my nervous system to start calming down.  Around the same time I became a very active member of the Fairfax Community Church, when my beloved Sara Vurek was the pastor. The tradition at the time encouraged lots of participation from the congregation in Sunday services.  I started by doing readings and then one Memorial Day weekend when Sara was away, I lead a contemplative service to just eight sweet souls.  I was so nervous I hardly remembered it afterwards, but was told I did ok.  The community was such a safe place for me to stretch and grow; I ended up leading and co-leading services a dozen or more times over the years.  The safety provided by Sara and this community was the perfect place to heal my fears of being the center of attention.

I’ve come a long, long way. I am here today in a place that I never dreamed possible from that consuming fear and its so-obvious manifestations!   Last year at Open Studios, I was asked talk about marketing to a meeting of participating artists.  The professional PR person who spoke before me so totally covered the tactical part of marketing, I had the thought, oh, crap, now what do I say?  I got up, looked into a few people’s eyes and what came to me was to speak about the deeper experience of marketing our art.  I was completely unprepared – and it was fine.  And I’m guessing what I said was lot more helpful than if I’d talked about postcards and email lists.  Fifteen or twenty years ago, I could hardly have said my own name without feeling like I wanted to find a hole to hide in.

Someone in my life – and I can’t remember who, I’m so sorry I can’t give you credit – told me about the line from the movie “We Bought a Zoo” when Matt Damon’s character tells his son, in talking about a girl, that sometimes all we need is twenty seconds of insane courage and something good will happen.  The thing is, maybe something bad will happen- that’s the nature of risk.  But something will happen.

Courage is a muscle and for whatever reason, some people are called to flex it more than others. I wonder what makes this so.  Is it environment?  Is it motivation?  Seems like it could be related to both.  It is astonishing to me that I’ve ended up in a life where I find myself flexing my courage muscle.  This seemed like the last thing I’d expect of myself in the days when I was so paralyzed by my fears.

Yesterday, I had no conscious motive in calling in to share a piece of myself on live radio. I didn’t even really think about it. I just did it.  And by doing so, I scared myself, I felt vulnerable in the aftermath – and I felt alive.  A well-known poet engaged with me on a poem that meant something to both of us.

I’ve heard it said that everything we really want is just outside our comfort zone.  I’m glad it’s just outside, not way outside – this way, all we have to think about is those first 20 seconds.

Love,

Cara

March 31, 2015 – What has us step up and commit?

A photo I took, over the top of a fence on my tiptoes!

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Today marks six months of writing a post to my online journal every, single Tuesday.  Through the holidays and the busy times and the weeks I thought I had nothing to say, I’ve found something and I’ve written and posted.  Yay to me!

I celebrate this mini-milestone because I’ve spent the vast majority of this life thinking I am not a writer.  (I shared with you my history with writing and why I write in a post late last year.)  I also celebrate this because I’ve been telling myself a story that I’m not a stick-to-it person.  I love to start things, but the discipline of seeing them through has not been something that comes naturally for me.  I have no problem committing to marriage or a job working for someone else, but when the only consequence is that I let myself down, it has been a whole other story.

I would have thought there would be no great fallout if I just petered out on posting every Tuesday.  Well, that is except self-induced shame at having an abandoned blog.  Encountering such blogs – where the last post was years ago – and that story about my lack of discipline – have kept me from even starting.  Until now.

Yesterday I read a recent Seth Godon post – it’s short – here it is:

We spend way too much time teaching people technique. Teaching people to be good at flute, or C++ or soccer. 

It’s a waste because the fact is, most people can learn to be good at something, if they only choose to be, if they choose to make the leap and put in the effort and deal with the failure and the frustration and the grind.

But most people don’t want to commit until after they’ve discovered that they can be good at something. So they say, “teach me, while I stand here on one foot, teach me while I gossip with my friends via text, teach me while I wander off to other things. And, sure, if the teaching sticks, then I’ll commit.”

We’d be a lot more successful if organized schooling was all about creating an atmosphere where we can sell commitment (and where people will buy it). A committed student with access to resources is almost unstoppable.

Great teachers teach commitment.

This idea of “teaching commitment” keeps sifting up to the top of my mind since I read this.  What does it actually mean to teach commitment? And is it related to this idea of “accountability” that I said last week I’d explore today?  Honestly, I still have no compelling way to talk about accountability.  And, if I’m not feeling it, I’m not going there!

Last night I saw a cartoon and link to a post on Facebook about how little freedom and autonomy today’s kids have. It was worth a quick read and seemed related.  But, as much as I absolutely resonate with this idea of “free range kids,” having not faced the challenges and pressures of making these parental decisions myself, I’m staying away from publicly offering any opinion on the subject!

This brings me back to this whole idea of commitment.  I’ve written to you consistently because I made a commitment to do so. In a session with my coach Lissa Boles last September, she challenged me to start writing and posting – regularly.  Something in me knew that doing this would be good for me.   So, with my fear in tow, on October 1^st I wrote about our very old oak tree and its brush with being cut down.

As an art teacher, I am called upon to teach technique – how watercolor works – how to handle the paint, water and paper to get the desired effect.  It’s probably the most obvious and expected reason to seek out a painting teacher.  But reading what Seth Godon wrote has me want to be a great teacher – I want to teach commitment. And I’m not sure I know how.

This morning, poking around looking for what to write about, I found some stream-of-consciousness “freewriting” I did last August.  Here’s an excerpt:

It’s what we want. To be able to make beautiful work, or compelling work, that excites us and lights us up.  It may start as an escape, a break from the other parts of life, especially when these other parts are challenging.  Painting saved my life. Took me from my grief of not being a mother and has given my life focus and commitment and satisfaction. It’s amazing how different I am, how much of myself I have access to and freedom with. How much space I take up, how much more alive I am. 

This is all possible for everyone who wants to.  Desire is huge, it’s the fuel.  It doesn’t have to be big, fiery and visible. It just has to be enough. “I want…”, “I would love to…”, “if only I could…”  Just a small, timid peep is enough. It comes from somewhere deep in each of us.  And what’s needed is an environment where it can be brought out.  I know watercolor. I can teach the skills, I’m good at it.  I’m good at showing how it works. But ultimately the skill has to come in the doing of it.

Desire is the starting place, it’s the seed. But the “doing of it” – painting regularly, the painting-that-changes-our-lives – takes this commitment. Seth used the word “atmosphere” I used the word “environment”.  Environment is key.  There are so many stories I hear of teachers who have damaged the art-maker in people.  I’ve lived a few of these stories too.  These are environments that have us turning away from any commitment.   So what environment fosters that commitment,  what “sells” it?

Sometime in the last year I heard this come out of my mouth:  “I’m made to be a teacher.  It’s my experience that the particular way I’m designed, where I am the most “me,” is in accompanying others in their creative unfolding.  I’m a good watercolorist, and there are lots of  watercolorists who make beautiful and skilled work.  I keep painting because – well, there are paintings in me, *and* because, in order to stay vital and alive as a teacher, I must stay in my own process. I must ride my own edge.”

Though my painting has its ebbs and flows, the work that comes through me is evolving and I’m all in, I’m committed to it.  Does this matter those who come paint with me? I wonder how this impacts the teaching environment I create.  I so wonder.  Relatedly, I’ve recently come to the realization that I am most alive as a teacher when teaching those who are truely committed.  It’s just not the same if painting is a pleasant past-time.  Committment feeds off of committment.

I don’t have a tidy ribbon to tie at the end of this post today.  The questions I’ve asked here are quite alive in me.  If you have thoughts about creative environment and your commitment to painting – or to anything really, I’d love to hear them. Please share.

Love,

Cara

March 24, 2015 – Creativity and Tension

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The first time I ever painted was in June of 1992.  My mom and I took a Saturday class – painting flowers in watercolor.  I painted a somewhat awkward blue iris – and I fell in love – with the playing with the colors and the texture of watercolor paper.  I’d been bitten by the bug!  Over the next few months, on my own, I painted several small paintings of flowers without backgrounds. Two of them are above.  I observed, drew and painted from live flowers sitting in front of me.  And then I hardly painted at all for seven or eight years.  A lot happened in my life in those years:  divorce, job change, living in Paris, buying a house of my own back home in Marin,  meeting my Joseph, his cancer, moving again, getting married.  In 2000, when I found myself working for a company a 2-hour drive away, I arranged it so I could work from home three days a week. This gave me some extra time and I picked up painting again.  I began working from photographs and painted my first “fuzzy background.”  But I would still not paint for sometimes months and months.  I started a piece and then hit a phase in it when I just hated what was happening, felt stuck and I’d put it away and not pick it up again for a long time.

In the spring of 2005, I did a seven-day silent meditation retreat at Spirit Rock in Woodacre, right near where I grew up.  The format of the retreat was such that, after a day to fully arrive inside ourselves and the retreat space, we had five hours a day to spend, on our own, with our creative practice.  Five hours with myself and my watercolors – no one telling me what to do and no one to talk to, to distract myself.  Heaven!  I brought all my supplies and my unfinished work – one of our dog, Bud and another more loosely painted, of a vignette from Quarante, a village I’d visited with my mom and dad in France ten years earlier.  One sunny day, I sat outside in my straw hat, with a 12”x16” block of watercolor paper and painted, one quick painting after the other, with a 1” flat brush entirely with my left (non-dominant) hand, letting whatever I wanted to paint come out, without a lot of thought.  After that, back in the studio, the idea arrived to cut two of the paintings in strips and weave them together – one in soft greens of the surrounding hills and the other of a rough cross-section of a volcano erupting – all in reds, oranges and browns.  The next thought came to combine two others – a heart and a fetus in utero – into a piece that was moving and healing.  I wove the unrealized hope of being a mother into my emotional center for safe keeping.

There was a large piece of cardboard – like from a refrigerator box or something – leaning up on the wall of the studio. Someone had carefully drawn what looked like a crack in a big hunk of stone vertically down the middle of the cardboard and then scrawled across it “Don’t be afraid to murder your little darlings.”    I was taken aback by the affront in this, and it gave me permission to dive in and just ruin the painting of Bud the Dog – which is just what I needed to get over my paralysis and actually finish it.  I did the same with the painting of the French village which we know now as “Blue Door.”

I look back on that retreat as a really fruitful time for my creative process.  And – yet, I still wasn’t painting much apart from it.  It wasn’t until my friend Eleanor, a beautiful landscape artist, gathered a small group of us to participate in Marin Open Studios at our church.  When she asked, I took a deep breath, “that means I have to sell my work, right?”   She kindly told me, yes that is the idea!  Shortly after that, I realized that selling my work, letting my paintings go, was the sure way to have more come through me. There is a flow that I could step into that would enable the ideas and the energy for many more paintings to come through.  What I could not have predicted is what having an audience, and even collectors would do to my capacity to stick with my work and paint more paintings!   A desire to have at least one new painting for each show created a structure for the work in me to emerge through.  My process is not very fast and I can’t paint for hours and hours at a stretch, so I am not as prolific as some artists.  But since 2007, I’ve painted 8-10 paintings a year – a whole lot more than the two or three in the previous five years!

Leading watercolor groups has also provided fuel for my creative evolution.  I’m both exposed to what other artists are creating and need to stay on my creative edge so that I am in integrity with them as they navigate theirs.  The idea to paint my latest painting with just three colors/pigments came from Shannon in our Thursday group. She’s studied with Jeannie Vodden who uses just three colors in her work.  Out of this experience, I see the color in color more than ever and have grown even more solid in knowing how to mix colors, given that I only have three to work from.  I’ve also learned the limitations of these three and why I’m not giving up the other paints/pigments I use!

The phrase “creative tension” has been rattling around in my head for the past week after having been given an exercise by my coach to answer four questions about myself and my work in 15 or fewer words.  Restriction is good for creativity.  Whether it’s the restriction of sequestering myself from the distractions of my life in a retreat, or the restriction of time because of an upcoming show, or even limiting myself to just three colors.  The old adage “necessity is the mother of invention” relates to creative tension, but there’s something more.   It seems to me that creativity needs, or what my creativity needs, is both the structure and the space.  Taken further, it occurs to me the structure provides the space for creativity to come through. The masculine provides for the feminine.

I took my walk with Bo, before writing today and this bounced around in me.  What came to me in the end – in the ultimate, is that spiritual existence is unbounded and we live physical, time-bound, space-bound lives.   What if this manifest world, with all its restrictions, even its pain and suffering are part of the design, absolutely necessary for the expression of spirit, and that this is what is evolving our consciousness?  I’m not sure if this idea is even fully baked in me, but it’s where I’m being led today.  And it’s coming through because of the structure of writing to you every week.

Last week’s post about the value of work spawned quite a discussion among some of you.  I heard Alison (Armstrong) say something this week that seems related, which is withholding accountability is emasculating.  This has me curious, sitting with the question “why do we withhold accountability?”  I’ll let this simmer another week before sitting to write about it – stay tuned. Until then, have a lovely week.

Love,

Cara

March 17, 2015 – Renewing my appreciation for work

I have been work-ing on my painting. Almost done!

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Families have cultures. My family’s culture surrounds two things:  food/cooking and work/being productive.  My dad was a high school teacher, and before my mom went to work full time when I was about junior high age, we had both of them around all summer.  My memories of those summers are filled with all the stuff that got done – projects, lots of projects:  the vegetable garden and fruit trees and fences and putting up fruit and painting walls. My brothers made a tree fort in the oak tree on the side yard.  Mom did macramé sculptures. Dad threw pots in the ceramics studio in our garage.  Mom taught me to sew and I made clothes for my dolls and later for myself.

In 1973 we had a bigger house built – more projects!  It was a very 70’s style house – sided with rough cedar – it had big open beam ceilings and a partial shed roof.  My dad and mom made all the interior doors, by hand, out in the woodshop.  And they built the stone paths in the garden – with the blue-green serpentine rocks we all had to gather from the property, and scrub clean of dirt in a wheelbarrow full of water.  My dad and brothers poured exposed aggregate concrete patios and built stairs and decks.  Mom tiled floors, counters and an entire sunken-tub bathroom. We never ate store-bought desserts of any kind. They were made from scratch – along with breads, jams, egg pasta noodles, pickles.

There is a word in Croatian – my mom is full blooded – that she uses: “vrijedan”– it has a complicated meaning, it translates in English to:  active, agile, busy, deserving, diligent, hardworking, industrious, rich, studious, valuable, worthy.  To be called vrijedan in my family is a good thing, a really good thing. I intuitively know what it means, having heard it so much all my life, but it was interesting to look it up and see the range of words needed to translate it! This absolutely reinforces my sense of the word and how it was used. It was instilled in us that being worthy means being capable and working hard, which would (hopefully) lead to being rich!

And someone who was the opposite my dad described as having their “hands painted on.” It was relatively recently when I realized what this actually meant!  It meant being like a wooden toy that didn’t have actual hands, just the illustrated shapes of hands painted on its body. (I always thought it meant someone with wet paint on their hands and thus couldn’t use them!) If your hands were painted on, you are unskilled, clumsy, inept.  And this is a not a good thing to be called.

In my quest to know what being feminine is like, to know how to really find ease in life, I wish that I knew more how to rest and to play.  This has me bemoaning how deep this working-hard culture is in me.  The vacations we take most often – to Kauai and Tahoe – I paint a whole lot. I love to paint – but it’s not rest. It can be really hard!  I’m amazed at how infrequently Joe and I think to go do something “recreational” like head to the beach or even go to the movies!  Some of this is a lack of energy (from working so hard!), but some of it is that we just don’t think of it!    And yet, I wouldn’t give up knowing how to work, and even work hard, for anything.

Making art is hard.  Growing a business is hard.  Learning to speak a new language is hard.  Mastering a musical instrument is hard. Sometimes marriage is hard.  I see my family and dear friends with kids and think being a parent has to be the hardest job there is.  All of these things require of us to apply ourselves and work, yes, often work very, very hard.

The alternative – if someone does not know how to work hard and/or does not know the value of working hard – is far worse.  We live in a manifest world, where stuff has to get done to support our physical lives.  Someone has to grow our food, and build our roads and houses and cars and make our clothes and devices – and on and on.  To dis-honor work is to disconnect with the web that supports our existence.  And it disconnects us with our own power, our own capacity to have impact in a real way. I think that all humans want, along with love and belonging, to know that they spend their life in a way that matters to others – to make and thus be a contribution.

Making work real is so in me. I look back at my own progression – I was totally inspired to be a life coach, it was/is in my bones, but, after taking all the courses, when it came down to actually building a practice I was stymied.  Something was missing.  Now I know.  What happens in my watercolor groups, though it’s not as focused and consciously oriented, is life coaching of a sort. Lives are transforming, while they are doing something that is real – learning to paint.  And there are real outcomes – paintings and practical skills that have been gained.

A couple weeks ago I heard an interview of UC Berkeley sociologist Christine Carter who has recently written a book “The Sweet Spot – How to Find Your Groove at Home and Work.”  The sweet spot she talks about is doing work that gives us energy, instead of taking it away.  It’s an ideal and not all people on earth have the privilege to do this, but it’s a place to look – especially for those who either are used up by what they do or those who for various reasons and life circumstances are disconnected with their own capacity to work and how it’s good for them.

Also if we don’t appreciate work, we don’t fully appreciate the hard work of others.  Work – even in the “sweet spot” – requires fuel.  The most important – and effective – way we can help restore others who work on our behalf is to offer them our appreciation.  Meister Eckhart is quoted as saying “thank you” is a prayer; I say it is also the cheapest and most renewable form of energy on the planet!

Thank you for fueling me to keep writing each week.  If I didn’t have you there, knowing you are reading, I would not have it in me to do this!

Love,

Cara

March 10, 2015 – Where do ideas come from?

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Right now I’m working on a new, big (it’s 40”x40”) painting that is very different from anything else I’ve ever painted.  It’s a collage based on an image of me standing in front of one of the clocks inside the Museé d’Orsay in Paris, the beautiful museum in the old train station building which houses the French national collection of Impressionist art.  The original photo was nearly black and white – I took out the white and layered it over the image I used to paint “Paris Roses.”

Both of the photos were taken on the same trip to Paris in late spring of 1998.  I went with Karen, a friend of my brother Matt’s.  We were single ladies who wanted to go to Europe and didn’t have anyone to go with.  Matt connected us – we had dinner and went to a movie in Mill Valley and decided it would work to travel for two weeks together! I speak French and Karen speaks Castillian Spanish. We went to Paris, St. Remy in Provence and Barcelona.  It was one of the best two weeks of my life.

And our last day in Paris was one of the most memorable days. Karen is a tennis player and fan of the sport.  Roland Garros (the French Open) was just starting. We went out to see if we could get tickets and ended up with center court seats to see Martina Hingis and Pete Sampras play matches our last day in Paris. It was fun for me to experience the big-time tennis world and it was a thrill for Karen to watch these greats play.  Afterwards, we returned to Paris and ended up in a place called something like “Le Bar American” on rue Keller in the 11^th.  Frank Sinatra had recently died and they were playing his music all evening. Karen is trained opera singer with a beautiful voice and grew up in New Jersey singing all the old standards.  She sang along as we drank pretty colored drinks in lovely stemmed glasses.  I think we had charmed the bartenders – they didn’t want us to leave, so they went to the brasserie across the street to get menus and then shuttled our food over to us!

We left there – pretty looped – and made our way to the Gare de Lyon to take the night train to the south.  We shared our 4-couchette  compartment with just one other person – a sweet, young French guy. As we got underway, Karen decided to treat us by singing “O mio bambino caro” a very popular Puccini aria – it’s one I’m a sucker for!  She sang at full volume – I was transfixed with that I-can’t-believe this-is-actually-happening-to-me-feeling – a private opera, on a train leaving Paris.  The magic of this memory will live in me forever. Every time I recall the story, I feel it all over again.

I think the enchantment of this trip and that day is in this painting I’m now working on.  It’s remarkable for me to think that the silhouette in this photo Karen took of this clock is actually me.  She seems so elegant and feminine – timeless even.  I love how you can see my fingers hanging down from the railing.

As I’ve shown the resulting image and the painting on its way, I’ve been asked several times:  “where did you get this idea?”  I answer, I don’t know, it just came to me.  So, where do we get ideas?  We get inspiration, notions, nigglings, aha’s – but from where? Being the good search geek that I am, I went online last night and put the question “where do ideas come from?” into Google. What came out was a “playlist” of TED talks centered on just that question. Then I listened to them as I worked on the painting.  I heard some interesting thoughts on ideas and creativity.  These are the three talks I found the most compelling:

Steven Johnson talked about how the first coffee house in Oxford, England was the beginning of the Enlightenment – as before that people drank alcohol all day and were too drunk to think! He says it’s the free sharing of thoughts among groups of people that spawns great ideas. His talk also has a fun story about how the world got GPS technology.

Elizabeth Gilbert shared how she’s faced with the fact that her greatest work may very well be behind her in having written a mega-bestseller “Eat Pray Love” and how in ancient times creativity was attributed to daemons and muses, freeing us from the responsibility (and credit) for our success or failure – it’s not up to each of us – yay!

Matt Ridley’s really upbeat talk is about how diversification and specialization is an integral part of human evolution and how ideas come along because we communicate and cooperate and each do what we are best at.  If we aren’t consumed with doing everything necessary to survive, we can live easier and better lives. Love this!

What I heard had me see that the idea for this painting came about as a progression:

• It started with doing an exercise in color mixing many years ago. I saw how the relative lightness of the yellow squares created a pattern which gave me the idea that I might want to do something intentional with that at some point.
• Then two years ago when a couple of the painters in my group did this same color exercise, I saw how much fun they were having and remembered this idea. I decided to paint an image – our neighbors’ crab apple tree – one square at a time. Interesting! And a great way to experience that everything is abstract – we paint what we see, shape by shape.
• After this, I went looking for a filter that was more interesting than a grid of squares. I love maps and I love Paris, so why not paint this Parisian flower stall through the map of Paris?
• Which then had me searching through photos for others of Paris that I might paint. I landed on the picture of me and the clock. Pulled out of a scrap book, it was propped up on my desk for more than a year before the idea came to put Paris Roses behind it.
• And I have the beginnings of the next painting – one of me taken at the end of my Paris half-year, painted through the “filter” of the rose window in Saint Chappelle in Paris. I’m a bit shy about it – it seems somewhat self-absorbed. But I’m hardly the first artist to paint herself!

I know that being alive at this point in history and the support of my husband, my mom and millions of others doing what they do frees me to be creative – and that this idea came as a progression and as a product of interaction with the world and with other artists, and being in a safe environment.  But, I also subscribe to what Elizabeth Gilbert shared – which Stephen Pressfield also writes about towards the end of his kick-ass book “The War of Art” – there are unseen forces from the etheric world that feed us creative ideas.

Where we come in is twofold:  we must be available for these ideas to reach us – even intentionally put ourselves in the situations where we best receive them – which for me is often on my morning walks with Bo.  And then we must do something with them – which most likely will mean honing the craft, the skills to be able to use them.  Plus, if we are the channels, the vessels to make manifest these ideas, it takes us actually doing something! There we go, the masculine and the feminine – married again.

And it takes believing that each of us is a creative being, if your heart beats and you are breathing, you have the potential for ideas to come through you.

With my love,

Cara

March 3, 2015 – Putting down the sword

Bo, up near the top of the hill on our morning walk today.  The San Francisco skyline is barely visible in the center at the horizon.

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As any of you who have been reading these posts for a while knows, most weekday mornings I take our dog Bo up the hill that is on the other side of our neighborhood.  There’s a fire road and some side trails that go all the way to the top where you can see across to the surrounding ridges and valleys and even to the bay and downtown San Francisco.  Lately we’ve not been hiking all the way to the top – still the views are beautiful and it’s our place.  Bo seems to sniff extra intently if we’ve been away for a few days.  He must be checking to see who’s been there recently.

A couple of weeks ago we were on the street, on our way home when someone drove up going what seemed to me to be pretty fast.  I called out “Slow down!” in an emphatic voice.  It wasn’t until he was right upon us, that I realized that it was our neighbor-friend, someone we know and love – he’s a lab guy and always has a vigorous greeting for Bo (and who also has my art on his walls!).  I felt awful. I had the impulse to say I was sorry for my tone. I am known to call out to the drivers of cars on our streets who are going too fast, but I mostly say “please” at the beginning, and try to say it from my heart – a plea instead of a command.  But this came out as a command and it felt awful.  The next time we saw each other on the street, we each apologized to each other – he for his haste – he’d forgotten something at home and was already late – which I so relate to. And me for my preachy tone.  I said I really wanted to remember that it isn’t just those I already know and love who I want to offer that, but to anyone. It’s always best to offer people their humanity in how we deal with them.

Then last week, Bo and I were just coming down from our turnaround spot when we encountered another guy and his dog on the fire road. Bo was about 10 feet ahead of me with his ball in his mouth – yes, most dogs are off leash up on this hill –  when the dog went after Bo.  I heard that terrible dog-fight sound.  I get so freaked out by the low-throat growling of big dogs entangled. Even if they aren’t biting each other, it sounds like they are and I get so frightened. The owner of the dog, someone I know, but not well – he grew up in Marin and my brothers know him – started yelling repeatedly “what are you doing?” at his dog.  After I got Bo back on the leash and said we’d go back up and around via the trail to be out of their way, I called after him “your dog is just doing what is natural, Jim, he is intact.”  His dog is not neutered and I had a judgment about it.  As soon as it left my mouth, it felt over the line.  I was being a know-it-all.  The fact is, he was totally responsible; he was right there in control of his dog and the situation, and all was well.

The same impulse came to me to contact him and apologize.  It stayed with me the rest of the day. I kept thinking about what I’ve heard Alison say:  “a man can’t protect you if he needs to protect himself from you.”  This man is a really masculine, big guy.  He sometimes wears camouflage on his hikes, I think he might be a former Marine.  He’s someone I’d really want on my side, if Bo or I were in need of protection on the hill!  After dinner I found a contact page for him online and sent him a note.  I apologized for what I said and how I said it and appreciated him for making sure we were all safe.  He replied the next morning, thanking me for reaching out. He accepted my apology and told me to rest assured that he’d have his dog on leash when they hit the fire road.  Ah, relief. We are all good.

In my note to him, what came out of my fingers was “I get all scold-y and righteous when I’m scared.”  I realized this is also what happened to me with our neighbor who was driving too fast.  Wow, how useful is it to know that this is where I go instinctively?  There’s a lot about vulnerability that is talked about these days – largely thanks to Brene Brown.  It’s the key to a whole lot of what we want (at least what I want) in life.  And it’s not where I go when I’m scared. I’m not sure how it would have gone if I’d been able to realize my fear and speak out of it, if I’d made a request instead of a proclamation about his “misbehaving.”

But I didn’t – I’m a work in progress too!  Cleaning it up later is then the best I can do.  And in some way it might have been the more impactful outcome.  For me to have gotten up on my high horse and then come back down to apologize and appreciate his efforts has connected me to him as a person in a way that I’m not sure I would have if I’d been vulnerable from the start. This way, I had the perspective of how it felt to have made him “other” first.  At least this time, to gain this insight.

In 2009, in Alison’s Celebrating Men, Satisfying Women workshop I took a vow to give up the right to emasculate men forever.  It has created the world anew for me. And it brings me to a beautifully vulnerable and feminine place.  It’s a place that has me know that I’m inside a physical body that is biologically prey.  Female bodies are factory-installed with bigger amygdalae in our brains – so we more easily fear.  This keeps us from risking too much – especially when we are pregnant – for better survival of our species.  Now, with the knowledge that men, (at least the vast majority – the healthy ones), will absolutely protect me, I can allow them their power and strength. I don’t need to diminish it because I feel I have to protect myself.

This vow does not mean that I won’t ever emasculate again, I’m human. It means that I’ve given away my sense that I’m justified in doing so, that “he had/has it coming.”  Though maybe not terribly egregious, what I said to both men was emasculating.  It was dis-empowering.  And it registered as so – immediately – in my body and heart.  I am grateful to what I’ve learned that has transformed me, giving me this impulse – to put them and our relationship back together.

And knowing that when I’m scared, I go to judgment and righteousness and get preachy is also helpful.  Not only so I can watch for it in myself, but also to realize that others who might be preachy to me could be in fear and wanting to protect – even protect me.

All we can do is the best we can in any given moment.  I’m committed to living this life in a well-examined way (or at least and examined-enough way – last week’s post comes to mind!), so that the next given moment my best might be a bit further up the path towards compassion, peace and forgiveness – for myself as well as for others.

With my love,

Cara

 

February 17, 2015 – Make art, change your life

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In November 2009, my mom and I flew to New York to see an exhibition of Joseph Raffael’s paintings at the Nancy Hoffman Gallery in Chelsea.  Joseph and his family used to live in the San Geronimo Valley where I grew up and where my mom and dad still live.  When we were all kids, my older brother, Joe was friends with his son Matthew. They used to ride bikes and go fishing in the creeks together.  Joseph had a studio separate from their house up in the trees in San Geronimo.  I remember being inside it when he had one of his huge oil paintings of the rounded rocks from the bottom of a stream bed up on the wall.  His later watercolors of flowers were, more than anything else, what inspired my mom and I to learn to paint.

The Nancy Hoffman Gallery is in a modern, metal, concrete and glass building.  When we walked up to it, there was a sliver of a view inside where I saw the bright color of this painting. The bright yellow of the dahlia made my heart leap!  Walking in and being surrounded by this artwork was incredible.  His paintings are enormous – about 5 feet by 7 feet – and filled with color and aliveness. Astonishing to experience in person.    After about 45 minutes with them, though, I had this almost sick feeling. I had to leave.  It was so odd.  What I make of this feeling is that I knew that there was some version of these large paintings in me, my huge paintings. And the thought of that completely freaked me out.  I was terrified.

When I was first learning, I painted on a quarter sheet of watercolor paper (11”x15”).  It’s a good size to start with.  But more than fearing I’d be possibly “wasting” a large piece of paper, I was afraid of the larger impact I’d make with bigger paintings. What’s remarkable is that alongside that fear is – and has been – something in me that is called to do just that. I have this strong desire to make beautiful paintings – some of them very big.

In 2008 I went to see the glass artist, Dale Chihuly’s exhibition at the De Young in San Francisco. At the end there was a video about him and his work.  The video showed a whole team of people in silver heat suits handling huge pieces of molten glass.  I was struck by the incredible resources it takes for his work to become manifest – work from just one human being’s vision.  I had the thought that if he can allow himself to be a channel for such inspiration, that it takes so much more than just him to bring it into being, then that capacity is potentially in any of us – including me!  This insight lived in me when I experienced Joseph Raffael’s work in New York.

A few months after the trip to New York, I was in Perry’s Art Supplies and saw heavy sheets of Arches watercolor paper that were 60” by 40.”  I had no idea sheet paper even came that big! (Joseph paints on rolls of lighter-weight paper.)  My heart literally started pounding!  I bought all 5 sheets they had in stock.  It took until the year after that for my biggest painting (to-date!) to come through – Hallelujah.  Here I am standing next to it, so you can get an idea of its scale.

These experiences are part of my unfolding, not just in my creative life, but as a being alive on this planet. Learning the skills of working with our materials – learning our craft – is an integral part of what we do. Painting watercolor is our particular means to an end beyond the artwork it allows us to make.  What resides in our hearts, what we respond to in the world and the messages we receive as we witness creativity in others helps us discover our voice.  There is no one else who is ever going to make the art that is in each of us – not the way we paint when we first start out, not when we’ve been painting for many years.  Every time we put our brush into a pool of paint and touch it to our paper, it’s us.  It carries our mark, like the tone of our voice and the way we sign our name.  Learning to paint gives us a way to show the world who we are.  And the more we do it, the more refined our expression becomes, the more vivid is the illumination of our essence onto watercolor paper.  The consciousness and the spirit of each of us lives in the work we make.

(For the record, watercolor is just one of the uncountable forms this can take. It’s just the one that has chosen me!  Our voice can come through not just other ways of making art, but any act of creation.)

Since I’ve begun to paint and have heeded the call to evolve as a painter, a teacher/guide and as a person – I see and hold myself altogether differently. I experience a level of freedom that I couldn’t imagine was possible for me.  I am more myself than ever.  I have grown through my paintings.  The desire in me to paint carries a wisdom for my life.  Early on it led me out of the grief and disappointment at not having children. Now it is the “why” of my life.  There is an instrument in the center of my chest that registers inspiring beauty – it’s a particular kind of energy.  That energy must be translated into paintings representing how I see it and feel it.  It’s what I’m here for.  It’s why I’m alive.  And it’s made who I am today.

I believe it is the same for all of us.  While we are painting, learning, exploring, operating in the face of our own fears and resistance, we are being transformed. There’s nothing we need to say or do for this to be, it just happens!  Eventually the desire in us to make art that astonishes us, fuels us to do just that. We are changed by revealing ourselves in this way.  And by doing this, we bless others with this view into us.

I invite you to join in.

Love,

Cara